I have decided that I may start writing things that aren't written things. That is, things written on the blog. Blog things. So - consider this the first official non-poetry post:
thanks,
julio may
[julio f may]
[jf may]
[even though I am probably the only one that will read this]
[ever]
12.12.2006
spending recess by myself
After we had eaten our apples
(because doctors are scary)
we used to swallow the seeds.
We took a handful of dirt (a small one)
swallowed it and made it go down our throats
with lots of water (lots of it).
We would face the sun, close our eyes
(so they wouldn't burn)
and open our mouths
so that the sun could chase the water down our throats
to our stomachs.
We knew if we stayed there long enough,
we could grow apples in our bellies.
(because doctors are scary)
we used to swallow the seeds.
We took a handful of dirt (a small one)
swallowed it and made it go down our throats
with lots of water (lots of it).
We would face the sun, close our eyes
(so they wouldn't burn)
and open our mouths
so that the sun could chase the water down our throats
to our stomachs.
We knew if we stayed there long enough,
we could grow apples in our bellies.
10.10.2006
anything of value to say
You've only started chapter two
And your villain is already dead.
Where do you go from here?
You've failed to foreground conflict,
the arguments, temptations, angst-full youths
and now people hardly care
About what you've spilled through gentle strokes,
Carefully grafted sketches of laughing days,
And wooly dreams fulfilled.
No one is friendly to your fair weather tale:
Over and again they ask:
"Has it anything of value to say?"
Have they?
Maybe they're right though,
After all, people say that people say that
These are the people that know.
Besides,
Who would want to read a story
Where the "happily ever" starts on page one?
And your villain is already dead.
Where do you go from here?
You've failed to foreground conflict,
the arguments, temptations, angst-full youths
and now people hardly care
About what you've spilled through gentle strokes,
Carefully grafted sketches of laughing days,
And wooly dreams fulfilled.
No one is friendly to your fair weather tale:
Over and again they ask:
"Has it anything of value to say?"
Have they?
Maybe they're right though,
After all, people say that people say that
These are the people that know.
Besides,
Who would want to read a story
Where the "happily ever" starts on page one?
10.04.2006
october
You run:
I'm a runner too.
Let's run in the rain
with other stray rabbits
stuck in the middle
of here.
Follow the rabbit that
follows the water,
falls down the drain,
and disappears.
I'm a runner too.
Let's run in the rain
with other stray rabbits
stuck in the middle
of here.
Follow the rabbit that
follows the water,
falls down the drain,
and disappears.
9.27.2006
9.22.2006
times square
Sitting
Overlooking all the people down below.
Overlooking that he died
yesterday.
Over looking for now
because we can.
Green, yellow, red
green yellow red:
city metronomes;
while other lights
trickle
down,
cross buildings:
tell us what we want
what we need -
I think I need pizza.
We turn a corner: more lights.
I think I need lobster.
I ____ I need cologne -
a lot of cologne.
Footsteps are heard as one,
together with the lives of
legs to which they belong.
Faces swirl, multiplied,
doubled by store windows
smeared together:
One after another one after another one after one after another.
I want to sit down.
I want us to sit down.
You, and me, and him
and them and her and he
and she and
all of us together,
So that all of it will
Stop swirling, smearing, dripping,
green, yellow, red
red, yellow, green
walk, yield,
yell (cry) honk
No one hears (the sound) as it
trickles
down
amidst swirling, swearing, smearing
spinning, spinning, swirling, smearing
until it makes you sick
makes you want to sit down
catch your breath
close your eyes
(cry).
It doesn't stop.
So you yell,
and I spin.
Yell and spin and swirl and cry and swear and smear and honk and
Yell spin swirl cry swear smear honk
Yellspinswirlcryswearsmearhonk
Yellspinswirlswearsmearhonk
Until it doesn’t matter what gets lost
between yelling and honking
and you aren't sick anymore
and you never sit down
and you're looking around,
looking over the people on the ground
looking over that he died
just yesterday.
Overlooking all the people down below.
Overlooking that he died
yesterday.
Over looking for now
because we can.
Green, yellow, red
green yellow red:
city metronomes;
while other lights
trickle
down,
cross buildings:
tell us what we want
what we need -
I think I need pizza.
We turn a corner: more lights.
I think I need lobster.
I ____ I need cologne -
a lot of cologne.
Footsteps are heard as one,
together with the lives of
legs to which they belong.
Faces swirl, multiplied,
doubled by store windows
smeared together:
One after another one after another one after one after another.
I want to sit down.
I want us to sit down.
You, and me, and him
and them and her and he
and she and
all of us together,
So that all of it will
Stop swirling, smearing, dripping,
green, yellow, red
red, yellow, green
walk, yield,
yell (cry) honk
No one hears (the sound) as it
trickles
down
amidst swirling, swearing, smearing
spinning, spinning, swirling, smearing
until it makes you sick
makes you want to sit down
catch your breath
close your eyes
(cry).
It doesn't stop.
So you yell,
and I spin.
Yell and spin and swirl and cry and swear and smear and honk and
Yell spin swirl cry swear smear honk
Yellspinswirlcryswearsmearhonk
Yellspinswirlswearsmearhonk
Until it doesn’t matter what gets lost
between yelling and honking
and you aren't sick anymore
and you never sit down
and you're looking around,
looking over the people on the ground
looking over that he died
just yesterday.
9.13.2006
director's cut
Fade from black to 5:45 a.m.
Camera and action before the lights.
Caught in the frame a hand moves to
Snooze. Cut to 7:00 a.m.
Reflection caught in a bathroom mirror
And images of brushing teeth and bed head hair
And all that stuff that happens in Scene 1.
Then comes walking into the shot that waits
As he goes to class. Play something happy here.
Studiously taking notes in class
Of the girl across the room of course.
What else would this be about?
Make her beautiful. Aren’t they all?
He singles this one out.
We see her through his eyes
Or over his shoulder so we know he watches too.
She catches his gaze. Love at first sight.
How extraordinary, like the professor’s
Interruption of his dancing daylight dream.
Dancing daylight dreams and love at first sight:
How poetic.
Isn’t it all?
It’s supposed to be, remember.
Cut to afternoon.
Lots of action in the background now.
Frisbees and studying underneath springtime leaves
and diegetic sound from someone’s own CD.
He walks down a path. Alone.
We want empathy… and hope.
That’s good for today.
Camera and action before the lights.
Caught in the frame a hand moves to
Snooze. Cut to 7:00 a.m.
Reflection caught in a bathroom mirror
And images of brushing teeth and bed head hair
And all that stuff that happens in Scene 1.
Then comes walking into the shot that waits
As he goes to class. Play something happy here.
Studiously taking notes in class
Of the girl across the room of course.
What else would this be about?
Make her beautiful. Aren’t they all?
He singles this one out.
We see her through his eyes
Or over his shoulder so we know he watches too.
She catches his gaze. Love at first sight.
How extraordinary, like the professor’s
Interruption of his dancing daylight dream.
Dancing daylight dreams and love at first sight:
How poetic.
Isn’t it all?
It’s supposed to be, remember.
Cut to afternoon.
Lots of action in the background now.
Frisbees and studying underneath springtime leaves
and diegetic sound from someone’s own CD.
He walks down a path. Alone.
We want empathy… and hope.
That’s good for today.
the songs that lead to nowhere
I stand somewhere so familiar,
But my only desire is to drift,
Is to drift to the unknown.
I play something so familiar
Hoping, wishing to escape this all…
Now organic tones emerge
From things synthetic born,
But gracefully transformed
Into something mystifying
And only comprehensible
When thoughts are left alone.
Tones like shooting stars appear
And fade as quickly as they came,
But leave memories as strong.
I used to be somewhere I knew…
Rhythmic beats forge patterns
Somewhere deep within my mind:
Take me somewhere new.
Rhythms break away to frantic splendor
Of more strings – dark and bright.
I lose _______ in this.
Immersed in soft cascading lines:
Like waterfalls descending,
Created by steel strings;
And tickled keys lead verses
Trickling somewhere new.
Far away from there…
To a place where here is nowhere to be found…
But my only desire is to drift,
Is to drift to the unknown.
I play something so familiar
Hoping, wishing to escape this all…
Now organic tones emerge
From things synthetic born,
But gracefully transformed
Into something mystifying
And only comprehensible
When thoughts are left alone.
Tones like shooting stars appear
And fade as quickly as they came,
But leave memories as strong.
I used to be somewhere I knew…
Rhythmic beats forge patterns
Somewhere deep within my mind:
Take me somewhere new.
Rhythms break away to frantic splendor
Of more strings – dark and bright.
I lose _______ in this.
Immersed in soft cascading lines:
Like waterfalls descending,
Created by steel strings;
And tickled keys lead verses
Trickling somewhere new.
Far away from there…
To a place where here is nowhere to be found…
8.06.2006
the corridor
Naked branches passing by,
Dark trunks shivering from still night air
And against a pale sky made darker still.
A horde of stiff straight trees
Covering white houses
All in a row – like eggs in a carton
Or milk in a store surrounded by ads
For better this or that.
Passing under bridges
As the sky grows bluer still.
People all in rows in train cars like
Cattle to who knows where.
Burberry next to Prada next to some generic
Brand – of jeans, and shaved heads with piercings
Next to three piece suits,
And one fashion debonair.
Traveling through parks of trailers
Next to heaps
Of scraps.
Traveling to work.
Everyone is off to work
At Wall Street or Wal-Mart
Or a street mart or maybe
Not to work at all –
But all at 6 a.m.
Passing under bridges
As the sky grows bluer still.
Red, yellow, blue graffiti
Art. Names immortalized in aerosol:
“Pacer,” “Moose,” and
“Jesus Christ” – to name a few
Names or brands or gangs
That no one ever washes off
The bridges and backsides of buildings
That nobody sees from the road.
No one owns this rail or this Corridor
So does everyone – and so does NJT.
On the inside people read the Times
Or people or even the Economist,
All motionless reflections in my window
As we pass New Brunswick
Train speeds up again –
This is the express.
More cartons aligned through barren trees,
Crooked trees in Edison – and parking lots
Barren, barely sunlit lots.
No first class seating on the line,
No business class. No coach.
Only businessmen or women.
No smoking.
Keep feet off the seats.
Orange globe poking through
Our crooked trees.
Sunlight wraps around their branches
Everyone is off to work
Or somewhere else.
Passing under bridges
A billboard tells us:
“Something New”
A cemetery on the right
before Metuchen’s stop.
More empty lots and roadways
But now the car is full
Of cologned men and perfumed women
Between other aromas most wish to ignore.
The man to the right moves his paper up,
Stock reports protect him from the sun
Now poking through the window
No longer hidden behind trees.
Warehouse backsides and clouds in the sky:
Exhaust from NJ industry that lines
The line that (all these people) take to work
Or home, or both at once.
Now our line cuts next to parks and
Baseball diamonds and fronts of houses
Still in rows.
In an instant no more houses;
Only fields of spires of smog
And bridges – one atop another.
The City’s skyline in the distance now;
Underneath a rising sun.
Next stop Newark Penn.
More backsides of warehouses
But slowing down to watch us pass.
Or we are slowing down –
Traffic jam at 6:24
While the roads are still asleep.
Sitting in silence in the Corridor
Not caring to converse to those
In that seat next to us.
Next stop New York Penn
Dark trunks shivering from still night air
And against a pale sky made darker still.
A horde of stiff straight trees
Covering white houses
All in a row – like eggs in a carton
Or milk in a store surrounded by ads
For better this or that.
Passing under bridges
As the sky grows bluer still.
People all in rows in train cars like
Cattle to who knows where.
Burberry next to Prada next to some generic
Brand – of jeans, and shaved heads with piercings
Next to three piece suits,
And one fashion debonair.
Traveling through parks of trailers
Next to heaps
Of scraps.
Traveling to work.
Everyone is off to work
At Wall Street or Wal-Mart
Or a street mart or maybe
Not to work at all –
But all at 6 a.m.
Passing under bridges
As the sky grows bluer still.
Red, yellow, blue graffiti
Art. Names immortalized in aerosol:
“Pacer,” “Moose,” and
“Jesus Christ” – to name a few
Names or brands or gangs
That no one ever washes off
The bridges and backsides of buildings
That nobody sees from the road.
No one owns this rail or this Corridor
So does everyone – and so does NJT.
On the inside people read the Times
Or people or even the Economist,
All motionless reflections in my window
As we pass New Brunswick
Train speeds up again –
This is the express.
More cartons aligned through barren trees,
Crooked trees in Edison – and parking lots
Barren, barely sunlit lots.
No first class seating on the line,
No business class. No coach.
Only businessmen or women.
No smoking.
Keep feet off the seats.
Orange globe poking through
Our crooked trees.
Sunlight wraps around their branches
Everyone is off to work
Or somewhere else.
Passing under bridges
A billboard tells us:
“Something New”
A cemetery on the right
before Metuchen’s stop.
More empty lots and roadways
But now the car is full
Of cologned men and perfumed women
Between other aromas most wish to ignore.
The man to the right moves his paper up,
Stock reports protect him from the sun
Now poking through the window
No longer hidden behind trees.
Warehouse backsides and clouds in the sky:
Exhaust from NJ industry that lines
The line that (all these people) take to work
Or home, or both at once.
Now our line cuts next to parks and
Baseball diamonds and fronts of houses
Still in rows.
In an instant no more houses;
Only fields of spires of smog
And bridges – one atop another.
The City’s skyline in the distance now;
Underneath a rising sun.
Next stop Newark Penn.
More backsides of warehouses
But slowing down to watch us pass.
Or we are slowing down –
Traffic jam at 6:24
While the roads are still asleep.
Sitting in silence in the Corridor
Not caring to converse to those
In that seat next to us.
Next stop New York Penn
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