"Why would I wanna die?"

 Here are two new poems that I'm still unsure of. The first was inspired by this: http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/alowell/bl-alowell-patterns.htm  
 

The second poem, Joanna is a character that has shown up infrequently.. I think she's been prominently featured in two other poems and mentioned in one other. This might be her last appearance which makes me sad.

“patterns # 2 (amy lowell looking over my shoulder)”

come summer i will stay indoors, i will

pace the living room and irritate the cat

i will take new lovers and

be frustrated by the heat until

evening comes and cools

my apartment for a few hours

if i should stray outdoors

it will be for brief journeys

 to acquire necessary essentials

whomever i’m sleeping with will lay naked in my bed

she will fuss with her hair, i will

simply sit and watch her move

if fall should ever return,

 i will revel in new arrogance, i will

take no new lovers, i will take

my independence out of the pawnshop i

will forget about fear i

will even leave the house occasionally

but now, summer is coming

i lay awake dreading its return

my stomach is unsettled and my beard is unkempt
but i will remember each kiss

like the first kiss

in my imagination, where

i live, i am never alone

“j@40”

see joanna at 40:

all of her friends are gone

her husband is doing

the mid-life macarena

couple pounds of cocaine and

a half dozen waitresses, by now

maybe if she were interesting

she’d be able to survive

jo chews the skin around her fingernails

and whispers lullabies to herself

in and out of quiet

she sits with her modern housewife decor

and doesn’t think of anything

the things she dreamt of

in her teens and twenties

have all come to pass

turns out her prayers were hollow

even the brightest hope

learns how to fray

even the dullest bulbs

give off a little light

joanna’s life

has reached its crescendo

this is where she will stay

until she expires

it’s so sad, the things that go uncelebrated

little victories become forgotten because of larger fires

even just  a few years of happiness

is a brittle dream to most of us

traumas be come unsettling and lives fall back apart

quicker than you can remember the catalyst

if you catch someone shaking, stay with them

provide a little warmth for as long as you’re able

"But our silence was a concern.."

This is brand new. I'm very fond of it. It's in my usual disjointed, verses seemingly barely connected style. The verses are of course very much connected, but per usual, only I know how. If you can guess where the title came from, you win a prize. Really, it shouldn't be that hard..

“damned damned damned”

a shot of heartache hit me like the sun

it broke up the monotony

 i had been happy for a while

it reminded me to shake my fist at the sky

to get mad at nothing

because that’s all that matters

i make jokes behind your back

because you’re no longer around,

but your presence remains

if i missed you as much as i want to miss you

i wouldn’t be writing, i’d be crippled on the floor

i wept for your benefit, not my own

i hope for new accidents

for things to suddenly get exciting again

that small moment

 before the cracks start to appear

is the only moment i want to live in

even still, that moment might not exist

you never think about

how fragile finite things are

even after you’ve seen a few things broken

but those memories recede, just

long enough for you to hurt yourself again

but maybe if beauty didn’t end in tragedy, it wouldn’t be any fun

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)

Female Singer-Songwriter Blues

Instead of just posting new stuff I'm going to do something a little different. Here are the three poems thus far comprise my female singer-songwriter blues series. I can give commentary on these for once.

This first one was written in 2009. I was listening to the album mentioned a good deal during that period around the time and for whatever reason to decided to throw it in. It was in my first chapbook, and I'm especially proud of the last stanza.

"aimee mann's blues"

i tried to say i was sorry
it just didn't work
i threw down my wallet and your car keys
and i walked out the door exhaling smoke

aimee mann was on the stereo
why the fuck were you listening to aimee mann?
if i ever manage to get far enough away
i will never listen to "the forgotten arm" again

no, you didn't throw me out, i left
i'm not sorry, though i said i was
i would do it again, please please
won't you give me a chance to do it again?

when the fireworks have been forgotten
i will sip water and rejoice
i will light a candle to the memory
of every woman i've lost or given away

The next was written in hospital early this year. I had a line about tucson stuck in my head for a few hours before I put on some Fuller. It sort of fell together after that. I swear there was a blues between the first an d second, but I haven't found one.

"lindsay fuller's blues"

the last i recall of tucson 
was a gas-up on the edge of town
we spun them wheels like we were breaking teeth
chucking bottles from the window and
fuller was on the radio so
we sang as if this time we knew where we were going

let every sad song i ever hear
be an epitaph for every girl i'll never see again
let their memories be like
the bottles and trails of cigarette smoke i leave in my wake
i'm only as vacant as i need to be 
they're only as close as i need them to be

we said "fuck california", and headed east
played the "cheap dates" record all the way through new mexico
you don't notice the sights when you're flying blind
but you hear the music, and it matters
sometimes it's all that does

i've chased my whiskey with so many ruthless women
some of them i miss the way i would the rain
the pain in your stomach never quite settles
after you've learned a lover is dead
but there's always another folk song
and usually it's easier to just force your eyes ahead

this time i think i'm headed south
there ain't no place like the goddamn south
i may wind up in a drunk tank in the bible belt
or as bones on some deserted stretch of highway
but before i'm gone
i'll litter america with my poems, like johnny appleseed

This next one, I was literally thinking  about ripping off Tori Amos, the song below. I really do need to try and rip it off.

This was written oddly, and it feels rushed to me because of it. Somebody cam e over while I was writing the second stanza and I had to finish the poem with him watching before I lost it. I remember planning to write a fifth and final verse when I wrote the second draft, but it didn't need it. The title came about with the second draft, and I only gave it that title to fit in with thi this series. 

“tori amos’ blues”

i wasn’t there that day

i was too busy thinking about

ripping off tori amos, i think

your thoughts were in my hands, i slipped

i threw myself towards the wilderness, i inhaled

all these faceless fucks 

that barter through our lives 

their tempers are relentless, but I found in them a prayer

an answer to our self reliance

something to dance w/

other than destruction

a rainy fever threw you 

the day i came back

i stood in the door with no umbrella

i was weighing options, but you never gave me a chance

you threw accusations my way

i stumbled, shook, then stood.

i would rather not return 

to balance barren days with oblivion 

but i’ll take my chances

trouble comes when it must 

i only hope to be

five minutes stable

I hope these were enjoyable, and please comment. There will be more of these, but they'll come in their own time.

I am losing control of the language again

New stuff. Stuff I really like. The first poem was inspired by an unreleased early version of Prince's Elephants and Flowers. I also completely ripped off three or four lines from that. It's kind of unlike anything I've ever written. The phrase "only lovers left alive" isn't original, but its one I've been wanting to use for a very long time.
The second one was inspired by my sister using the title title phrase, hence her name in the subtitle, though she has nothing else to do with it. In a way its much like pretty much everything I write: depressing as hell and championing loneliness.  Most of its from the point of view of a character I don't know very well, but there's one line that's directly out of my own existence. Also, the line "all that's good is leaving" was cribbed from a Lindsay Fuller song, but I'm pretty sure I meant it in a different way than she did. Enjoy! Comment! Etc.!

 “only lovers left alive”

love leaves her stranded

on a cold november night

she finds a club, finds a drink

finds a partner she don’t have to teach

she focuses on the patterns, lets the night take her in its sweep

she takes the boy by the hand

the only thing he understands

is that she wants him on the dance floor

this is nothing new, a flash of heat

emotions strange, flattery flows like perfume

the boy’s barely alive

barely legal, barely anything

but he’s a natural, his body knows the way

she puts a finger to his lips

as if it’s a question, and he the answer

they’ll lose each other tomorrow

tonight belongs to sweat

frantic in a haze, they embrace each other

and for some brief, undefined moment

they are the only lovers left alive

“leaving las crucas (for kathryn)”

leaving las crucas with the weight behind me

liquor bottles in the backseat, belly full up

red eyes focused on the rearview

as if something is bound to give chase

maybe if i keep my foot on the pedal i won’t collapse

anywhere you go, you’re moving forward

never know what you’re leaving until it’s gone

when i think about the bad days

 i want to make the ones coming worse

i would break my back for salvation, but i’d only fuck things up again

endless chances brought about by endless cans of oblivion

i found my way past you, now i can’t find my way back

I never think about what i’m giving up until i’ve bartered it away

prayers were answered, but

i didn’t realize until i had shit on the results

don’t know what city i’ll leave next

all that’s good is leaving

i can’t escape myself,  the ruins behind me, they pace my memories

no such thing as safety in numbers

the only sure thing is staying alone and focused ahead

Now i was 18/out there on the block/Selling drugs/With a gun at my waist/And for people I had no love

My current goal is to put something new up here every two weeks or so. I'm trying to write at least one new thing a week so that should give me enough to hold onto. I like to hold onto a few that no one has seen. This poem isn't great. It's actually pretty stereotypical Whitelaw. If you've read a lot of my stuff you've seen these themes over and again. Aw well.

“insufficient data”

do i wish that i was never born?

i don’t know what the alternative would have been

i don’t have enough information

to make an informed decision

do i wish that i was dead?

not right now, things are okay

but that could change

at any moment

the frailty of existence

tempts me into low times

but i’ve heard that there are better things

than being sad and alone

i might investigate that theory any day now

 or not, and I’ll stay where I’m sitting

as i’ve done for years

bleeding ink like tears onto paper, or into nowhere