I Stand By Her, I Believe Her

In the same week Bill Cosby faces sentencing, Brett Kavenaugh is facing strikingly similar accusations. But, it’s not about them. It’s about the women coming forward. It’s about all women. I wish there was something I could say to make this reality different. But, it’s also not about me. I know when the women in my life are very visibly, and justifiably, upset by this topic that it’s “not all men.” I know they know that too. Therefore, that’s not something I’ll ever say without quotations. Ever. I don’t take the frustrations, upsets, and pain women are feeling personally. Other than I know women I care about are strongly feeling those emotions. What I do take personally is other men, as good intentioned as they may be, saying “not all men.” No shit. Another thing I take personally is the fight to demand better from ALL men regarding the issues of sexual assault and rape. Because, even though it’s “not all”, so many men are showing us exactly why so many women don’t report incidents of assault, harassment, and rape. Talks and posts about men needing to be careful to even talk to women for fear their lives will be ruined... stop. We, ALL men, need to stop posting shit like that. We, ALL men need to be better. Act better. And call out those men that don’t. But, again, this isn’t about us. Or me. 

I mean, I can only truly imagine what it’s like to walk in a woman’s shoes. To live a woman’s life. I’ll never truly understand what it’s like. That’s why I know the best I’ve got is this, and this is solidarity.   

Talking Points

Talking Points

- “What about Chicago?” What about Chicago? Do you actually care about the crime and violence rates in Chicago? Or is it just a way to distract from the issue of racially motivated police brutality issues we’re talking about right now? (Or many other issues including, but not limited to, gun laws?)

- Speaking police brutality...

Black Lives Matter is not the same as the KKK. BLM was started as a declaration of self worth and preservation. As a stand against racial injustice facing black people. The KKK are a racist/xenophobic/bigoted  fascist organization that stands for the destruction of anyone that isn’t white or who doesn’t see things how they do. In other words, the KKK supports the racially motivated brutality BLM is against. 

- On fascism...

ANTIFA isn’t a group. It’s a philosophy that literally means anti-fascism. If someone is anti-anti-fascism that person is literally pro-fascism. 

- On Trump...

Trump is not being “misquoted” or “misrepresented” by the “fake news” out there. That’s not saying there isn’t fake news out there, there is. What it’s saying is that the media hits record, then playback. We are seeing and hearing exactly what he does and says. But, if the “he says it how it is” argument only works when he says something that doesn’t get him in trouble, it really doesn’t work at all. That’s an all or nothing approach. 

- Climate change...

Yes, there are factors of climate change that occur naturally without the influence of humans. However, many of those factors are extremely impacted and influenced by human activity. Activities like pollution of all sorts for one. This isn’t a debatable subject. Clean air, clean water, and healthy eco-systems are not parts of this world that can really be compromised. Period. 

- The “not all” argument... 

The “not all” argument is a very often used argument. Meaning, not all gun owners are mass murders. Or not all Muslims are terrorists. If we’re to get that “not all” of a particular group is responsible for one thing, that logic should carry over across issues. Exceptionalism really shouldn’t be a thing. But, annoyingly, it is. 

- Finally, “emotional” responses...

When one person tells another person that he/she is working off of emotion over logic it’s, more often than not, a way to dismiss and diminish they other person’s point of view. And often the other person’s relevance as a person altogether. A person, any person, really should be expected to care about an issue that he or she is talking about. Otherwise, why even say anything at all? 

 

Bill: The Death of My Biological Father

I really still don’t know what to do with this. These thoughts and feelings of, and around, the death of my biological father. I wrote this poem as a way to process it all. It’s safe to say I’m still processing. So, perhaps, the poem is just the start. I went back and forth with wanting and not wanting to share this for many reasons. Some of which is that ongoing process of letting go, or learning, or moving forward, or whatever it is that I’m doing with this. In any case, if you’re reading this, thank you. If you know what this all means, know that you’re not alone.

Bill: The Death of My Biological Father

My father just died.

I’m not even sure what to do with that.

How do I mourn the loss of someone who’s been gone for over half of my life? 

That’s just one of many questions he left me with.

That he left my brother with too.

Like a will written in riddles. 

He made many choices over many years.

The ones that had everything to do with my brother and me will never make sense now.

Would they ever?

Any and all answers died with him. 

His choices couldn’t have been clearer though.

He made so many choices.

“I won’t be a part time father.” 

He opted for being no father at all. 

I think at some point people started to see that saying I have my father’s eyes wasn’t the compliment they meant it as.

I didn’t know what that meant when I was younger

I didn’t know what I meant when I was younger

I just knew there wasn’t an immediate model to learn how to be a man by

(But I lost that long before he died)

I made my peace with the idea that the man I got my middle, and then last, name from had voluntarily left my life.

And that all of that defined me in more ways than I could, or ever will, possibly understand.

I was never at peace with that though

I’m still not

I don’t know how he did it

How he turned his back on two boys with such purpose and drive.

A model of being a man showing us that his only desire was to put himself as far away from my brother and me as he could.

That the hardest I can remember him working was for digging the largest gap he could between him and his sons.

So now I write this

Because he’s passed away

Because I really don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that

Am I sad for lost time?

Am I sad for a life lost?

I don’t know if it was wasted.

I don’t know if the energy and time I’m spending on every thought I’ve ever had for the man was, and is, a waste.

That at 3:something AM all I can do is think and write about a man that never showed he, at some point, ever thought about me,

Or my brother,

Is a waste.

This sure as hell isn’t a tribute to some great man.

There won’t ever be a tribute.

Not from me anyway.

I’m betting it won’t ever come from my brother either.

How do sons honor a man that acted without honorable mention? 

So I write. 

With all the thoughts and feelings that circle back to something simple.

But massive.

In showing me all the ways he did things, made choices,

Moved through his life,

Lived, then died, 

I know, concretely, fiercely, angrily, emotionally, and yes, even proudly,

The man I never want to be.  

The man I never want to be for _____.

The man I never want to be for anyone I love. 

The man I never want to be for anyone who loves me. 

Through choosing nothing, you gave me everything Bill. 

So, thank you for that. 

In showing me what not to do, I learned what to do.

It was a formidable and hard school to graduate from.

But, believe me,

This isn’t a backhanded thank you at all. 

In fact, it’s the only thanks you’ll ever get from me. 

Learning From History?

I Know Very Well What I'm Doing, But I Bet It's Not What You Think It Is

"Those that don't learn history are doomed to repeat it." 

It's a pretty solid quote right? Infallible in fact. Right? If we see the mistakes of the past, we can prevent the same mistakes now. Right?  If we all look at history as a chance to learn, it's so. Or is it? But what if we don't see the mistakes the same way? What if a mistake to me is a success to someone else? What if the past is a chance to learn to perfect previous practices? Still, not a "bad" thing. Right? 

In the middle of all of this questioning the past is a very present thought though. The talks of taking down Confederate statues, monuments, and symbols are as alive as ever. They've been there all my life. I know that. I overheard someone saying, "go to places that do that, and they have no history. They've erased it all." I then found myself saying, louder than I thought I said it, "there are no statues or monuments of Hitler anywhere, but we still know who he was." The look on the face of the guy I responded to was priceless. As I'm sure the look on mine was too due to my (un)intended volume. 

Still, I see the quote "heritage not hate" pasted on the images of the Confederate flag these days and I wonder, "what is that 'heritage' you refer to dear social media poster?" A quick read of the Cornerstone Speech (the Confederate Constitution) and the remarks of the man that designed the various Confederate flags will show anyone exactly what that specific heritage is. If that's what we're referring to, and with the quote and image linked as such, there's no mistaking what that is. None. 

The statues, monuments, and symbols though... There so we can learn the mistakes of the past. (Look into when a great number of them went up and why.) Many people are putting "mistakes" in quotes. Because, to them, slavery and racism aren't mistakes. The rest of us however say it's to protect history. However, it's really not that. We're protecting comfort. We're protecting a very real and present danger to many, many people in this country in the name of "preserving history." We're, in fact, celebrating it. Why? That's not just my question to answer. 

Though, I do know this... we haven't learned or moved on. And the "history" and "heritage" is there to make sure we don't. 

Do You Like Love Songs Too?

It can easily be said that I'm a sucker for love songs. Because it's true, I do really dig a well crafted love song. There's no use trying to deny that. So, here's my take on those songs of when a boy meets a girl. 

I Want To Know

I want to know so many things
I want to know why the universe exploded
And why the stars continue to shine
I want to know why Jay walking is a crime
I want to know
I want to know how to calculate complex mathematical problems
I want to know why algebra really does matter
But do you want me to tell you what I really want to know?
I want to know your voice
And all of your different tones that come with all of your different emotions
I want to know your eyes and all of the ways they see those same emotions
I want to know how it feels to have your head on my shoulder
And how your hair smells when you do
I want to know what it feels like to have your fingers locked in between mine
Mine locked in yours
I want to know what you worry about
So I can be behind you through it all
I want to know what your hopes and dreams are
So I can cheer you on as you reach for them and grab them
I even want to know what your face looks like when I make you mad
So I can know how good it feels to see your face when I make it up to you and you forgive me
Do you want to know what I want to know?
It's you
I want to know you

Imbalance and Inequality or What Happens When You Tell a Poet to "Go Write a Poem"

The only way to find out what that title means is to read the poem. Go on now, read it.

Imbalance and Inequality or What Happens When You Tell a Poet to "Go Write a Poem"

"Go write a poem" they tell me.

As if this is some great insult.

As if poets are some sort of second class,

Only here to write about or speak on pretty, delicate things.

But shit,

Life isn't always pretty.

Though it is always delicate.

So, if we're to take Thoreau's advice to "live deep and suck out all the marrow of life," 

We're going to find that life isn't always easy.

That wine can sometimes give us horrible headaches,

And reminders of what that sad, sad song said about roses.

"Go write a poem" they say.

Oh, I will.

It'll be a poem about how I won't be silenced when I speak out against racism,

A poem that clearly says that even though it's true that all lives matter,

It needs to be said that black lives matter too.

Because as inclusive as the word "all" is supposed to mean,

It has became empty rhetoric, at best,

At worst, used only to dismiss and demean the issues others face every day.

I'll write that poem.

I'll write a poem.

A poem that loudly says that men don't have the monopoly on intelligence,

That mansplaining,

Or attacking a woman's gender,

Doesn't put a guy in first place.

It actually exposes a fear of intelligent women. 

We can't just criticize ideas can we?

Yeah, I'll write a poem.

A poem about how "gay isn't synonymous with "stupid."

Or that equating anyone who's gay as the lesser only brings the aggressor lower.

Not the target.

We don't choose who we love,

But we do choose how we treat each other.

"Go write a poem."

The last cry of someone so insecure,

So fragile,

So helpless,

So out of words.

"Go write a poem."

What exactly do you do?

Are you more qualified somehow?

Go write a poem?

Well, I did.

I wrote a poem.

What are you going to do?

Comet

What can I say about the "you" of this poem? She's a beautiful soul and one of my most favorite on the planet. I love that she's part of my world and that I'm a part of hers.


Comet

I look up often.
Especially to the sky.
I have no grudge with the clouds,
But I prefer the night sky.
The night sky has always grounded me.
The gentle light of the countless stars,
To finding constellations,
To drawing my own shapes.
The night sky.
For the simple joy of just looking.
From time to time there's more to see;
Shooting stars,
Satellites,
The International Space Station,
Planets,
And comets.
This, is how I see you.
You are a comet.
Comets aren't always in view,
Though NASA knows where they are.
You, my comet, though I don't always see you,
I know where you are.
Even when you're in other ends of the galaxy.
This is why, when you come into my sky,
I make sure to look up.
Because I know your time in my sky isn't like that of the stars.
Or the moon even.
You do as comets do.
You light up my sky when you come by.
And though the time shared isn't constant
The intrigue and energy is.
I'm not selfish enough to think you belong to my sky,
Though I'm blessed to know you're there.
So I always look forward to seeing you again.
Knowing that some of your light is for me,
I'll keep looking up,
Smiling and knowing you'll be back,
That you'll be there,
In my sky again.

for Christa

Waking Up

This came from a lot of places. The passing of loved ones mainly. And I mean every word of it.

Waking Up

I woke up this morning feeling mortal again,
Knowing that someday my heartbeat will stop,
That my days here will end.
With that quick and lightning flash,
It's not always just that life is too short,
though to many it really is,
It's that life is fast.
As all of this floods my thoughts.
Grabs my heart.
Wets my eyes. 
I woke up this morning feeling mortal again.
Reminders came to make sure I felt it.
That weight of those that came into my life and left marks.
And those that left before me.
All at once I remember the ones that aren't here anymore.
At the same time I wonder about my own departure.
Echoes of "the good die young,"
Coupled with others tagging me as a "good guy."
Am I on borrowed time?
If so, when do I pay that loan back?
But, I always think of who I've met.
Everyone not here.
Definitely everyone still here.
I think of it like I don't have friends,
Instead, I have family.
Believe that if I've called you friend that name is meant for a lifetime. (And more.)
It's up to us to keep it.
To make it.
To keep it strong.
To get it to grow.
Or if paths differ,
Learn.
I woke up this morning feeling mortal again.
Though not in a way that makes me afraid to die.
Instead, in a way that makes me feel this:
When I reach my end, whenever that is, I can look back and firmly and sincerely and lovingly say that I was never afraid to live and to love.

Dedicated toYOU my friends, my family.

For My Friend, Than

This, plus and minus a comma or three, is exactly how it came out of my heart. This is for my friend Than who passed away five years ago this summer. To borrow a line from Atmosphere, he's one of the best people I've ever loved.

For you Than,

It's hard for me to wrap my brain around time. It's a concept that has always escaped me. So when I'm looking at the year, 2015, it's even harder for me to fathom that it's been 5 years. It's been 5 years since a good friend has gone. With every memory in my heart and mind, I sit here today still missing you Than. I remember so much more than I can ever form words to describe. Than, you were my first friend at CSC. And also my first roommate. We made quick time in making that room a campus legend. The Batcave. There is no doubt that room was ours. (I still see it that way.) 

But, amidst all the stuff that made college, college, I believe with all of who and what I am that the these memories made with you are so lasting because of everything you were and continue to be. I remember you sharing your spirituality with me on so, so many levels. Be it lighting your smokeless menorah during the eight days of Hanukkah, or talking about how simple, yet overlooked, the concept of "one love" really is. You didn't know it, but you were teaching me. Hell, I didn't know it then either. But, you did. And you still do. I know it now. I feel it now.

Another lesson you left with me is that "this too shall pass" really works. That's not to say that you, or I, didn't freak out when something big was due for class, or when the dumbasses somewhere in the catacombs of Ellis Hall set off yet another fire alarm, but the core of that stayed. That it'll be over. It will pass. That, in your words, "everything will be alright." And even as I sit here, crying for the simple and complex fact that I miss you, you were right. 

But, you were also wrong too. Because even though you're not here on this Earth in body, your spirit never left me. Even in the long stretches of no contact, those impacts you made on me have always been there. Always will. It's why it was always easy to talk to you Than. And just as easy to keep missing you. Your laugh, smile, and outlook. I fucking miss you Than, but that will never change what you ARE to me. 

Stay at peace because I know you're at peace. I'll see you when I get there Than. 

I love you always,

Matt

Race Day (Hopeless Romantic or Romantic Hopeless)

An all too familiar theme is at work here. Some direct quotes used (with some poetic license of course). The influence hip hop has on me is very visible in this poem as well. Beyond that, I think this poem speaks for itself.


Race Day (Hopeless Romantic or Romantic Hopeless)

(It's safer on the inside.)
Heart lives on the outside.
My heartbeat is my compass, making it too easy to lose track,
But Heart brings me back.
Fact.
Heart filters my view of the world,
But, lately Heart's got me writing poems about girls.
Heart's got his own logic,
His own way. Brain can't use it, he'd look sick.
Maybe that's why Mouth always sounds like he's got nothing to say.
Leaving nothing to black and white, only variants of gray.
Thought I drank the sweetest of juices.
Should've known it was all fittings for all of the tightest nooses.
With every sip I should've had at least a sliver of a hunch
That what I had been drinking was spiked punch.
She has a boyfriend who's name isn't mine.
No action attached to when she said I'm "one of a kind."
I suppose her means justify her ends
When the only way we'll ever be described is "just friends."
Which is all good.
Which is all fine.
Which is all fair.
But, man, she didn't stop there.
"You're the nicest guy," she said. "You'll definitely be a hit!"
But, I'm still on some 'nice guys finish last' shit.
I'd like to say I'm so far behind I think I'm in first place.
Though the truth is, I'm probably not even in the race.
Missed the gun. I'm still in the blocks.
Shyness or insecurity or whatever holding me down like a sack of rocks.
Like "swimmin' with the fishes."
Drowning in the depths of wishes.

(Drowning in wishes, I stay a hopeless romantic, or romantic hopeless, in the deepness of wishes.)

Thought Too Much/Draught Too Much

Admittedly, I'm a pretty low-tech guy. My usual way to write is with an "old school" composition book. What can I say, I just love the feel of a pen in my hand and the paper I write on. That said, I have an iPhone. It's a fun little gadget. One of my favorite features is the notebook. It comes in handy for all sorts of things. Most notably, shopping lists. But, the fun part is that with the mic option on the keyboard, I'm able to speak into my phone. With that, I've "freestyled" a handful of poetic rambles. This is especially useful when I've been drinking. What comes below is one of those musings. Minus a few switchings of words so it would make sense, and with the addition of a title, this is one I found while I was cleaning out my phone's notebook.

Thought Too Much/Draught Too Much

I know I might drink too much

Been said I do

Think too much

Been said I do

Drink so I don't have to think too much

But I still think a lot

Even when I drink a lot,

So I keep on with the drink a lot

Because why the fuck not?

I function

I fit

I do what I'm supposed to

I do my shit

So I keep drinking

To slow my thinking

But every drink, I fucking swear,

Makes me do more of the think

And so that cycle rolls on

And on

And on

And

On

Thinking to drinking to more thinking

To

More

Drinking

I see no stopping either 

I see no legitimate reason

I'm feeling what I'm supposed to be feeling 

Dealing how I'm supposed to be dealing

So I come around again 

Nothing to lose

Nothing to win

I'm going to keep thinking too much

Side by side with drinking too much

Wordfare

This one was kind of a slug-fest during the writing process. It worked me over. I'm not entirely sure why. I hope it's clear as to why I named it "Wordfare" though. It's because of all of that I'm going to let this breathe on its own, with this being my only introduction...

Wordfare

Isn't it funny that what is said,
And what is meant,
Could not be further apart from each other?
That sometimes intent changes all meaning?
Even if that's unbeknownst to who it's said to.
Or who said it.
It's almost like we all speak in some code,
A code in which words change meaning depending on who says them,
Or who hears them,
Or some live and hyperactive combination of the two.
Words.
Long and short.
Either easy or difficult to pronounce.
Words.
We all depend on them,
We all have been known to hang on them,
Leaving us prone to hang by them.
That knot can be tight.
Too tight and tighter for differing definitions.
Proof -
Loyalty that can be seen in bullet holes from taking shots for others,
But showing that doesn't mean it's money in the bank,
A savings protecting us from blade shaped scars between the shoulders.
There's word misuse and abuse too...
"Love" is a common victim to this.
People carelessly using that word as if it's synonymous with "enjoy" or "like."
(Though I know those that use it carefully and truthfully)
Or telling someone in a way that can only be heard as true and honest,
But, heartbreakingly, isn't.
Love from the wrong mouth to the right heart.
Or is it right mouth, wrong heart?
Either way, damaging.
Falling in love.
Said that way because even with perfect air currents under the wings,
It hurts like hell to land wrong.
Words.
Beautiful/Ugly
Tepid/Aggressive
Kind/Hurtful
Pleasurable/Painful
Caring/Callow
Singular meaning/Multiple meanings
To "who really knows the meaning?'
Words.
Leaving everyone of us in one of two states:
In the know.
Or in confusion.
All determined by intent,
the tone,
the choices of the users.
Why else would "soon" mean "wait longer still?"
"Sometime" mean "probably never?"
"Someone" mean "no one?"
That when a person speaks of "other fish,"
The "great big sea" still looks so empty?
We've all heard these words before.
We've all said these words before.
We all know these words by heart.
So, you really don't have to take my word for it, do you?

Hip Hop Is Free

Hip Hop Is Free

For as long as I can remember, I've loved Hip Hop. All manifestations of the culture. From the graffiti on walls, trains, trailers, to you name it. To the flattened out cardboard boxes that made the makeshift dance floors of break dancers. To the beats and rhymes of DJ's and emcees that took over my eardrums. I love Hip Hop. My favorite aspect of this is, while I grew up, all of what I described was around me. I was surrounded by it all. On my way to school, or the store, or the park, I'd see the vibrant colors left by spray paint cans. I'd hear the beats the dancers were getting down to. That the rappers were rhyming to. All of it first hand. I never had to go far to soak any of this in. It was all a few steps away. I was inspired. I learned to dance, and when I figured out what words could do, I started to write. I was taken by the culture. Lived in it. Breathed it in. So, if Hip Hop is a "house" as some folks put it, it's one I grew up in.

Which brings me here and now, and to my point... I've been watching a ton of videos lately. As much of a rabbit hole YouTube can be, if I focus, there are some treasures there. I'm not completely sold on the idea that VladTV is a treasure yet, but I find it provides enough thought-provoking interviews to start and continue conversations on many Hip Hop related issues. So there's that. With this said, like many people, I've seen the number of interviews with Lord Jamar of Brand Nubian. There's no way I'll argue that Hip Hop had its start anywhere but in the South Bronx. That it wasn't created by black people. That would be stupid. The Teacher KRS-One taught me that. Like Kurtis Blow says, "those are the breaks." Or more accurately, the facts. That's Hip Hop History. No argument from me against all of that. But, that doesn't mean I don't have some thoughts on some other things Lord Jamar has said that started with his comment that, "white people are guests in the house of Hip Hop."

If that comment stayed right there, I would have moved on and probably wouldn't have much to say. But, Lord Jamar goes further into it. It's my understanding that the conversation started around Macklemore's song, "Same Love" and branched out from there. In my YouTubing, I viewed many videos to make sure I have what was said straight. From the smallest of comments about Eminem rapping about pills not being relevant to black people, to the larger issue that racists claiming they love Hip Hop being beyond an oxymoron. With the Em/pills comments, Lord Jamar may want to listen to some Pharoahe Monch lyrics referencing "percs" to name just one source of disagreement. Also, the idea of addiction is universal. Substitute pills for any number of things, and it's relateable. As far as racists claiming they're down with Hip Hop though, not a chance. There is no way for both there. Not a chance of it. I wholeheartedly agree with Lord Jamar on that part. No racist can legitimately love Hip Hop. Back to the initial issue... Macklemore's "Same Love." Though the content of the song is part of Lord Jamar's beef, I won't start any debate on that specifically. There's a catch in it all though, artistic statement. A person doesn't have to agree with an artistic statement at all. That's the right of anyone that views it, or hears it. But when Lord Jamar says Macklemore, "overstepped his bounds, as a white rapper, by trying to promote homosexuality" I take issue. He further states, "don't come in the house and start redecorating without talking to the motherfuckers that own the house." Further yet, "We are the makers and owners of this. As far as the intellectual property of it." Again, I'll never, even jokingly, take up a fight on who created Hip Hop, but this isn't about that. This is about an artist's rights to say whatever he/she wants to. This is about artistic expression. The owner of that expression? The person that paints the painting, makes the film, or in this case, writes the song.

An artist should always respect the architects. The history of the art. I firmly believe that. But, should an artist stay in a lane just because that's the way it's always been done? Shy away from taking on issues that haven't been talked about before? No and no. So when Lord Jamar talks about bounds being "overstepped," or "talking to the motherfuckers that own the house," or the "...owners of this," he's talking about censorship. Since when has any artist in Hip Hop ever asked for permission to do what they do? To rap about what they rap about? Any and all subjects are fair game. Even if some people don't want to hear it. Hip Hop is not run by a committee of elders like the Jedi Council. KRS-One & BDP or Public Enemy never asked for permission to bring world politics into the mix. N.W.A. never asked to do anything they did. Point being, Hip Hop is, as Mos Def (Yasiin Bey) says, a folk music. With that, folks will write and rap about what they see in the world. The things that matter to them and those that they know. The lives they know. It's as simple and as complicated as that. No matter what though, Hip Hop never had a cap on its subject matter. And it never should. It doesn't matter if it makes anyone uneasy. Art isn't always easy. Hip Hop is artistic expression and is no exception to that. Let's not forget that Hip Hop itself, as a whole, was once considered taboo by many people.

With love for Hip Hop,
Woodrow




Links to the videos cited (in no particular order):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6scQrACku74
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QPouZR2UQI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYGs4nP4Lvk
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnYf8zQXddQ

Meghan

This poem is for a person. Her name happens to be the title of the poem, as well as the post. Other than what I just stated, I don't really know what an adequate introduction to this poem should be. I was as happy to write it as I am when I talk to her. I wrote it a while ago and I wasn't sure how to release it. I hoped she'd hear it before seeing it honestly, but here it is. Coming from my head to pen to page the words are here. With that, I hope the eyes of  the "you" of this poem sees it soon. And I hope it makes her smile. And I hope she loves it hard.

Meghan

Now I'm not trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe,
I wouldn't, even if I could
But I'm telling you,
I can hear it sometimes.
From the little to the grand
It's all there.
Like this one time I used a hashtag,
Just a simple phrase
A simple glance to see who else said what
It was then that this door opened
And there was this light there.
You better believe I did
I know you know I did
Since then, we've seen wavelengths
We've surfed them
And the surf is good.
So good
It's as easy to see as anything,
Some bad news and vibes want control?
Nope
Your messages come to clear the air
Bad moods don't have a chance
But the unravelling of the mysteries of the universe?
I'll leave that to some greater poets,
Maybe even a physicist.
Wavelengths
Like when I see some news about a singer you like,
So I tell you,
And you're already listening to her?
Yeah, wavelengths.
Or that in my days I see lots of money
(most of which isn't mine)
Now, I'm not saying I know how,
But guess what I see?
Not the answers to the mysteries cosmic.
I see a lot of New York quarters.
Or these other times I'm making change into dollars and the only two quarters left were Vermont
And yes...
New York.
I can't say that I know even a fraction of everything.
But, I do know about World Poetry Day,
Hashtags,
Hockey,
The frustrations and triumphs of technology,
The Triumphs of technology,
The teams that win and win,
The blinking ellipsis,
And the smiles made.
As for the universe...
I don't have any answers for that.
Instead, I have this poem.
And now, so do you.

At the Bar

In a sense, this is an "ode" to all of the women I've ever seen across a room and just couldn't muster the nerve to talk to. That number is very high. That's not a poet's exaggeration either. Just plain reality. But, I wrote what comes below, so there's that. What comes below is a meeting of the core of a conversation with a crush (I think that she knows) and an undying need to use the last two lines in a poem.

At the Bar

I've tried hard to
I've tried hard not to
A fact about me, a fact about how I do -
If I saw you across a bar -
I wouldn't talk to you
Not because I'm some snob
Or because a snob is how I'd describe you
Both are nowhere near the truth
But because I don't want you thinking I do what the rest of them do
I'm afraid you'd think that
And honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you did
Missing bravery is why you won't hear from me
Deficiency in courage to prove to you that there's the others,
Then there's me.
Even if if they use the same words,
My version is said with sincerity.
So instead, I sit on my side of the bar
In my head, the perfect conversation plays itself out
We smile at what the other says
Laugh at the jokes cracked
All over a few drinks we get in that zone
That zone where the rest of the bar fades away
No peripheral except an occasional refocus for refills.
The night winds into the earliest of the next day
We close the bar.
I walk you to your car
Our conversation doesn't stay back in the bar
Smiles, and laughs, and connections made
You tell me this is something you almost never do
I tell you that too
And we both know what we just said is true
You search for a pen,
And finding it,
You write your number on a random receipt
I do the same and it's an even trade
And before we say goodnight, we kiss
A short kiss,
But the reaction it causes
All the buzzing and warmth of a beehive
We both take quick breaths that turn into grins,
Grins that glow and radiate
You squeeze my hand.
Then we go our own ways,
But we'll see each other again soon,
So the grins turn into smiles and stay.
Though that's the play in my head
So I finish my beer and pay my tab
And leave a tip for my bartender instead.
That night stays as a waking dream,
As does the chance to say:
"I don't want to hear I'm not like the others.
I want to hear there's no one quite like me."

Thunder Storms and...

I'm not sure if this is a disclaimer, or an excuse, or what. But, I've never been a writer that ever wrote about nature, or even used nature as some sort of metaphorical device. I suppose I left that to the Frosts, Thoreaus, and Emersons of the world. What I do know is that this comes out of a conversation I had about thunder storms. Being a fan of them and such. I also know that the way she spoke her side of the conversation, the muse to be mentioned later issued me a challenge. Well, the challenge was accepted, and I think she knew it when she put it down.

Thunder Storms and Thoughts on Changing Opinions Regarding Said Storms Sparked by a Beautiful Muse

When I was a little I was deathly afraid.
Thunder storms spelled certain doom.
Like an impending dentist appointment,
Dark skies made me tense.
Slightest of rumbles sent me into hiding.
I was a fugitive.
It didn't matter how far away the sound was
That rumble meant that I was on the run to home
Or if I couldn't get there...
If I couldn't get there I lost my mind.
I resorted to locking myself in ma's car too.
So I never stuck around to see the lights.

These fears, they're sort of like tastes though
As you go, they might change
At some point in time, it's worth trying again
I don't know when it happened, but it did.
What stayed is that child like look out.
Finding that fear and awe run with each other.
Right?
Then there was this one summer,
Literally the most electric summer I can remember.
If I said every day was accented with lightning,
I wouldn't be exaggerating.
Not much anyway.
But, that summer...
Seeing lightning strike more times than countable.
Hearing that sound it makes.
Explosions.
Exploding.
The current's sonic signature.
Seeing something so fast the mere glimpse of it is on its way home,
The crash and boom like a thief that announces his presence to say,
"I'm here, now I'm gone, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."
Just awesome,
To the roots of that word
It's all there, lightning and thunder make awe.
In that awe I feel small.
I feel small in all great ways.
Small for every right reason I can muster.
Beyond the science of ozone gasses and electricity,
I've come to see thunder storms as a path to be humble.
As a way to find humility.

The surgical precision of a single bolt.
The reaching grip of finger like chains.
As some look like veins carrying blood.
All beautiful.
All coming with massive strength.
Culminating in what beauty really is:
A marriage of grace and raw power.
With time,  my view of thunder storms has changed.
From fear, admiration is born.
And I'm starstruck every time I see one.
The view goes...
Fear makes admiration,
Admiration makes respect,
Respect makes fear.
All taking the form of lightning itself.
Strokes and return strokes.
Electric currents to remind me to be human.

for Meghan

To All The Hipsters

It's no secret that I am an enthusiastic fan of many things. Poetry, music, movies, books, art, people... In that spirit, I love to share that enthusiasm. If I find something that awakens my interests at all, I tell everyone I can about it. I mean, look at the short list above. See what comes in best for last status? People. As reclusive as I can be, I simply love the energy of a good group of people. Now, my reclusive tendencies have allowed me to understand that not everyone shares my views on group settings. So, I get that. What I don't get, however, is the exclusivity some folks seem to use as an operating system. That, is the root of what comes below...


To All The Hipsters

How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
"Some obscure number you've probably never heard of."
How many hipsters?
"I can tell you, but just know that I knew the answer first."
How many hipsters?
Hold up.
You know what? There's a problem here.
A problem with this idea,
This mentality,
This way it has become in to discover something and keep it locked away.
Wrapped up like it's better left a secret.
Touting it like it's some kind of pop culture elitism.
Or worse.
Giving someone a supposed reason to put down.
To look down at others.
Just because person A might not have heard of something person B has.
No.
When did it become cool to do this?
What happened to those moments when a person finds something so great it just has to be talked about and shared without question?
Shared in the company of others with unbridled enthusiasm?
What happened?
Instead, you hipsters try to keep it all to yourselves.
As if it's some sort of badge of honor?
Another feather in your cap?
But, hey hipster, do you know what it really is?
It's another mark of asshole-ism.
Another exhibit of how much of a snob you really are.
So, I've got a simple challenge for you. For me. For all of us,
If you find something that charges you up
Moves you
Gives you goosebumps
Shakes you
Makes an impact on you
Affects you
Share it!
For fuck's sake, share it.
Make it a reason to bring people together.
Rather than fueling the the fires of isolation let's celebrate that album
that movie
that painting
Maybe even this poem.
Celebrate these things with others.
So fuck the "bah humbugs" and Scrooging,
If it's charging you up
Moving you
Goosebumping you
Shaking you
Or who knows? Inspiring you.
Tell another soul about it.
And let's get together for it!

First World Savagery

This one is born out of many conversations, a lot of reading, and some fierce disagreements. That's all I'll say...

First World Savagery

There are a bunch of savages in this world.
Living on the blood of others.
Savagery.
They say
That is, it's in the text books,
Historians state that not a single shot was fired during the Cold War.
The millions burned in Hiroshima and Nagasaki may have a different opinion on that.
Not a single shot, but two very big bombs.
Brutality against humanity doesn't get a pass on the so called laurels of technological advance.
First world savagery.
Back in the day, or a few days ago maybe
The southern trees had the most morbid of decorations.
Billie sang a song about some strange fruit
People given life sentences for the crime of not being white.
Slavery ended, a poison purged, but there was more.
First world savagery.
A boy with a life in front of him gets pulled from a night out so motherfuckers with some insecurities can show him that they don't like that he likes boys.
Leave him for dead in a place that can only be considered nowhere.
First world savagery.
There are children, right now, trying to sleep on stomachs so empty that "hungry" doesn't even begin say what's what.
They will probably die before I finish this poem.
We let them starve because we say their parents are lazy.
First world savagery.
This is just the smallest of nutshells. We live in this world.
This sheltered little glass house.
We're Americans god dammit!
You can't touch this!
Oh wait!
Looks like you can...
April 19, 1995
Wait!
September 11, 2001
Wait!
April 15, 2013
Wait!
The list is long...
But hold up!
This is America motherfuckers, that's not allowed!
Stop this train now...
This is first world savagery.
And you've condoned it.
No more of this blame game on the minority for the insecurities and ignorance of the shit you spill in the name of patriotism, and fuck, really!? In the name of God?
Fuck you with that!
If you are the patriot and the Christian you claim you are, you'll realize that you've been commanded to never let Matthew die.
To never let a southern tree bare strange fruit.
To never let Diallo get shot even once... Let alone 41 times.
To never let millions die in an unforgettable fire.
Drones don't make this shit any better.
Otherwise, go get more tea, have a party for all I care.
But, admit this;
You are a first world savage.

Committing and condoning first world savagery.

A Little Truth (This Is Not a Love Poem)

I'm going to let this one breathe on it's own...

A Little Truth (This Is Not a Love Poem)

This is not a love poem.
This is a truth poem.
This is a poem about how I think.
How I feel.
How I am.
This is a truth poem about it all.
The truth about how when we started talking I wasn't looking for anything.
Not anything heavy.
Not anything like... you know?
A relationship.
Friendship absolutely.
When you get along you get along.
But the rest?
Well you know?
Then a funny thing happened.
I got excited about talking to you.
Even more about seeing you.
Every time I'd get either my my heart would...
Wait, no.
I mean to say that the stars...
No.
What I'm trying to say is birds sing...
No. Fuck the flowery poetics!
What I really mean to say is this:
I fucking love you.
That the truth of this poem,
The truth behind all compliments,
The fact that what I say only puts to words what is there.
It's not just how I see you.
It's you.
This still isn't a love poem.
It's a truth poem.
A truth poem about impact.
The truth of two people.
Affect, affection, cause and effect.
That sometimes life does throw a break.
That collisions aren't always damaging.
The truth that I know what I've got now.
What I'm capable of.
The truth of what you are.
Not just to me, but what you really are.
For all of it, in no small way.
I love you.
And that,
That.
That is the truth.
This is the truth.
This is still not a love poem.

Mental Health Trilogy: Part Three - Identity

Finally, I'm posting part three. This one was considerably harder to write than the other two. On many levels, I honestly have no idea why. On some levels I do. I believe we're all looking for ourselves. That search will always run next to and bump heads with the perceptions of others and that influence on our lives. As selfish as it may sound, but really isn't; at the beginning and end of every day, a person's main priority has to be him or herself. That's a struggle. This is a piece of mine. With that, I now know why this was hard to write. That said, I think it's time to stop the intro, and get to the poem... 

Me Vs. Matt

I am everything everyone says I am

Kind, good, funny, giving, laid back, calm, closed off, walled, emotionally unavailable, an asshole. 

At one point I was trying to figure this out

Trying to find out which parts of that list are true.

Fact, I'm all of those things.

And then some. 

Trouble is people so often see what they want.

They see this goofy and friendly guy

This guy that's always laid back

So laid back that he isn't going with the flow at all.

So laid back he IS the flow.

But wait a minute!

I'm having a bad day actually. 

Some shit has been piling up on me...

and I'm... 

Oh, sorry. Nevermind.

I forgot I've got this idea to live up to...

But I've got a situation

I'm in this fight here

It's me against Matt

I guess you could say it's a fight for my life.

A fight that needed to happen ages ago. 

(I swear I heard the round 1 bell)

See, I am all of those good things.

That's not even a choice.

Just who I am.

Like a twofer, the rest comes with that though. 

I can be down

I can be hurt

I can...

Surprised? 

Aren't you? 

Guess what though?

I'm not always going to be OK.

Not always going to be good with giving and giving

Giving with no acknowledgement

No seeing that I can have a shitty day too

That when that happens, I might not be happy about it.

That when the shit hits the fan,

When my day is rocked, 

That it might carry the same weight as a good day. 

That it might even be heavier.

I feel everything.

Honestly, sincerely, wholly.

As.

I.

Should.

It's tricky, some don't want to believe that. 

Because when they do, it's accepting I may need help too. 

And God fucking forbid another person is part of why I hurt.

It's duel punishment for that.

How dare I be upset or hurt by that? 

"Until you feel better, I'll lay low Matt."

Thanks.

I had no interest in solving shit anyway. 

Don't worry, the happy goof will move on.

Sorta.

Because I forgive so quickly.

Forgetting never.

Even when details can't be remembered,

My heart keeps the tab.

Right there is where my reasons live.

The brick layers.

The architects.

The wall gets built there. 

No matter how out going.

How friendly.

How caring.

How loving.

How giving.

How warm I am.

These bricks are thick.

So fucking thick.

So fucking thick I can't see doors or windows. 

They're in there though.

The way is through some Temple of Doom,

Booby traps and all for anyone that comes in.

Myself included.

The heart beats on.

The heart beats on.

I know these walls aren't forever. 

I know they aren't.

I hope... 

I also know how I'm seen -

Goofy, kind, smart, laid back, sensitive, giving, loving...

I know what I hide -

Anxiety, sadness, hurt, scarring, dents, damage, insecurities...

Who I am is not a choice.

I'm everything everyone sees me as. 

And everything unseen too.

This is who I am.

If I'm up.

If I'm down.

There's a ton to have. 

Tons more to learn.

Tons more to learn.

This is who I am.