Update

Unfortunately or fortunately, I have not been able to write or post recently due to a new creative project that I am currently working on. I cannot say much about it, however, it will be in the form of a documentary film that I am writing/directing based in my lovely city of San Francisco. I will share more details in the months to come so please check back once in awhile for links and to see updated information.

I still hope to write poetry and post on all of my favorite poetry blogs but it won't be as frequent as I would like. Thanks to all who do check in and read from time to time.

Cheers,

Nathan.

Veil

Photo by Michael Johnson






I now understand the veil,
The one that covers our faces and our bodies
And the religiosity of rehearsed obedience.

I now understand the veil,
Mere fibers that transform the mundane
Into epic episodes of false grandeur.

I now understand the veil,
The failed American Dream and
A romance novel set in an indigo sky.

I now understand the veil,
A shell used to combat shame
To fool the foolish.

I now understand the veil,
Hidden turbulence
With a platinum credit card.

I now understand the veil,
Distant relatives' likeness in which
We have reluctantly become.

I now understand the veil,
We threw rocks at each other
Because feelings were too difficult to articulate.

I now understand the veil,
Blueprint successes marked with
Status measurable only to a corporate sponsor.

I now understand the veil,
Longing to be free but
Hiding just like me.

Moment

In desolation, he appears under my wood sash and screams incomprehensibly to my no-soul. I'm startled by it so I leave home for one of the last times even though I'm clinging, to go meet up with Rita the rational one. She always has something comforting to say about the comings and goings of things, and usually adds in a tidbit about why Bodhidharma decided to make it out East to round things out. I'm shaking says me, shaking all the damn time and while this makes me feel discomposed, she assures me that it is only natural. Rita is swirling her iced tea with her pinkie finger, a look of contemplation in her eyes, focused on a point unknown or unimportant and I am anxious. You know, she says, after some time, returning her pensive gaze towards I, you are clearly being watched. Her sentiment only increases my uneasiness and in respectful turn, my stare becomes glossy in thought. I don't like the idea of being exposed, I don't want to tell a story, I don't want to be the reality of reality, and I sure as hell don't want to be watched. In instantaneous, educated conclusion of my own understanding, he reveals himself again. He musta followed me that rat. Clearly cloaking my existence was not on the crow's agenda and I would soon be forced to find complacency. Rita's pursed lips attached to a cigarette like an extremity glowed as she spoke. It cant be that bad, can it? She said. I concurred and thanked her for the company of another human being and excused myself. Alone, I hiked up Post and fumbled for my keys before they would become useless, sat on the floor of my soon to be empty home, and waited for him to present himself under sash once more.

For One Stop Poetry

Curiousity

Rough Draft for One Shot Wednesday @One Stop Poetry


What is it like to be a slave to your NASDAQ?
To have, have and have nothing of value,
Miserable at the core but 'cha got stuff and on the
Outside and to me, you have everything.

'Cept the buggaboos
Pesky splinters under fingernails,
Undercover agents who seemingly
Infiltrate personal security, sole purpose to obliterate.

What is it like to be so scared all of the time?
I myself, am afraid of the postman,
Do you lose sleep?
Do you forget to notice your breath upon awakening?

Is life meant to be viewed in 18 millimeter,
Black and white with dust embedded
In the film introducing a faint, filmy, fog,
Masking tangibility.

What is it like to create unwanted stories that eventually become truth?
Do children learn from television by osmosis?
She is such a bad person, so needy with no needs at all.
No, it was his upbringing, he said...that's why- coddled too much.

She had a bad mother, sister, father-
That's why there is war and he didn't pray enough
He didn't pray, he didn't pray enough
And here she is, story already told with irreparable branches.

What is it like to have a voice but use it only for self interest?
What is is like to have a voice and use it for hate?
What is it like to have a voice and do nothing?
What is it like to have a voice?

Chimera

The present has become the past,
The future has become the present
And the wheel continues to turn
The pigeon on my stoop is a voyeur.

The pictures on my wall and
The chimera cigarette burns on the floor,
With the leftovers of you and your scent
Memories of my conformity.

Fear has become biblical and my home consequential
So I burn sage
Without reasoning but I was told to do such
Just in case.

Just in case the supernatural might smell
The incense of my sincerity
And of the ritual cleansing of my failure
Thusly expelling desire.

Born on the morn of a day
Only historical to me, taught me,
That my suffering can only be derived
From carnal desire to be free

Of suffering and of the strings
That attach me to shit that harms and is irrelevant,
To the community at large
Forging distraction and destruction.

I'm as pure as a misguided bhikku could be
Asking for nothing unless offered
Willfully accepting when given
And praying for contentment and rebirth.

Heaven

With prehensile cognizance
I read the obituaries
And I saw my picture but
Didn't like the look on my face.

I didn't like the way that my eyes
Were squinting in the light,
Or the shirt that I was wearing,
The fact that I had conformed to a complicated life.

I was taught to be sensible
And nothing that I ever did would
Be considered sensible,
I was a rolling stone.

I didn't believe in god,
Slept in all day
Found beauty in the cracks
Laughed at silly liturgy.

I was on everyone's prayer list
I hated the smell of success
Voted for the rights of my brothers
A social outcast.

There was a crowd outside Green Street
At the mortuary and another across the way
With Guinness and bangers and mash and smiles
And I hoped to be there instead.

This must be heaven.

Youth

Sometimes I wish that I still felt as I did in my youth, struggling for identity and acceptance but sill innocent nonetheless. This one is just for fun...

Youth

I was a punk
And now I am just a hipster, semi-wanderer
Who sometimes forgets youth
Those guys, I'm flashing back in time to, running around in circles
On dirt floors of the Seaman's Lodge in the hills
With trench coats harming no one but punching each other nonetheless

It was mad, innocent fun and the energy
Was something out of an indie film that my parents wouldn't let me see,
And that's why I liked it so much.
Anarchist sheaths who sat on the grass
Waiting for mediocrity and brilliance
A beat up bass amp used for a regular guitar instead.

Freedom and rolling and rolling down the slope
Like it would never end and there was no end.
I wished that I had a Mohawk
Or that I did drugs.
I wanted a nickname.

You can call me Smalls
Killer
Duct tape
Falz
Money
Stitch
Snake
Brawls

I wanted a cigarette but I was scared.
The other 16 year old kids were doing it
But what would it mean for my soul?
I wanted to be remembered
But I was a good kid and rarely did anything wrong.

This was so un-punk.
The music squelched to deafening levels
And the circle of pseudo violence commenced again.
Yelling at my comrade for the night over the sweet noise
I said, “Punch me!”

Without hesitation, I flexed my stomach muscles
And with even less hesitation, he hit me in the gut.
I wheezed and he marched with a crooked smirk.
“Oh!” He yelled at my neck, “What was that for?”
“Punk rock, baby, punk rock,” I screamed back.

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