Veins that know the Nails.

Glory shines, but it also bleeds.
It's where lives cross, where the renewing river
meets the salted sea.
It's where afflicted waters and the ocean's sheer volume
resists the springs qualities.
But the river cuts through the hardest stone,
leaving gaping canyons and expansive ravines in it's wake,
unstoppable, determined, pouring fresh living water
into the bitter sea.
The crimson stream never stops.
The life source never dries
from the veins that know the nails.

A Receding Hairline is a Little Thing

I want a receding hairline.
Screw having a perfect smile, broad shoulders, or shaggy hair.
I don't want a Ferrari, a trust fund, an Honors Degree,
a Cosby family, or a Marsha daughter and a Pleasantville wife.
I don't want a designer house with a stadium seated surround sound HD theater
and a perfectly manicured lawn — crosshatch cut — that's green year-round.
I don't want a condo at Ocean Isle, a magazine cover,
a Twilight romance, or a library full of worn books.
I don't care for having my name in lights,
understanding quantum physics or C.S. Lewis,
or knowing every single line, of every single one, of Shakespeare's plays.
Especially Hamlet, where I know the stage directions as well.

What I do want is wrinkles and thick glasses, a used Chevy Malibu,
a split level ranch, a Motel 6 vacation, to sing in the wrong key in the shower,
to tell my kids “Yes, I am sure there are nine planets,”
and to be able to rap — word for word — every. Single. Tupac song.
What I do want is a receding hairline and a confidence in You,
where I worry about less and enjoy the little things.

That's exactly how this grace thing works.

"I don't understand your grace,"
her fingers trembled
as he slipped the ring
back on her timidly outstretched hand,
the salty mascara kissing
the corners of her mouth.
"Which means I don't know shit
about God's grace."

For the Day Laborers of Marin County

Patient and resolute they wait

weathering the morning

for work that isn’t coming

Lining the sidewalk

in hooded sweatshirts and jean jackets

covering up skin made tough

from hard work and the cutting glances

of families on their way to pick up a tree

Their cars full of conditioned air

cheery holiday tunes

and the latest navigation system

to ensure an afternoon free

from a conversation with anyone

not had over the clean convenience

of a stylish hands free device

They will bring that tree home

cover it with lights

shower it with ornaments

surround it with gifts

Liberating it from its plainness and simplicity

from its boring life in the woods

without electric trains

or cappuccino machines

And that tree will glow

like the faces of women

sipping candy cane martinis

Like the 6 o’clock street lamps

doing their best to light the scene

for the men

in hooded sweatshirts and jean jackets

Today’s can’t hack-its

take a bow and exit stage right

Their empty pockets and overflowing thoughts

follow them home

My notebook is missing.

I'm without my notebook for the week (via having to turn it in for class), and you may (or may not) know this about me but I'm very particular with where and how I write. So, until I get that back, here's another poem I enjoy. (The Mos Def part, not the Ani Difranco part (that's a joke)).



Go Wolfpack,
Jason

No Sensory and the Conditions Of.

The problem is, that I can't be close to you.
Our bubbles are too big; we just don't
have a hugging relationship.
      And I don't know what you smell like.
If it's floral or a sweet fruit,
a sophisticated posh, or a spice
that matches your sass.
I don't know how soft your skin is or the smell
underneath whatever you're wearing.
Or if, when I wrap my long arms
around your small frame,
my finger tips can reach my own side.
I only know what you sound like.
There's the smile in your “Hey”,
and the concern that works it's way
so easily into your tone,
probably over something ridiculous.
Not to forget
the audible lack of confidence
as you learn to harmonize,
and the sillyness when you try and sing
like Fiona Apple,
or the excitement that drips from every word
when you talk about Calvin.

Wake Up. This is ours.

This? this is our poem.
The white space on this white flag
oozes with indifference
and reeks of apathy. Not toward writing,
not toward words, but toward anything.
So we share this, and give the finger to surrender.
Wake up, and listen to the tug in your heart that says
You're here for a reason,
and that there is something bigger,
and that there is something better.
And this? this is ours.

So we share this with the man forced to write in red
when his black ink runs dry.
This, this is ours.
We share this with the man in a cast
unable to open a jar of jelly on his lonesome;
forced to squirm his right arm
into his left pocket reaching for the advil
he unwittingly put there.
This is ours.
We share this with student having to choose
between his bicycle in wintry weather
and the unreliable stained public buses to get to class.
And we share this with the woman who doesn't have the choice,
exposed to bone chilling wind at the frigid bus stop
with a child kicking at her ribs.
We share this with the homeless man picking the Thorazine shuffle
over walking with voices, even if it means
taking an extra hour to walk to his underpass house,
furnished with a throw away lazyboy
and a second-hand painting intended to turn
his hole into a home.
This is ours.
And we share this with the girl who misplaces everything,
the father who misses work,
the boy who misses his mother,
and the acne covered teen they call a faggot in the locker room.
We share it with the ones still asleep.
Wake up. Because this? this is ours.

It is ours and it is for us.
It's for the bulimic girl who wished
she was relevant.
It's for the bachelor who sits alone on his couch
wishing he had said something
all those years ago.
This is ours.
It's for the 3rd grader who digs in the dirt
with sticks looking for sticks,
and the 1st grader who marries him
some 15 odd years later.
It's for the child pulled along
when he was curious about the man
dressed in woman's clothing.
This is ours.
It's for the only roommate who does dishes,
for the freshman who only feels loved when she gives herself up,
and for the ones who can't write, won't write,
or don't even think about writing.
This is ours.

Wake up, because we are not
going to let the white page
be a white towel. You see,
this white space,
all this white space,
is meant to be filled,
with people.
With stories, with struggles, with triumphs.
All of it. And those who can write, will write,
and are always thinking about writing
will not let those stories disappear.
They are worthy to be written
to stand up and be accounted for.
So wake up, you're being written about.
Wake up, take to the streets, and give the finger
to the white space that tells them
that they are nothing, and exist only
as white space on a white page.
So wake up, because this?
this is ours.

the Bride

it was only fitting

that as I stared

the singing ceased

there were

no words

for what I felt

as I looked at you

the room became cluttered

with theology, thoughts, and time

Enter the Dragon, AKA Jamie

So if you haven't noticed (which you should have) we added a new member to the Yellow Notebook team. (This makes it sound like there was already more than one (There wasn't.))

This is super exciting for a number of reasons:
1) I love Jamie.
2) It adds some variation.
3) We get to look at and critique and improve one another's stuff.
4) It makes this a team thing and less awkward.
5) I can leave notes like this.

While I'm at it, I want to mention another blog, dontwasteyourcancer. I don't want to take much more space here, so go to it and have a look to read what it's about. I also want to mention how much I love her complete lack of capitalization.

Go Wolfpack,
Jason

Creation; an ode to Mr. Robert Norman Ross

In the beginning.

He wasn’t an old man sitting on an oversized throne.

He had no long white beard, no booming voice, no magic wand.

He had an afro, and oddly, he did have a beard, but it was well groomed and dark brown.

He had a palate of paints, which he held ever so close, but no so close as to mar his partially unbuttoned, collared, long sleeve, baby-blue shirt.

He also had canvas stretched out, even to the ends of the world itself, and he stood in front of it, the way children stand in front of elaborate gum ball dispensers.

And he had it covered in a thin layer of Liquid White, but that was before the cameras were rolling.

Now, the painting had not yet been formed and imagination hovered over the canvas.

And Bob said, “Let’s brighten this guy up!” And he mixed some Yellow Ochre, Titanium White, and the slightest touch of Alizarin Crimson; he brushed it on, it began to glow.

And he saw that it was good.

With a crisp fan brush he drug the Prussian Blue and Ivory Black together to create an expanse.

And Bob said, “Let’s get that two inch brush with the tiniest amount of thinner, and just pull these apart.” And he separated them. He called one Gorgeous and the other he called Magical.

And it was so, cause this was his painting, but you can separate yours however you want.

And Bob said, “We need some dirt for some trees to grow in and happy critters to live on.”

So, Van Dyke Brown and Dark Sienna were smooshed onto that canvas and became the ground.

Bob knew that smoosh wasn’t a real word, but people knew what it meant and so he used it.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “We need some happy little trees in this painting!”

He planted vertical trunks of Burnt Sienna with a very very small amount Midnight Black, because it can be overpowering.

He generously mixed the Sap Green with Viridian Green and with a circle brush he caused the leaves of those trees to sprout and grow.

And he saw that this was good. Yet, he decided to put one more big tree right there in the front (because, you know, Bob, he can’t resist).

And Bob said, “We need a sun in this rascal of a painting!”

He dipped his finger in the the Cadmium Yellow and he lit the sun like a candle in the sky.

With a dot of Titanium White he placed a glare on the greater light, and he took the number five knife and he scraped off the excess, so it wouldn’t scorch the landscape he created.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “Let’s pretend there are some old fish in that pond, cause I love to fish; but I always throw the fish back, put a band-aid on his mouth, tap ‘em on the patootie and send him on his way. And! We need some birds in this gorgeous sky.”

With a, "schwoop," he put the birds in the sky (because, you have to make those noises for it to work).

He saw that those birds needed some clouds to hide among. Now, clouds are very, very free so he put them wherever they wanted to be.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “Ohh we have to have some critters – some rabbits, and squirrels, and maybe an old opossum – to be friends with! Its okay to be friends with animals, people might think you are a little weird, but artist's are allowed to be different."

The critters he put close to the trees and bushes so they would have lots of places to hide and live.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “I mainly do landscapes so I won’t paint the people in this picture, but they are there. And they love it there, cause they are happy, because they are like me, and I created this place with only things I like. You make yours anyway you want it to be, and that’s just right!”

With the #6 Bristle Filbert brush dipped in Indian Yellow he signed his name.

And he saw that it was very good.

Thus the canvas was covered and the creation complete.

His work was done, it was time for Bob to rest.

And Bob said, “Well, the little clock on the wall says we’re just about out of time. Happy Painting and God bless.”

http://www.ikbis.com/freestyler/shot/97703

http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=genesis%201-2:3&version=NIV

What I Hope to be the Break of a Writer's Block, Or, My Taste in Girls and A Hygeine Confession

Exercises Shmexercises
all they do is exacerbate the blank
drawn on everything else.
So I'll steal from Ani Difranco
about things being grey
(but in the sense you can write about),
and pulpy receipts in pockets
much like Alanis' hand.
Which, I wish was in my pocket
while I hailed the taxi cab.
Just saying.

Because at least they have
break-ups, beaches, or bums
to write about, not to mention
the angsty, off-color,
haven't showered three days
sex appeal.
I just have a notebook
at the breakfast bar in the kitchen,
unshowered for three days
but only because I haven't thought about it
and not a choice I made.

Litany by Billy Collins

In my creative absence, here's an uncreative post of another poem I am a fan of. The 3 year old isn't the writer, but I really like the way he reads it.

An actual bike wreck.

Writing or typing is really really hard with one arm, and discourages effort. Also, this is not a poem.

Go Wolfpack,
Jason

Paul Bäumer, Winston Smith, and You: All a Part of Some Book.

There is a war going on, a fight for your psyche.
It's with the ones who pilot the pop-up ads and your attention,
media moguls and worldly powers to which you've sold yourself;
their sole intention to control you,
to besiege and bombard your bone reinforced bunkers,
targeting your soft spots: the jugulars, the temples,
the eyes. The shrapnel tears your insides,
ruining perspective and infecting the minds behind
with blanketing agents representing the poor rich,
the rich poor believing the well-funded mercenaries
“outside” of military and government direction,
led by an unseen enemy.
They are whispering beneath the subway televisions
selling you short lived joy and false idols, enslaving you,
keeping you in a nine to five prison with three and a half walls,
and leaving you living/dying for three days
unaware that someone was dead for those same three days
starting a revolution and a jail break;
for people to put down their sharpened shovels
and walk away from the western battlefield.

Better Than Lewis or Tolkien

There was the
Beginning, the human
Factor, the scandalous
Fall, the relentless
Pursuit, the perfect
Law, the good
Works, the failed
Trials.


There was the endless
Compassion, the daring
Rescue, the tragic
Betrayal, the necessary
Sacrifice,
     The everything resurrection.
The beautiful
Redemption, the glorious
Return, a
perfect story
by a perfect Writer.

Magnets and Moons

Any car can fly
if you go fast enough,
you just have to put wings on it.
He beamed, and the excess gratification
dripped off his unworn face.
Oh is that so? His freckles didn't move
as his gap-toothed wisdom disappeared
underneath his displeasure.
His furrowed brows formed premature
worry wrinkles as he was unable
to understand why I wouldn't
take his word. He pouted and fretted and concentrated and finally
conceded to the fact that I
wasn't going to. He shrugged his shoulders
and his face relaxed as he indifferently
stated Something to do with magnets
and the pull of the moon.

Anis Mojgani - Shake the Dust

Obviously this isn't me. But I freaking loved this poem and thought it should be shared.

Bike Catastrophe (Part III)

Part I
Part II

The crank, unsure
of what to do, creaks
and moans and stresses
and paces figure eights
like a friend at the hospital,
unsure of what happens next.
Eventually, with the decisive
vice grip of the bottom bracket
bearing down on it,
the crank simply doesn't do anything.
The crank is frozen, stuck in a moment,
consumed by a slow-motion whirlwind of
debris and bits, a hellish
chaotic solar system
around an immovable sun.

Carolina Blend

I loved the drips of sweat
hanging from the
   tips
of your greasy
hair. The wet
sticky
thick air wrapped its
arms around us
like our brother would.

We sat on the concrete
blocks,
our cigarette
tips
acted as beacons, lights
on a runway, telling the cars
the bridge was out,
closed.

Bike Catastrophe (Part II)

Part I

A steel frame,
built to disperse the force
now rippling through
the forged metal
evenly, is stripped naked,
it's powder coated coats of paint
ripped violently
from it's skinny frame.
But this aluminum frame
has weaker bones
than it's distant cousin.
The bottom bar smashes
against the sharp, unforgiving
curb. In the first
moments, just an expanding dent,
but the force behind it edges it
onward. It starts to warp unnaturally.
"Just a little more."
The frame can't
resist. It can take no more
and gives way
to the unforgiving laws.
The same sharp curb
rushes into the empty space
once roped off with aluminum
velvet. It acts as a wedge,
teaming with energy,
forcing the boundaries
different directions.
Forcing the boundaries upward
and downward. The intelligent angles,
precisely designed,
are no longer
applicable. The top bar needs
no coaxing. Witnessing the destruction
it accepts it's fate
and gives way.

Bike Catastrophe (Part I)

The slightly used tube explodes
on contact as the rim
behind it fractures.
The spokes within, once carefully
and delicately tuned now tumble
into a catastrophic implosion
as the thin rods of metal,
which never
should have been trusted,
scatter, like a dropped
jar of marbles.

Left with only shadows of supports
the rest of the frame follows suit.
The curved fork is asked to bend
an unnatural direction.
It likes it's home,
nestled in familiarity
of it's shape.
But it was never a race to see
who gave in first,
the curb or the fork.
It was always the fork.
The left arm bends
to the inside
kissing the right arm firmly,
knowing they're soon to be separated.
Goodbye. the arm rips
from it's joint.
And the left one goes too.

Family Christmas Card

There was no family picture
of the Carrol's
holidays.

there is no title.

I do not write
boxed,
ruled,
by old dead men
who stress the unstressed
stress syllable saving
form
over word play. Puns.
And feelings.
Discouraging for the un
refined fresh face
on the scene only in it
for the fun,
Not the masters
of fitting everything
in to bottomless boxes that
contain everything.
Discouraging for the
fans of alliteration
of slant rhymes
of homonyms
of bending grammar
and visual poetry
difficult to fit,
in one-twos and two-
ones; That three feet
are too few and
have won no prizes.
Confined to peer
reviews, no sonnets
plays immortalizations
in summer days.
Confined to a notebook
likely doomed to be lost,
forgotten in a box
or trash can, Confined
to a letter grade, a little
part of a little part.
Enforced rules on this
word, line, page, book,
leaves the book blank.
Never written. I do
not write the rules.
I do not write
boxed.

ghts

            ghts
my thou      
become increasingly fragment
   ed
as abnormal things chameleon quietly into normal things as if
they have always there belong
ed

.
..

.

inspiration and insomnia share in
but nothing else as one leads to safety
and the other to (the sharing in)sanity
or perceived insanity where perceived
thoughtless thoughts make thoughtless sense right

Tree is an Anagram for Heart.

“I don't get you” I said to them,
and they didn't listen.
I sat still in my chair,
and stared at them for much longer;
they sat, unmoved, by my futile attempt
to grasp the entangled
intricate workings mess.

They had been here long before me
and will be long after,
sometimes rooted solidly, so
they grow and die and grow again
for health and display and function;
can be shaped and reshaped
for workmanship's showing.

Showy elaborate bits of beauty,
that are humbly arriving and
with increasing volume, shown for
a pridefully broken exit.

Scavanger Hunts, Or, A Coming of Age, Or, Another Chore

I've made quite the mess of myself.
My mind is scattered, and
my heart is scattered, and
I seem to have lost my marbles, amongst other things.
I've left those little bits of myself
all over: Buried in backyards
under dogwood trees, buried in
backseats next to loose change and chewed gum,
buried under beds, with the dirty laundry and
other unmentionables.

I mean, it started innocently enough.
With your worn hands warming mine, and,
burying myself in your hoodie, and,
light swift kisses only on the cheeks.
You were charming and caring, and
I was charmed and cared for.
I was certainly swept.

But you didn't so much as help me
look for the parts that I wanted
back. Lips, hips, hands, heart,
sanity, hope, humor, heart.

(not blank)

only subjective subjecticies
and relative relativities
and no truth is truth.
there is no
home.

there is none from
which to venture out from to find
and search and explore danger and wonder and un
truth and then lost in circles because there is no home to come
home.

sovereignty and love is lost
in the circles that do not:
stop go exist end
slow breathe.

Not be Possess

Righteousness I possess,
it is mine not of my own,
though through (in)actions I own, it
is not mine to have (not have, be)
taken, sometimes, happily, ungratefully,
never grateful enough,
to own it for myself
for what it is and is not for.
Justified through righteous I
am not but I own.