a life of juxtaposition

i have this hanging in the coffeeshop at vintage for the advent conspiracy art show. all i could find was my rough draft so i tried to remember how the finished product went. i think it is close to what i have below.

what new sensation is this? what little can i give that would incur something so great? what tiny thought? what infinitesimal gift? if these hands unclenched their fists and stretched from my body would they reach your lips or would they stretch to your soul? would they belittle your condition or illuminate your sallow cheeks? what is this ocean that rages within me? for too long, i have fought back these waves. i have wrestled posiedon and when weary, my hip out of joint, i have turned to face neptune himself.

how i long to see a different day. a day that holds new burning horizons, a day where fresh blood flows in reconstructed hearts, a day unlike the one that stares at my sallow cheeks. am i the one to give or is it you, after all? i give what pleases my conscience and you give what you are.

but i have come to see that this storm will continue to rage and it is only how i will face it, it is only how i view this cold despondent world that will shape how i respond. this vignette is not a new day but rather the opening of an ancient door to reveal a day that has been here from the start. only these wrinkled eyes have been closed for too long. but with mud and spit they have been opened to see this painting anew.

i will dive deep into the black ink and not surface until this rusted anchor has been firmly planted in a new Foundation. no longer with white knuckles barnacled to the wheel will i battle this storm. i will man the rafts and set out to give what i can: namely myself.

and so, what new sensation is this?

posted by jon havens

the nightmare

after much time, i finally have something new. it is too long to post so i have linked it here. enjoy! the nightmare

happy anniversary

a week and a half ago marked the year anniversary of the birth of this blog. it is our hope that if you look back at the older posts you can see a progression and improvement in our writing. though i may only be talking to myself, drew and dani, we are glad that we can share our stories and poems with you and we look forward to another year of writing. be ready for some halloween posts coming in the next few weeks. thanks for reading.

posted by an unholy collaborative effort

yesteryear

sing that long forgotten rhyme
that warm breeze of breath
trailed by the romance of the yesteryear.
the melody that once came to me on treetops,
on meadows,
on crumbling boulders overlooking distant lands
has melted to a wisp of my own breath
dying fast on the cold winter air.
i smell traces of Your mystery
wrapped in the tenderness of great love
that is drenched in the sweat
of a night of great agony.
my bones ache for Your salt
to alleviate the pressure
of needing to be in unbroken enrapturement.
gather me under Your wings
for mine are weary with flight.

posted by jon havens

a jar of fireflies

to jules, the boy butterfly, cocooned somewhere in a sleepingbag,
drinking starlight and sleeping under god.
with autumn dust on his feeble eyelashes.
who is teaching me to look past the clouds in the morning,
just before i get into my car to rush off somewhere and wait..
wait..
just for a bit, wait...
to see the geese triangle through the sky kissing the ripe lemon moon goodbye.
i'll send them off north with a wave of my tiny hand,
wishing i knew what that felt like.
to the boy cocooned,
whose materialisms are the sounds of crickets and breeze through the jungle grass.
and the atlantic sweet water falling from the pacifics cotton clouds.
who taught me that its ok to open the lid and let the fireflies go.
for this is an act braver than any i know.
they still illuminate the walls of my ribcage quietly leaving behind trails of delicious light around my heart.
to the boy butterfly,
who is unafraid...

posted by drew carlascio

the molten sky

as your spheric surface invades the night sky i wonder if those blotches were borne into you forcefully or if they developed over time, with age and fatigue. tired from beholding a world of malice and ignorance, your perfect surface has corroded and the light that you reflect grows dim. was that the plan? or do you still shine when no one is looking, when busy eyes look inward and outward instead of upward?

hang in your incredulous sky for your journey is long and your toils are endless. you viewed our destruction and lamented your concerns to the foggy night sky which hid your sorrows and caged in your fears. eclipse yourself in shadow and never show your dark side. will no one raise their heads? will the blood not move? will the face remain comatose longing for something to make it plush?

stare hard into my jealous skin and you shall see the inner workings of something not yet breathed upon, not yet fashioned. it is making its slow journey into the depths of my sadness. my shell has cracked, interior exposed, an orphan in your light. as i search the heavens for traces of your journey, i am left with a parade of cauterized emotions, an endless labyrinth of choices. maybe our paths are not so different after all?

oh to see the day you found your resting place and reflected your light in freshness for the first time. if i could, i'd sail a tattered ship on your beams through the clouds and dense atmosphere where together we could view this cold cruel world and hope to God that our dreams haven't been shattered in the fallout.

posted by jon havens

embellishment of a friend

some days iam lucky enough to watch her breathe in life through those mousy lungs. unafraid, or not seeming that way at least, of what goes in. laughter is usually her cup of almond tea in the afternoon. and true there are times when i long to run through cornfields and explore quiet lands, swing out over rivers and hope to god that the rope doesnt break, because i have all my cloths on. but there are also certain times when i would much prefer to watch her quietly drag the cigarette from between those tiny mint lips. seaberry fizz between her blue toes, cold from the ocean. harp string ribs protecting her cotton candy heart. tulip teeth, wonderfully snow caped, cavities and all. music and sugar in her veins. yes i would say that she is intrinsically authentic, thus the drawing in of me to her. shortcake and coffee in the morning, well i cant make shortcake but i'd try. how comically awkward that walk. more like a geriatric shuffle really, you know when you have not one but two cups of coffee, balancing the hot liquid as well as your own thoughts on a tightrope. concentration is key, no matter how funny you look. oh sometimes i would much prefer this over the silly adventures we boys entertain. and perhaps we humans dont say enough courageous things about the courageous people we know.

posted by drew carlascio

the cherry crane

(this is a quick short i wrote today)

they will gather on the frozen precipice,
soft pearl birds, quite and swift.
i will watch only one,
as the orange star dips under the atlantic.
she will always wait for me, vermilion feathers.
the cherry crane...
i will gather courage and run.
i will run across the gelid ground.
i will rise into the blue open oxygen,
small arms around the scarlet crane.
we will leave behind the colours of hell,
and fly without purpose.
we will be nautical, one mile above the sea.
i will be the child of dying stars.
our eyes bright filaments above the beating wings
post meridian will glow to the east,
the worlds complexity now a gossamer thought,
with courage we will aviate,
we will see things,
and
never see them again
and tears will stream from her golden eyes,
because i will trust her.
the cherry crane

posted by drew carlascio

sorry

we haven't posted any new shorts in quite some time (my apologies). we are leaving for seattle and will be back next week, and i promise we'll have tons of stuff.

love
an unholy collaborative effort

peregrination

the wind gathers up the most unfavorable things sometimes. dust blows across my chest covering the white lines, sometimes sporatic allowing vagabonds and troubadours to pass by, other times solid because this, this is my path. that dust, oh you ancient enemy, seeking to cover me in all my imperfections, my weeds, my cracked pavement with fading lines and unseen potholes. how you have proven a worthy opponent. but in your exasperation you have neglected my guardian, slow and steady, ancient and new, soft and proud. i have become saturated in the invisible. and so you are led astray, to my sides you are thrown, you are shaken, you are broken. and though i am not complete and i weave in and out, up and down, i will press on. into distant countries i will stretch like chalk upon my back. through outbacks, under rivers and into broadening sunrises i will unravel to become a better version of my former self. because the shape of my longing stretches on forever.

posted by jon havens

cotton, lollipops and the edge of the world

there stood the earth,
on its edgemost plane.
and i in this old boat.
sailing across san francisco.
and there is candy growing in the yard
next to me.
dandelion lollipops swaying like yellow hope,
in the cold ocean breeze.
and there is cotton above me.
clouds so pure.
and above that, ante meridiem's
lovely colour.
patchy diamonds across my heart.
to the north lies canada and the wild wood
forests dripping with birds
and
cold waterfalls
and
who knows what.
i am almost there.
past the dense green life
and the primary colours,
layed out before me.
and now earth makes its ninety degree
turn.
towards space.
and as i go over the falls and into midnight stars,
you will find this short account of my day,
dedicated
to
you.

posted by drew carlascio

displaced

cold, stilled, expectant
awaiting retribution for pain
when the hammer sounds and the doors are closed

anxious, barren, homesick
awaiting redistribution of necessities
when thousands of voices sound as one and the gates of marble are opened

the chanting rhythm of prophetic music
we sing for the peace and freedom
stars dusted across the patchy sky
fog draping over the hills like a curtain
who knew the earth would shake in twenty-one unfurled minutes?

give me water for my child is going to die
the baneful cry of ghastly horrors
recumbent against my neighbors
yet diffident in my ability to love
is this the cry you long for?

each voice has its own tone and story
and the narrative of tommorrow is freedom

posted by jon havens

twilight hum

it’s poetry,
watching children race after inanimate objects with heavy shoes against a backdrop of blue and gold.
it’s magic,
the way the sun-beams reflect off the water and onto traveling bicycles as their wheels exhaust their strength upon dirt-covered lake paths.
it’s beauty,
hearing the wind whistle from the mouths of singing trees.
it’s laughter,
watching a woman’s legs move and her arms flail to the muted beat perpetuated through the silence. her ears oozed an invisible blood and her bones broke from the pressure.
it’s peace,
lying in knee-high grass as the fireflies cooled the air and drenched the fields in their twilight hum. and as the dying sun sank behind the purple mountains, the wine was finished and the blankets became ruffled.
it’s adventure,
breaking down the walls of burnt houses and then starting on our burnt hearts careful not to bring the whole thing down too quickly.
it’s love,
as our silhouettes swayed back and forth before the headlights of my car and under the protection of the music bouncing off the midnight sky. these are the days memories are made of.
it’s life,
feeling as if it has given us another chance to breathe its air, smell its breath and add our scent to the burning leaves.

but then again, maybe the weather is just changing.

posted by jon havens

pink chalk and eggs

dreams always taste better in the morning.
after the sun has burned its way across your sheets.
and that seaward breeze has swirled into your room.
adventure on the wind.
god bless the blue atlantic breath.
blowing away all of the worlds incredulity.
and our unwillingness to be children.
breakfast always taste better in the evening.
eggs and toast under the orbiting moon.
a quiet summer solstice in my ears.
starlight on my plate, and in the purple sky.
god bless your voice, that soft pink chalk.
drawing on my lungs.
filling me with such a lovely dust.
life always taste better in the afternoon.
those tall grass cricket voices,
green in my mind,
golden on our sphere.
bicycle rides through berry bushes.
trails made by the children of some other time.
here we are now.
the amber burning heavens before us.
the deep dark atmoshpere of space behind.
adventure on the wind.
just the way it should be.

posted by drew carlascio

cart and canes

the cold night lingered down the streets and in between the buildings. the streetlights shed what little light they could to illuminate seven or eight cement squares on the sidewalk. the noise of shouting and laughing and dancing broke out from the venue doors and bounced off of the cars and buses. and all the while the wind blew things across my path: papers, wrappers, torn ticket stubs and eventually you, you walking briskly like some sort of businessman late for an important meeting. but there was no meeting and you must’ve forgotten your briefcase. maybe you left it at home on purpose, left it sitting next to your tv as your children sat wide-eyed and your wife packed your lunch. maybe you left it so you’d have an excuse to go home and see their faces for just a few more minutes in your already cluttered day. or maybe you had no briefcase at all and there were no children and your wife was dreaming about a man who would sweep her off her feet someday. but he never came. he just pushed his shopping cart across my path. and so you continued walking and pushing, pushing forgotten clothes and items you dug out of dumpsters, pushing your hopes and dreams away from you, keeping them separate from your mind. some days you would drag them along refusing to leave them behind, not wanting to stop, always moving, moving away from something you feared, something you’ve become or something someone did to you. and so you continued walking, walking away from it all, hoping to turn a corner one day and find what you were looking for. i watched you shrink in the distance, your long matted hair and torn trench coat fading fast from my mind until you disappeared and i fought with my conscience to remember you. did you find what you were looking for when you turned the corner?

i saw you several months later across thousands of miles of land and water in a city full of romanticists and seekers, full of boats and water-ways. outside the square of the saint you shuffled slowly along as people swept past you like laughing hyena’s sniffing out their prey. i, from high above on my indignant steps, watched you. you had lost your cart and replaced it with a cane. your legs looked weak, too weak to walk upon alone. your feet titled inwards and each step looked as if it took all of your energy and focus. with your one free arm you held out a small tin cup shaking miserably. i watched as a kind man walked by and dropped in several coins. he tried to look at your face but you would not allow it to be seen. i wondered if you went home at nights and felt as if the universe were shouting down senseless profanities at you. i wondered if you ever raised you fists at that universe and shouted back, if you wept and wailed upon your makeshift pillow, or if you blessed god for giving you the ability to walk at all.

i saw you everywhere over the years, sitting on the divider cradling a puppy like it was the only thing that you had and cared about in the entire world, the first present you received in years. you wrapped him in your black jacket and told him you loved him over and over again with the joy of a little boy. checking his teeth and wiping his black spotted eyes you held him under your grey beard and rocked him back and forth. i sat in my car watching you and rolled down my window to allow your sound waves to pierce my ears and then my heart. i almost wept as i saw the love in your eyes and felt the heat against my face pulsating from your chest. you’re a good man dave, better than most realize and only God and your puppy know this to be true.

i passed you at the gas station. i searched for something, anything to help you receive a quick release from the pain. i found a candy bar. i put twenty dollars in my car and gave you a seventy-five cent candy bar. you smiled and flashed your decaying teeth and thanked me. i walked away and you ripped the wrapper open and indulged. was it enough? wouldn’t a meal have been better? after all you’ve been through, pushing carts, grasping canes, cradling puppies, wouldn’t a meal and a conversation have been a better fit?

and what of tomorrow? will you make it? where will your next meal come from? who will you share your makeshift pillow with you? who will clean your cane and replace the wheels on your cart? do you long for death or do you dream of a day when all is set right? when you can sit in a field under a willow tree with your love and reference the sun noting how it chased apollo across the sky. or did those dreams slip through the cracks of the cart? did they begin to fade like the strength from your legs? can you cradle them in your black jacket?

did i know it was You all along?

yes.

but did i treat You like it was You?

no.

and i will carry that with me, cradle it in my arms, carry it in my cart, and lay it next to me on my pillow for the rest of my life.

posted by jon havens

an unknown territory

a few weeks ago, at the poetry/spoken words group for vintage, we all took poems that were written differently than something we would have written ourselves. we attempted to copy their style with our own original piece. mine (exercise) was a poem but i seemed to have forgotten who it was by. anyways, i tried it again, this time on my own. i used edna st. vincent millay's "collected sonnets" as a starting place for this newest piece.

here upon the feet of its vast shore
set on a complexion of green and brown
hiding its dirty skin to be seen no more
its torso wrapped in water yet its head to never drown
stood a man with his head in florescent clouds
his mind engulfed in a sea of mist
waiting to hear the soft sweet sounds
of release while he clenched his fists
the wind blew strong against his back
shaking his knees and cooling his breath
his eyes met the horizon on this culdesac
as the mountain pushed him close to his death
though the earth may shake and poseidons breath blow strong
his release must wait, may it not be too long

posted by jon havens

exercise

the hearts countdown always end when spring arrives in damp soil. if only the sun would allow the water a place to stretch its wings.

the waiting is faltering and dry with fear.
the waiting is confusion hoping for a beat.

posted by jon havens