i, american

This is the first poem in a much longer cycle. If I told you the scope of the thing you would think I'm insane. I've written three poem in the cycle thus far, the second being only fifteen lines, the third (the first draft of which I finished less than twenty minutes ago) is slightly shorter this. This cycle is meant to evolve over a period of time, so don't expect to see anything else from it anytime soon.

"i, american # 1"

(1)

i’m trying to resurrect something

maybe an ancestral memory

some item pulled from the past

but all i come up with are apologies

gripes or petty grievances
my poems are road maps of exactly what not to do

my mother is a schoolteacher

she really tries her best

i would break my back if she needed me to

but no one needs me

this should make me sad

it should, but it doesn’t

i have no history

no presence in the past

my blood is too mixed to be of any advantage

but i am an american

this ground was stolen, but my roots make it my own

i can trace my footsteps back through places no sane man would go

(2)

fullerton, california, december, twenty twelve

almost six years after the breakup

i needed new scenery

but didn’t realize i’d never change

this is where i learned what not to do

this is where i made my stand

socal is a dream to middle america

but to me it’s a wasteland,

a place my dreams could never come true

skeletal youth with eternal cigarettes

they used to kick it on commonwealth

i don’t know where they went

but they’re gone now

there, by that taco bell

you might never see me again

(3)

i remember the last time i heard “heart of glass”

as american as apple pie

rock n roll keeps my feet on the ground

hip hop beats keep me moving

i owe my existence to my country

everything i love is here

the cities i love are alive with sound

as only american cities could be

the surface stuff is unappealing

obviously, i can’t condone my government

but i’ll defend my nation to the death

if only for rock n roll

(4)

you do the sleep, i’ll do the driving

you can take the wheel sometime around dawn

or jesus will

and we’ll drive into the sun

i want to have faith in something

i really do, i do

but the only things i can believe in

are things that i can touch

if you find it frail, i was right

but if you find fulfillment, i’ll shut my mouth

baby, hold still

we’re exactly the same, with or without

some ways are easier

i have my beliefs

but i won’t defend them

you can’t defend nothing

i’m sorry if you need faith

but religion has flourished in my country

in a way that makes me scared

look, i’m not sure you can rely on anyone

i have a hard enough time trusting myself

(5)

seattle is a city of abandoned furniture

its bald spots are crawling

with dead things that used to live

but died without knowing

that it was time to cease moving

if it were only my sins

that kept me moving

i would retire immediately

but i believe i am building something

that is bigger than i am

from my living room i see skyscrapers

i wouldn’t mourn their passing\

but i would miss the skyline

stars don’t belong in cities

most of us don’t do well in the dark

(6)

trees and concrete

the scent of a body of water

the eternal thrust of human beings

all of these things provide me with a comfort

i need my city as much as my country

american born, i enjoy being home

"If I am a stranger, now, to you/I will always be"

Every now and again (very rarely) a poem feels as if it's writing itself. There was a small amount of control towards the end, but mostly it felt like I was just holding the pen. It has an odd structure, but I didn't plan it that way. When I finished the second verse I knew the next one needed parentheses. I have a few basic ideas about what it's about, but I'm not sharing. It's written in first person, but very little of it feels like something out of my own head. I'm sharing it because it's such an oddity.

“bad vision”

thing is, i was trying to predict the future

i was trying to force

my desires to take form

no trickery, officer

i’m just really bored

take my luck, i don’t need it

the bluest pair of eyes

only exist for me

the heavens must of gotten tired of bad fortune

it’s raining pennies for me

(i hope i’m not too obvious

i’m really fucking miserable

something is kicking inside my brain

it scares me

i think it might get out)

let’s clink our goddamn glasses

our fears have been reversed

the fog is frittering itself away, now

 i can drink all i can swallow

i’m going to sleep now, i’ll be back tomorrow

(i slunk away

envisioning festering wounds

there are strange ideas inside of me

and even stranger ways of carrying them out

i’m not going to say anything more)