Knowing

Knowing something uncertain is an interesting thing. It in truth is not a way of really knowing at all. It is knowing because it can’t be known, it is a knowing of faith.

One dark night, and on many repeat occasions when the music is right, I am filled with a knowing that one day, my name will cover books. That I am an author because authors always are authors even before the first letter is in print. This feeling comes to me over the Altamont on dark days beneath overhangs and over hills that reveal a horizon of spotted lights.

I’m elevated, floating above cars from my drivers seat. I am speeding and smiling and sometimes crying or laughing.

I know because I can’t know. I know like the faithful know god. It is irrational, not worth a bet. But what should I do, deny it? Be realistic, and let that reality bring me down to nothing more then hope. What strength is hope to what is known?

I wonder if knowing can be lost, worse then dreams because you knew it should have been so. It was more then possibility, it was like what is, and just as certain.

Ten cards litter a floor to my right, they tell me nothing positive, only warnings. Forward is shame, regardless of my actions.

Shame frightens me. It drains my will to hear no one expects great things from me. I am vigorous and youthful, and all the errors of failed would-bes loom over me.

Am I noble? Fatherly? Kingly? What would a king do in my position? What kind of king am I?

I pray gods send me dreams tonight.

Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda

(Possible Poetry Slam entree after some more editing, any help’s appreciated)

 

I know these three guys, Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

shoulda woulda if he knew he coulda,

coulda shoulda, but never woulda,

and poor woulda never coulda

 

shoulda ya gotta feel fa

cause shoulda coulda

if he woulda known.

but shoulda neva know

till after he knew he coulda

so he never could.

 

and woulda, I feel so sorry fa

cause ya neva know ya a woulda

till ya go

and they’ll be sayin what a woulda coulda

had thata.… shucks, hada happen.

 

with tha poor woulda and shoulda I coulda sympathize

but coulda i never cared much fa.

cause if you knew you coulda, wouldn’ ya?

but coulda always complainin that he shoulda

sayin that he woulda

but if he woulda, he woulda, ya know?

but na.

never gonna even if he could.

 

I gotta say,

Pray ya not a woulda,

cause a… ya neva know.

and If ya find ya shoulda though,

don let that get ya low

jus try ta know ya good.

though neva be a coulda

cause a coulda shoulda woulda

but a coulda neva would.

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Stagnant

I’m so frustrated.

With myself, my home, my lack of accomplishments.

My stagnant bowls. ugh.

I don’t do anything, but why. why am i so afraid

even now i feel my mind telling me to stop writing, RIGHT NOW.

i’m terrified I’ll be disgusted, terrified that the words won’t come.

terrified that it’s impossible for me.

There’s something i need to tell myself that’s stuck in the back of my mind and throat. I feel it like a tug at my skull. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I need to do something before i go crazy/insane

Elliot’s waiting for me to write about him already. He’s waiting for his story. His life and the characters stuck in my head are waiting to be put down on paper. I can’t go anywhere until I go to him.

Elliot.

Tiara.

Victor.

Seth Nader.

Lala.

characters I don’t even know exist are just waiting to spill from me.

My Purpose.

My purpose
is a waiting wanting spider
sewing it’s web between my fingers
to catch what flies would wander
into my palm

If I am the fly
and my hand the corner
of a room laden with pretty things.
how long would I wander
from knick-knack and t.v. screen
before i finally got bored enough
to explore what’s in the corner.

And if it would catch me
or pardon; when it does.
how much will I scream?
to know all my time wasted
looking at the pretty things
could of been spent in this corner
feeding a spider
a purpose
a point.