Roadside Whim

Went on a road trip to a tiny, remote town in Northwestern New York to visit some relatives and while on the ride we passed a random church. Now, under normal circumstances I can't stand small town churches because it often seems they take the difference of their size when compared to their inner-city counterparts and flip it to become that much more ignorant in their views. Instantly I picture Reverend Shaw Moore from Footloose inside preaching the muted anarchist view on the evils of our world and its need for destruction. This time though, I was far too consumed with that little message board that sits outside to be consumed with Rev. Shaw and his hate of Rock 'n' Roll. "The Lord Helps the Humble". It was that simple. Nothing new; anyone familiar with the Christian/Catholic ways will know that eventually 'the meek shall inherit the earth', or something along those lines. Yeah Yeah... that’s wonderful, whatever floats your boat -- But it just ain't poetic. This, however, was a mysterious beacon shining from a higher place (I believe many call it the sun). So, I scribbled down the quote to work on later.

Interesting little 'Behind the Poetry' tidbit: This church wasn't in Sulivan county. We didn't pass Sulivan county for another hour and a half or so. But once I saw the Sulivan sign, I knew I had my title.

The Lord Helps the Humble in Sulivan County

On a static highway drive
Through the desolate fields of my mind
And I think I've found Christ
Jesus is a friend of mine.
Born of a virgin broad with a penchant for fucking angels
Or at least she claims their angels
I'm beginning to question her convictions
Convicted of divinities seen on the backs of turtles
Nestled in the feathers of desert birds
Consumed with life
They find themselves consumed in death
By the mouths of children created in their loins
It's the 'Circle of life'
We live to die while dying to live that life portrayed on the high definition screens of our minds
My pictures getting blurry
Dreams painted on billboards lining that road of life, promising
"All you've ever wanted -- 3 miles."
Too bad it takes a year to take a step
Need a black beauty to make the world fly by
And get to the
Crown jewel of my estate...
Can't seem to find the key to your case
Loneliness is such a waste of your charm.
Sweet and sappy social butterfly
Have you found the plight of the lone wolf who howls in half-hearted bursts towards the moon?
Have you found it out too soon?
Did you hope to get trapped in a dream world named desire?
With me as your brave knight and you as my lady?
Maybe is just a polite No.
Let's skip the pleasantries.
It's a bit late for apologies
... Is I'm sorry enough?
Infected with that Griffin virus
I can't help but vanish
And fade away in the vestige of what was once
A very charming man
Cursed by the flow of the river.
Oh that river.
That motherfucking river.
How it's calling.
Carving through the desolate fields of my mind
Jesus is soaked to his knees.
He's sick of miracles that go unheard.
Tired of his sacrifice.
Jesus is a friend of mine.
And he says he hates you all.

nice and short today...

Its cold. Very very cold. I had gotten far too used to the El Nino/global warming one-two punch to be left in this chilly mess. Eh well. Life goes on.

He[r] P[e]as Were Gol[d]en in a Time of Rust

There’s a demon in my belly

And how frighteningly enlightening

It is to watch him nibble on my naughty bits

He walks on one leg

Surely it’s more of a hop of sorts

A tired ramble through the deeper side of nowhere

How shallow I’ve become

Seat locked in an upright position

While I’m slouched and relaxed

Cuddling my seething hellion

My telltale heart is a trembling hand

And all the finest ale’s.

Bed bugs and dust mites deter the weary

For the rest I resort to wit

If I find failure in that

I am left no choice but to flutter by with the butterflies

And the effects are spectacular.

And so it began...

After a grand deal of hesitation, mixed lightly with just enough deep thought, I have finally begun this blog. It had been an intention of mine for quite some time, first to randomly chronicle my seemingly mundane everyday experience. Soon though, its purpose would see sundry topics. My inner thoughts, short stories, random rants. A slew of objectives arose, but in the end, I settled on my truest written love: Poetry. Where better to spread my accumulating wealth of original journeys in verse then my very own blog? I certainly haven't any idea.
With that said, I have to put great thought into my 'ice breaker' piece. I want something relatively metrically pleasing (as I have been dipping into the chagrin as of late, trying something pseudo-revolutionary) and well rounded. Something to introduce you to... I actually forgot what I chose my blogspot pseudonym to be. You'll soon find I do that quite often -- forget things. Aha! And it comes to me. River Man. Yes. A heap of meanings are tied into that one... for now we will define it as 'He who resides besides the Hudson'. Nice ring to that.
During all this blathering, I somehow managed to decide the icebreaker. It's one of my rare poems in which the title can be obviously attached to the piece. Normally you would have to understand the twisted workings of my mind to understand the origins; even then, a great deal of sleuthing is necessary.

Iron Angel and Fifty Murderous Rounds

She cowers
Clutching at her cobblestone soul
Beneath the sliver of what was once the moon
She calls it home now.
Knows this moist stone as the home she always had but never wanted
Watches the geese fly by in V like formation
Surely it’s short for freedom
Surely if she hoped hard enough wings would sprout and she could take off
Into the sunset I can’t help but talk shit about.
She labeled me the devil
Cast a thought in retrospect
She’d said I’m so angelic
Said none had ever known love to have love like the love she had for me
But there she cowers
Glancing at the street lights peeking through the trees
Reminding me she had a fire in her eyes I had never seen before.
Passion for the living from this queen of the dead
I wonder if it’s extinguished
Wonder if all the tears to drown a proud man’s heart
Could put that fire out.
It overflowed the levees and overran the garden.
I don’t doubt its power.
She cowers
Clutching at her cobblestone soul
An iron angel in a crust of rust
River flowers growing to taunt her loses.
I watch
And I cower
Spooning these patchwork wings
I fashioned from flaps of virgins flesh
And parts of hearts I’ve collected along the way.
Fifty murderous shots fly freely and a voice shouts
“The Devil Is Dead!!”
And I am.
Lying in the bed I made myself with a sly smile and that River man’s curse.
Bloodied and bleeding away all the trouble within me.
“You’re so angelic.”
Her voice carries as
She cowers
Beneath the sliver of what was once the moon.