Poem, “Jesus. Judas”

A little something I did have time for this weekend 🙂 Still playing around with it a bit, but I like doing something from time to time that’s a bit different. As I was writing it, I had a hard time finding a place to stop–in fact, I’ve changed that spot multiple times even as I’ve prepared it for posting. I think you’ll find, though, that that’s probably the point.

“Jesus. Judas”

Why are you here?
Always questioning.
With good reason.
O ye of little faith!
Cut it out. Answer the question.
You won’t believe me.
Try me.
You doubted me the first time.
No, I played a role.
We all had roles to play.
Some suffered more–
And then I offered you forgiveness. You denied it.
That wasn’t my role. Why are you here?
I’ve always been here.
Stop playing games.
I thought you liked games?
Why are you here?
It’s the end.
No one will believe you.
Some will.
We’ve had too many false prophets since you–
They too played roles.
They’ve all lost faith.
What will you do about it?
That isn’t like you.
I’ve always done nothing–you, on the other hand, did something.
You made me the martyr.
God’s will.
Your choice.
I was the real martyr.
I know.
“We all had roles to play.” What do you want from me?
I need you again.
Convince the others.
Not this time.
You can be their Christ.
I won’t.
Who will save them?
That’s your role!
Not this time.
God’s will?
No, your choice.

“Wars Poetica”

“Wars Poetica”

Halls, not a lounge, not a fancy room
Just a hall, where I first uttered a word to you
Just in a hall, where I planned on asking you
The moment already imagined in my head
The moment you’ll say not no, but yes
And we grab a bite to eat
Or a cup of coffee
To get to know each other
To make eyes at one another
You’re a bit shy and quiet
So I take the initiative to lace words
Into a delicate sentence
You’ll be impressed at my word play
I’ll know that I planned it, but still meant it
So I’ll say:

I’m a dreamer wanting power to make a difference
Wondering if one person can achieve it
Doubting if that one person could be me
I don’t think this makes me insignificant
If anything, these truths in coexistence
Collide in a beautiful display of pyrotechnics
Fighting for complete dominance

(Ooh, that’s good. Just ask her!)

There’s that Whitman
Oh how he thinks of himself!
Though I don’t sing the song, or walk the walk
For myself
I’ve always found more purpose in being
For someone else
Becoming their voice
And only if many ask me to sing for them
Could I ever contain multitudes

(Should I sing for her?)

There’s that Prufrock
The caricature of pathetic
Manifestations in Eliot’s head
As I make one thousand calculations
And countless indecisions
Thinking of those women that come and go
Hoping one day they’ll know
I fully intended to talk to them

(Would she even talk to me?)

The battle rages on
Of course, in my head
Camp Whitman sings his song
Camp Prufrock questions questions to death
The explosions of grandeur souse
The scuttling fractured prawns
In the bottomless, voided, body of water
My identity, a mere pawn
No singing sirens chant
The calling counter-song

(Notice me!)
(You aren’t worth it)

My revisions sprawl across this page
                                                  and away from this page
Back on again
I write my songs to find a voice
Not create one
All’s been created long ago
And all can be lost
In time’s ebb and flow

(Those women that come and go)

In my dwindling scintillating moment
Of infamy I only write the words
I planned to say in my head
I can only disappoint you
you won’t be anything her father said
All I really want is a cup of coffee
And the chance to get to know you
you’re stuck in your dreams she said
And one day I’ll sing for you
Not the song of myself
Nor the song of you
The song of us
The peaceful camp for two

Some women will come and go
you’ll never get over her she said
But I know
          she’s not another lover, she’s my mother, and she’s dead!
I could make you happy

“smile and say cheese!”
          *shutters close*
                    a big flash wiping the memory clean

What was I thinking, dammit!
Things were better in my head
So old Pruf and Whit leave with
Field to their backs, and off to bed
One finding that he lives to see tomorrow
A victory in itself
So he whistles a tune by himself
The other cursing
You may have won the battle but not the war!
But of course I know, always the spectator
Prufrock’s one true power,
In a fight featuring lack of confidence
No one else stands on par.

New Poem: “Masquerade”

This is a new poem I’ve been playing around with this weekend–it’ll probably change a bit as I’m not entirely satisfied with some stanza breaks and general organization, but seeing as how today is Memorial Day, I figured the poem was somewhat fitting; granted, I didn’t write this poem for this holiday and it isn’t really about soldiers in that sense. Anyways, you’ll see, and please let me know what you think!


Calling all shapes, all sizes,
Preferably in disguises,
March your mantle in parade,
It’s time for the masquerade.

300 men
Not Spartans
Brand an “S”
On latex chests
So a war
Won’t start again.

300 men risk all
In courageous ignorance.

300 men inspire
The cast out and
Bring them in again.

300 men
With beaten banners
And broken battle standards
Patrol ‘til dawn
With their masks on.

Shall we accept
This invitation
When there’s no time
For contemplation?
When consequences
Of future action hides
In its own guise
With masked “avengeance”
And blackened eyes
Only see the night’s
Evil smile
Streaking crooked
From mile to mile,
When demons
Prey in
Secret sermons
And Hell has cooked
In every soup kitchen,
Who answers
The call?
Who answers
For us all?

300 men may
No longer walk
The streets one day

300 empty dreamers
Sleep in
Crimson streamers.

300 played
With wet
And weary matches.

300 lay
In the corpse
Pumpkin patches.

300 men
No longer walk
The streets today.

And when
300 men died
That day
Who gave us the right
To sit and pray
For the lives lost
In shrouds and tossed
At bay?
Who at last
Will answer
For us all?
But a pathetic poet
Who ignored
The call.


I was upset.
Lots of people in the room.
I left.
That smell in the air.
I’m sure it was on her breath.
Bad memories.
Wrong memories.

I should have been there—
In the passenger seat.
I wasn’t—I’m here.
Someone special
Should be here
But isn’t—she was there.

I was upset.
I left.
I didn’t think.
I punched the wall.
It left a dent.
Dents are left when
You don’t think.
Big dents.
Like the one in her car.

Fall 2009

“Oh Girl” Poem written Fall 2010

Oh girl, I know
You got a craving
For attention
And a lack of courage
Or strength
To seek redemption
In the broken hearts
You break.

And oh girl, I know
You got that power
To fall in love with
The first guy to smile
And say “Hi.”

And oh girl, you know
Not a day goes by
Where I lie in bed
Wishing I wasn’t
That guy
In a chain of lies
The First
In a chain of
First, second,
And third guys
Who fell in love
With the one
The one who lies.