Oh! Fall!

You're crisp like an apple,
you sunrise bathed day!
You'll ever elude and embrace me,
You'll ever pursue and erase me.

You're sharp like the contrast,
in the scene, distant.
You'll ever elude and embrace me,
You'll ever amuse and escape me.

Oh Fall!
I fall in love with you
just
before
You fall away from me.

Mee

There once was a man named Mee.

One day Mee purchased a jar of poison at WorldMart, his local grocery store.

Mee went home and put the poison in his pantry right next to his supply of wholesome, delicious jars of food.

The next morning, when Mee made breakfast, he grabbed the jar of poison and spread it on his toast.

Mee felt terribly ill.

His stomach was on fire.

His throat burned.

His vision blurred and eventually everything went black.

Mee awoke later in the day.

The sickness had passed.

That is to say, he’d managed to vomit before passing out.

His face was caked with his own puke.

Mee got up and washed himself off.

He felt hungry.

Mee decided to make some soup.

One carrot.

One potato.

One can of chicken broth.

One scoop of poison.

It smelled so good.

Mee sat down with a massive bowl of soup.

He emptied his bowl.

Mee felt terribly ill.

His head ached.

It felt like a thousand thumbtacks had been stuck into his digestive system.

Mee threw up all down the front of himself.

Mee took a shower and went to bed.

The next day Mee decided that it must be the poison that had made him so sick.

He decided to not use the poison in his cooking any more.

But, the next morning, instead of grabbing peanut butter to spread on his toast, he grabbed the poison.

He spread it on thick.

He threw-up.

He threw-up blood.

He couldn’t stand because he felt so weak.

He missed work.

He forgot to send his brother a birthday card.

He was unable to feed his dog.

Mee slept on the kitchen floor that night.

When Mee woke up he reached over and grabbed the poison.

“Open it and eat your fill,” said Mee.

“I won’t, it’s killing me,” said Mee.

“Maybe it is, but just a little won’t hurt,” said Mee.

“No, no, no,” said Mee

“Just open the lid a twist,” said Mee

“Okay, just opening the lid a little won’t do any harm,” said Mee

Mee opened the lid a little.

Mee opened the lid a lot.

Mee filled his mouth with poison.

Mee swallowed.

Mee died.

(Before Mee died he had this realization:

“If I truly want to keep from eating this poison, if I want to live, if I cannot resist the draw of opening the jar and partaking of its contents, then I have to get rid of it. I have to throw it out of my kitchen window. I have to do it right now, later will be too late.”

Mee waited until later.

Mee was too late.)

You are like

You are like a tree, mayhap,
Your love it flows like life.blood.sap.
They climb your trunk,
Your branches snap,
Yes,
You are like a tree, mayhap.

You are like the sea, maybe,
Your love it flows from there to me,
They ride your waves,
You sink them free,
Yes,
You are like the sea, maybe.

You are like the sky, I guess,
From dawn to dusk you shine the best,
They soar so high,
You make them rest,
Yes,
You are like the sky, I guess.

Green Soul

What is the essence of summer?

I suppose it’s the presence of now.

The Sun’s your returned college brother,

He’s also your home-come cow.

Green grass, brown!

Green soul grow,

In the field that the hermits know.

Come distill the essence of summer,

Free-time, Frisbee, Popsicle, warmth,

Find your one love and no other,

Run barefoot, calluses coarse.

Green thumb, brown!

Green soul grow,

In the field that the faeries know.

Let me be the essence of summer,

Sun-bleached blond, eyes blue.

Campfire smoke be my mother,

Yes make each adulthood un-true.

Green soul, grow!

Green soul grow,

In the field that the children know.

T. Cirrus Mann

There once was a terribly serious man named T. Cirrus Mann. He was a very mature adult and he worked in a very adult building on the very most adult floor. His office was very stiff and professional. T. Cirrus always wore practical and colorless clothes, except for the red tie that stood out from his black.white.gray ensemble like the last chocolate-chip cookie stands out on the crumb-covered plate.
One day T.C. Mann came into work and discovered that someone had placed a note upon his desk. It read as follows:

"Dear Treble Cirrus Mann,
This is your official invitation to the most glorious and fantastic HereandnowHeavenland. Please arrive at the specified location this evening at 6 PM
Love,
Czar Rex"

T. Cirrus felt a strange and compelling urge to obey the note even though he would normally write it off as a scam of some sort and have his assistant recycle it. Instead he walked out of his office and said:

"Esterynne, I will be leaving the office early this evening, please cancel my five o'clock meeting with the board of directors"

Esterynne was shocked and confused and also slightly allergic to peanuts, but she kept her cool and did as she was told.

At 6 PM T. Cirrus was standing in front of a gate (at the specified location). Over the gate there was hung a sign which read, in reality it was read...signs don't read, HEREANDNOWHEAVENLAND. It seemed to be some kind of carnival. T. Cirrus hated carnivals and considered them to be a waste of time and money. Nevertheless he had canceled his five o'clock meeting with the board of directors and he was very drawn to see how this would turn out.

"Hello?" he called.

No-one answered, "Hey, hey! You must be Treble!"

"Yes, I am T. Cirrus, who are you?" ask T. Cirrus.

"I'm No-one," said No-one.

"Well that seems like a strange name," commented T. Cirrus.

"Only strange to a wise-guy, for He must increase and I must decrease."

No-one held out his hand and offered T. Cirrus a ticket. On it was the word, Pride.

"Eat it," instructed No-one

"That's alright, I'll just put it in my pocket," said Treble Cirrus Mann.

"But if you don't eat it you can't go on any of the rides."

"I didn't come here for the rides, I came here to meet Czar Rex," T. Cirrus said in a terribly serious tone.

"You won’t find Czar Rex anywhere but the rides."

T. Cirrus decided that enough was enough; he had canceled a meeting for the first time in 23 years so that he could meet Czar Rex and he was not going to be made a fool. T.C. Mann shoved No-one out of the way and ran into the heart of the carnival. But there was nothing there. It was the most run down nothing that T.C. had ever seen. If boredom were made into a place then surely this was it. Suddenly he heard a sound that didn't fit this bleak carnival ground. Someone was laughing. He followed the sound until he came to the Ferris wheel. There, sitting in one of the seats was a little girl. She was wearing adult-sized business clothes and she was laughing fantastically.

“Why are you laughing?” Cirrus asked.

“I think it’s funny that you don’t like this place,” said the little girl, “eat your ticket and sit down next to me, the ride is about to start.”

“I’m here to see Czar Rex,” said T. Cirrus in his most grown-up adult voice.

“So am I,” the girl replied, “And He looks beautiful today.”

“I can’t see him.”

“You haven’t eaten your ticket,” said No-one as he walked up beside T. Cirrus.

“What is the big deal about this ticket? It was free for God’s sake!”

“No. Free for your sake.”

It dawned upon Treble Cirrus Mann that perhaps he was in the midst of a terrible nervous break-down. Maybe all of this was in his head. Maybe he needed to find a doctor. Maybe if he was this far gone eating a paper ticket wouldn’t do him very much harm. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ticket. It tasted like paper. I felt like paper as it slid down his throat…and then something began to happen.

T. Cirrus felt his suit start to loosen around him. His five o’clock shadow disappeared and his vision became blurry so that he had to remove his glasses. He didn’t need his glasses anymore. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He didn’t need it either. He threw it over the fence. Meetings no longer mattered and Cirrus didn’t feel any urge to check his e-mail. All he wanted to do was join the little girl on the Ferris wheel and enjoy the ride. The carnival which had seemed so run down was now a place of wonder.mystery.adventure. T. Cirrus sat down next to the little girl.

“You’re a little boy now,” she giggled.

“You’re my little boy,” said the most rich.deep.loving voice that has every spoken.

And indeed he was.

Rest

I wrote this song almost a year ago and I think that it has some valuable thoughts/longings within its lyrics:

I wish my soul, I wish my soul,
Could rest without growing idle,
I wish my soul, I wish my soul,
Could rest without growing idle,
To be so still and not run away.

I wish my soul, I wish my soul,
Would heed, would heed it's master,
When He calls
I wish my soul, I wish my soul,
Would heed, would heed it's master,
When He calls,
To listen so well, to listen so well and not run away.

What do you get, what do you save,
For leading a life that's righteous?
What do you keep, what do you gain,
For leading a life that's righteous?
I do not know, I do not know,
But you reap what sow.

Hello, I'm Sam Same.

Sam Same was originally going to be the main character in an utterly absurd, epic poem. After four or so lines I gave up on writing it because it just wasn't taking shape (like play-dough in my unpracticed hands). Once the poem failed I moved Sam into a short story that was all about Poetry Outlet the place. But that story got too serious and too depressing. So it is under reconstruction/potential demolition. Until that comes to its proper end Sam has become a player in this story. The tale that follows is made entirely of non-sense and I doubt that it has much of a moral or anything...at least I didn't install one. The only thing that this story in meant to convey is a sense of intense okay-ness. I hope you enjoy it, if not then I hope that you enjoy not enjoying it:

The Most Breakfasty Breakfast and a Purchased Good-bye

One morning Sam Same rolled out of bed and proceeded to prepare the most breakfasty breakfast that had ever been prepared for the breaking of a fast. Sam fried one dozen eggs (some people praise omelets as being breakfast incarnate but Sam knew that nothing made from eggs said "good morning" like fried eggs). Sam fried one dozen bacon strips. Sam toasted one dozen toasts. Sam juiced one dozen oranges. Sam baked one dozen cinnamon rolls and Sam also prepared many other things in the format of twelve.

At 8:15 Patricia Purple arrived. Patricia was wearing an overly pink, pink dress. On her left foot was an orange rainboot and on her right foot was a grey slipper. On her head sat a mint green hat.

"Good morning Patty!" called Sam from the deepest recesses of his magnificent kitchen.

"Good morning Sam!" replied Patricia from the most middle center of Sam's living room, then, "It smells great! Fried eggs, right?"

"Yes fried eggs are our only option! I'll be right out, do you mind if we eat in the library? Horace Boris very much enjoys the smell of books with his breakfast."

---Horace Boris was Sam's roommate and good friend. H.B. had been born sometime in the future but had always felt like he had been born too late. Thankfully for Horace Boris the future had a time machine and so Horace Boris acted on his feelings and went home to the past where he and Sam hit it off rather well.---

Patricia skipped through the house to the elevator and rode it to the third floor. The third floor of Sam's house was the most third floor, floor in the house. It was also devoted to holding Sam's library. Sam's library was devoted to books. This was the bond between Sam and his library; they were both devoted to books.

Patricia danced to a paint-splattered chair at the end of the library-dinning table and set herself down in a sitting position. It seemed fitting that she should be sitting in a chair...standing on a chair is unnatural and standing IN a chair is absurd. Right about then Horace Boris floated down through the ceiling (though he would have called it the underside of his bedroom floor) he was reading the previous day's newspaper and smoking his pipe.

"Morning Patricia, the president is going to die tomorrow," said H.B. He always had some bit of history that would be news the next day.

"Good morning Horace Boris, you know, with all your hovering and floating you remind me of a maple leaf."

"Thank you Patricia. The maple leaf is going to become extinct in 50 years...just so you know."

Patricia was about to ask how to prevent such a terrible thing when Silent Quiet, the maid, came in bearing an obnoxiously large tray laden with one dozen each: fried eggs, bacons, orange juices, toasts, cinnamon rolls and dozens of other dozens. Sam Same strode in after her in his pickle-green and carrot-orange stripped pajamas.

"Hello all, I would ask you to sit down but I can see that you already have. Very fitting that you should be sitting, standing IN chairs seems absurd."

The three friends delved into that most breakfasty of breakfasts with vigor and vim and a little extra vigor while Silent Quiet went downstairs to clean the loudly colored carpets. The conversation at the table resembled silence, this was because no one spoke. Sam was violently reading a book with a bright red cover, it was an exciting volume. Patricia passively page-flipped through her chosen passage in her particular book. Horace Boris simply finished his paper and re-lit his pipe once he had finished eating. When they were all done eating Patricia saw herself out. Sam watched her leave so in a way he also saw her out. 

"You know Horace Boris, Willy Wonka was right. Parting is sweet sorrow."

"You mean Willy Shake?" corrected Horace Boris.

"Who? Anyway, wouldn't it be nice if one could purchase a parting? Everything gets easier if you can buy it. People go out to eat because they would rather buy the act of cooking than have to cook their food themselves. Yes...I wish I could purchase a parting," said sad Sam Same.

"But you can Sam, just buy the bye," and with that Horace Boris began floating back up to his room.

"Yes please, I'll take one of those," Sam called after him.

Sam put his book down and picked up his telephone. He called Patricia; well actually he called her Patty. Patricia answered her phone and called him Sam.

"Hey Patty, do you want to come over at lunchtime for a good read?" asked Sam.

Patricia, of course, wanted to. So she did.

The End

Thoughts on Thoughts

Here is a thought that I often have about thinking. I usually think it when I am thinking about the way that I think. I don't know how often you think about thinking, but I think it is a good idea.

I first had this revelation when I was reading Chronicles Part 1 by Bob Dylan. At some point that book fostered or planted or engendered this idea:

How active is my thinking? Is my brain merely aware of ideas or does it take hold of them and chew them up into little pieces? If my brain is only aware of concepts, beliefs, and ideas then I believe that it is like a baby eating cereal. Not a lot of progress. If, however, my brain is actively thinking (taking hold of new thoughts, reviewing and revising old ones) then it will not only be more productive but I am convinced it will be more creative. It will provide itself with more material for imagination and creation, or really it will make better use of the material it has been provided with.

Just a thought that I thought you might want to think about...if you think you want to.

Haiku 1

Most everyone learns how to write a haiku in elementary school. I know that I did, though I have never learned to write them well. This is probably the only one I have ever written that is worth reading. So here it sits.

Leaf falling; Water,
rising from below still as
stone. Catch and dissolve. 

Quality Literature at a Discount Rate

Why Poetry Outlet? Because I like poetry and I need an outlet for it. In my imagination and wildest dreams Poetry Outlet is simultaneously a store that sells under appreciated, unpublished and highly criticized literature; an album title; a short story; a play; this blog and a place in which I hope to someday spend a great deal of my time.

I keep a journal (sporadically) but I often find that I am writing for the sake of posterity. I take a tone and word things as if I was telling the future what I think about and how or why I think it. That seems to be what journaling is about, but I do not believe that all of my thoughts are for the future. Some of them are for the present. Some of them may be for a reader of this blog. Most of them are probably just for me.

What can you expect when you visit Poetry Outlet? I really don’t know. Maybe some sort of public journal, probably a scattering of mediocre poems, and always me: a very average young man who happens to think that sharing ideas is important.