thepianofarm:

on some days. just not today.

by Paul Octavius via thiscitycalledearth

  *The life Beta Test is over! I mean, you didn’t think this was as good as it would get, right? With the crusades, slavery, the trail of tears, world war I, world war II, the holocaust, the other holocaust, the nuclear bomb, 9-11, the Bush administration, and the global economic crisis  - it’s been decided maybe we need a few tune ups. So after some deliberating with the dead and reviewing countless generations of hopes and prayers, I glad to be here announcing some of the things you can expect in Life 2.0.*

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In life 2.0, there will be a background soundtrack.

Long walks alone or locked-down noons will flash-frame

away in introspective montage. Shared seductive glances

will stretch an extra fifteen seconds for the chorus to drop.

We’ll all get an epic theme-song for moments we notice

our purpose. point is, you won’t worry how to feel anymore.

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In life 2.0, skin colors will change shades every two weeks.

Go to sleep Irish and wake up Hispanic, or African, or  even

neon green. We’ll all feel what it feels to be treated by tint.

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Dancing and Prayer will be regarded as the same thing.

Sessions of worship will breakout in the streets. Flash Mobs

will be Holy. There will be no bad blood brewed for sleeping 

in  on Sunday mourning for a long night of good ol’ praising.

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Anything you order in life on a menu in life 2.0 can be ordered 

over-easy. Except for eggs. Things will be simple and Ironic like that.

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Art & Music are the last class to be cut from the coriculum. 

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In life 2.0, Electricity will run on poetry. People will bark haiku

to charge phones. Large union plants will be filled with the echo 

of Ginsberg’s Dynamos and Keats’ bright star. In winter, we’ll

huddle around Neruda for warmth, cups of over-easy hot chocolate.

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In this life, we love to wish on things that are broken. Falling stars,

dandelions, wishbones. In this life, we’re looking for new things to break.

In life 2.0, hearts will be one of these things. But this time, break them

and they’ll rebloom. This time, at least we’ll get a good clean wish out of it.

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In life 2.0, wages are directly connected to a persons character. 

One who is honest and charitable will have more then enough to give.

Nice guy’s will finish early, just to go back and give others a hand.

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It will be common knowledge that the ones we love who’ve taken

their own life are in a better place. Some will say, they’ll come back

to us as  fresh picked flowers, this has yet to be confirmed or denied.

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In life 2.0, children will only be born to parents who will love them.

A man or woman will prepare a potion of honey and rosewater, 

make love to the one who holds their heart, and bare a child.

No more abortion. No more orphanages or gay rights issues.

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Just love. Just love.

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Goosebumps will be written in braille. In awe, our bodies tell stories.

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In life 2.0, the Torah, the Bible, the Quran, the Bayan, and the Kitab- Aqdas

are all chapters of the same book. Just like they are in this life. But In life 2.0, they’ll

all come in one convenient package. And in life 2.0, they’re a coloring book. We’ll choose

what color the word of God reads, and this time, it might not be the color we bleed

but, their be no problem staying inside the lines when it’s all just a matter of taste.

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These are just a few things to look forward to. Expect more information

soon. Till then, we ask you all help to make the transition a little more smooth,

and till then, we are all open to suggestions.

As I sit at my kitchen table,

the first place i have been able

to write this whole month long

and start to read John Ashbery

for the first time, I repeatedly

find myself distracted by a clicking

in blizzard staccato. Above, a

flying bug of the blurry nature

continuously strikes the blades

of a fan. He’s not going to die,

I think to myself as my eyes

trail words in the hallow mock

of reading we so often do.

There’s no trap, no sticking

or shock, just the constant

slow bat-away as it intends

to reach the light, flooding

my ears with a river of wings.

There’s much more poetry here

then you’d think, I think, turning

another page without reading it.

We are nearly 500 miles apart, and still, I wonder

if you are often lost in thought like I use to. Some-days,

I forget you’re not still stitched in our group; still bookshelf

crammed in cars where I’d often sit saying nothing the whole

way to wherever we weren’t right then. No, it wasn’t ‘cause I

couldn’t come up with something to say. No, I wasn’t afraid I’d

say the wrong thing. You know, it wasn’t ‘cause you blew away my

breathing. Curtains of conversation and mainstream music made me

quite, but you always got that line about people enjoying each-others silence.

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Some-days I think of calling long distance to say nothing. But I’m tired of

weather, gossip, and summing up life in a few words. I miss conversations

I could write my poems about. I don’t really get those much anymore.

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I miss pitching my mind traffic to you. Like my notion that emotions leave

impressions in locations that transcend space and time. Mostly to ruin dates

and knock over kids ice cream cones. Or how glitter was made by artist to 

blind future competition while it’s young. You got my views on things like

time, ghost, and God. And right not, I’m looking at my coffee pot contemplating

hot orange kool-aid. Or perhaps, orange hott-aid; with two T’s because it’s trendy.

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You kept me thinking I was sane. Which is why I could pitch my real

problems to you. I don’t care what people say about me. I don’t

worry where I’m sleeping  at night. And when my last girlfriend left,

honestly, it didn’t bother me that much. I don’t have days to waste

on weightless things when I’m shifting like the air we step through.

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You were beautiful because you knew you were shifting too. That’s why for

three years I couldn’t drink coffee that didn’t echo the color of your eyes.

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As I write this, I’d like to think the days I couldn’t speak to you were tied

to balloons, so even if I threw them away maybe you’d still see them. 

I don’t always know what to say, but even with distance, I hope we can

enjoy each-others silence. Still, there are a few noises in me I need to let out.

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J,

I don’t know if I am, still in love with you. but I know

now I can love other people, and right now, that’s enough.

Sorry I always say these things in poems, but it’s easier this way,

and it’s easy to poem when I say things to you. Right now, I’m turning

on sounds to calm me down; a song called “Don’t be Mad” by Gina Cimmilli

is playing and I kind of think it might be a sign. I’ve done most of the things

I told you not to; holding my soul like an orange peel while it vibratos,

some nights, all my body does is tremble. But these days, I smile a lot,

so trust me when I tell you, I’m doing more than alright. I’m writting

this without veiled agenda, honestly, that is as poetic as I can be.

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I miss your taste in things. I miss trading poems, tea, and art. I miss you

making random appearances in my life. I hope you know some of my silence

is for you. Sometimes, keeping my lips sealed is the wisest thing a fool can do.

Alert 

My heart strings are stretched
and taunt, thick elastic vines
sprouting from my chest,
crimson radio-waves
pathing back to home, 
where my heart is, with you.

Sometimes they get in the way,
my friends pushing them to look out the windows, as if our car wasn’t cramped enough. 
Maybe it’s adhesion plays
 part in our pour gas milage.

I don’t mind much. I’m just patient, sharp, broadcasting.  
Even now, my heartbeat
screeches an interrupting tone.
 
Maybe you’re at your house, reading some heavy book. 
Maybe, you’re washing dishes, 
or on the phone, or in deep sleep.

It doesn’t matter.
Drop everything,
turn it up, listen.

This is an alert, love, an urgency. 
These chambers and speakers are telling you of the one it’s other end it is searching for. The one
it has that it is missing.