From Here: Sunup

From Here: Sunup

thejournalofbisonjack:
The Clearing
If you ever find yourself 
wondering what became of me, 
make your way to a forest and 
look for a stream, then follow 
its path due west—past the limbs 
of fallen trees and the carcasses 
of seasons—until you reach 
a clearing. For, in the ebb and
flow of a life spent buffeted by
defeat and the wake from small 
victories, it is here where you will 
find me tying a rope swing to the 
branch of an overhanging tree, 
at the perfect swimming hole, 
on the perfect day.

thejournalofbisonjack:

The Clearing


If you ever find yourself

wondering what became of me,

make your way to a forest and

look for a stream, then follow

its path due west—past the limbs

of fallen trees and the carcasses

of seasons—until you reach

a clearing. For, in the ebb and

flow of a life spent buffeted by

defeat and the wake from small

victories, it is here where you will

find me tying a rope swing to the

branch of an overhanging tree,

at the perfect swimming hole,

on the perfect day.

thejournalofbisonjack:
When The Day Comes
.
It is morning.
The sky is black with up
and down rain.
An open gate is banging
in the wind.
I can see my naked reflection
in the window
and in the shaking trees.
Where do we go when
we go inside ourselves.
How can we stay there?
Maybe, somewhere between
what I can’t describe
and what I don’t understand,
there is a place for us;
maybe, this is that place.
How can I be true to myself 
when I don’t know who I am?
Why do I find it so hard 
to be loved by you?
Why do I go so far, but 
never far enough?
What am I scared of?
You are still sleeping.
The day has not come for you yet.

thejournalofbisonjack:

When The Day Comes

.

It is morning.

The sky is black with up

and down rain.

An open gate is banging

in the wind.

I can see my naked reflection

in the window

and in the shaking trees.

Where do we go when

we go inside ourselves.

How can we stay there?

Maybe, somewhere between

what I can’t describe

and what I don’t understand,

there is a place for us;

maybe, this is that place.

How can I be true to myself

when I don’t know who I am?

Why do I find it so hard

to be loved by you?

Why do I go so far, but

never far enough?

What am I scared of?

You are still sleeping.

The day has not come for you yet.

From Here ( with church)

From Here ( with church)

thejournalofbisonjack:
The Riddance

thejournalofbisonjack:

The Riddance

thejournalofbisonjack:
The Pieces
.
Before I try to fix you, be sure you want me topiece you back together again, he said.I don’t want you to fix me, she said.I just need you to hold me, and I will fix myself.

thejournalofbisonjack:

The Pieces

.

Before I try to
fix you, be sure
you want me to
piece you back
together again,
he said.
I don’t want you
to fix me, she said.
I just need you to
hold me, and
I will fix myself.

The Sober Drunk Poem

The Sober Drunk Poem

I Am Not Going To Lie To You, She Said.I was early and found a seat at the bar.I knew what was coming, and it pleasedme to think how civil we were being.I had just ordered my second drink when she walked in—looking all beautiful.The bartender made a display of himself making our drinks, before disappearing.I am not going to lie to you, she said.She had obviously spent some time thinking about what she was wanted to say. You are so controlling, she said.It wasn’t the first time I had heard this.Several other women have said the same thing, so it must be true. I suppose it’s what comes from trying to manufacturelove where it doesn’t naturally exist. You sort of bend the person to fit your idea of them—until they break. Of course, I didn’t say any of this. Instead, as she continued, I marshalled my defense.I feel like I can only be thirty percent of myself when I am with you, she said.Well, obviously it was over. But a statistic?Thirty percent? Thirty percent of what?Thirty percent based on the notion that she considers herself a one hundred percent complete person—who requires no further growth? Christ, in baseball, if a player hits the ball thirty percent of the time he is a god. What about mystery? Isn’t it important to keep that alive in a relationship; if only to spice things up a little from time to time. Surely we can learn from each other and grow together. Maybe next year it will be forty percent, and fifty percent the year after that. Ah, fuck it. Have you considered that I may actually only like thirty percent of you? I said.

I Am Not Going To Lie To You, She Said
.

I was early and found a seat at the bar.
I knew what was coming, and it pleased
me to think how civil we were being.
I had just ordered my second drink when
she walked in—looking all beautiful.
The bartender made a display of himself
making our drinks, before disappearing.
I am not going to lie to you, she said.
She had obviously spent some time
thinking about what she was wanted to
say. You are so controlling, she said.
It wasn’t the first time I had heard this.
Several other women have said the same
thing, so it must be true. I suppose it’s
what comes from trying to manufacture
love where it doesn’t naturally exist.
You sort of bend the person to fit your
idea of them—until they break.
Of course, I didn’t say any of this.
Instead, as she continued,
I marshalled my defense.
I feel like I can only be thirty percent of
myself when I am with you, she said.
Well, obviously it was over. But a statistic?
Thirty percent? Thirty percent of what?
Thirty percent based on the notion that
she considers herself a one hundred
percent complete person—who requires
no further growth?
Christ, in baseball, if a player hits the ball
thirty percent of the time he is a god.
What about mystery?
Isn’t it important to keep that alive in
a relationship; if only to spice things up
a little from time to time. Surely we can
learn from each other and grow together.
Maybe next year it will be forty percent,
and fifty percent the year after that.
Ah, fuck it. Have you considered that
I may actually only like thirty percent
of you? I said.

Take it Slow
.
When I first saw her, she took mybreath away.Then she slowly took everything else.

Take it Slow

.

When I first

saw her,

she took my

breath away.

Then she

slowly took

everything

else.

The Thin Poem
.
I don’t think I like you anymore, she said.Well, if you must know I don’t think I like you very much either, he replied. Really, she said, and how long have you felt that way about me?I don’t know, he said,love tends to conceal such things.

The Thin Poem

.

I don’t think I like you

anymore, she said.

Well, if you must know

I don’t think I like you

very much either, he

replied. Really, she said,

and how long have you

felt that way about me?

I don’t know, he said,

love tends to conceal

such things.

thejournalofbisonjack:
Eventide
.
Your shadow creepsacross my skin this eveningor is it the light receding?

thejournalofbisonjack:

Eventide

.

Your shadow creeps
across my skin this evening
or is it the light receding?

The Deciphering
.
A pale thin hand flicks ash from a veil of shadow and retreats into darkness as smoke blooms into a slant of sunlight and dissipates.

The Deciphering

.

A pale thin hand

flicks ash from a veil

of shadow and

retreats into darkness

as smoke blooms

into a slant of sunlight

and dissipates.

The Moment Before It All Goes To Hell
.
Teeth clench and fists curlas reason clears its throat andsilence soaks the air.

The Moment Before It All Goes To Hell

.

Teeth clench and fists curl
as reason clears its throat and
silence soaks the air.

The Bison Tavern
.
Recently, I have been thinking a lot about meaningless things, and now I have gone and ruined it by trying to findthe meaning in this.

The Bison Tavern

.

Recently, I have been
thinking a lot about
meaningless things,
and now I have
gone and ruined it
by trying to find
the meaning in this.

Carving Anarchy into the Walls of First Class(a slam-poem).Deep in the throws of pimply teenage rage,I went to the funeral of a friend. In truth, I didn’t know him that well. He was a lot older than me, and everyone in town was terrified of him, but for some reason he looked out for me when I got into trouble, and for that I loved him.He was a big man, and could handle himselfin a fight, which of course meant there werefights; invariably ending with someone in hospital, and my friend in prison. About three months before he died, his mother passed away but the prison officials refused to let him attend her funeral; and weeks after he got out, his girlfriend had an epileptic fit in the bath and drowned. And, in the downward spiral of grief that followed, he saw his best friend get stabbed in the chest and chased the man to a block of flats where he ‘went about him’ with a baseball bat.A few days later, the police found my friend in a squalid flat by the sea. Dead, from an overdose. And, standing behind the church pew that day, I realized that his was the saddest story I ever knew,.I am now almost twice as old as he was then, and naturally a lot has changed. The church that held the service that day is now coddled in lily ponds and tennis courts, and you have to know someone living to get in; and the wide-open playing fields of my childhood have been replaced by the shadows of cranes and towering condos. The local newspaper, now has one page in Russian and another in Portuguese, and the once-quaint train station now bristles with tourists and commuters—although, I am pretty sure the train carriages haven’t changed because I still see anarchy signs carved into the walls of first class.From time to time I still think about my friend; not because I miss him or the simplicity of how life was back then, but to see if it is still true— that his is the saddest story I ever knew.


Carving Anarchy into the Walls of First Class

(a slam-poem)

.

Deep in the throws of pimply teenage rage,
I went to the funeral of a friend. In truth, I didn’t
know him that well. He was a lot older than me,
and everyone in town was terrified of him, but
for some reason he looked out for me when
I got into trouble, and for that I loved him.

He was a big man, and could handle himself
in a fight, which of course meant there were
fights; invariably ending with someone in
hospital, and my friend in prison.

About three months before he died, his mother
passed away but the prison officials refused
to let him attend her funeral; and weeks after he
got out, his girlfriend had an epileptic fit in the
bath and drowned.

And, in the downward spiral of grief that followed,
he saw his best friend get stabbed in the chest
and chased the man to a block of flats where
he ‘went about him’ with a baseball bat.

A few days later, the police found my friend
in a squalid flat by the sea. Dead, from an
overdose. And, standing behind the church
pew that day, I realized that his was the
saddest story I ever knew,.

I am now almost twice as old as he was then,
and naturally a lot has changed. The church
that held the service that day is now coddled
in lily ponds and tennis courts, and you have
to know someone living to get in; and the
wide-open playing fields of my childhood have
been replaced by the shadows of cranes
and towering condos.

The local newspaper, now has one page
in Russian and another in Portuguese, and
the once-quaint train station now bristles
with tourists and commuters—although,
I am pretty sure the train carriages haven’t
changed because I still see anarchy signs
carved into the walls of first class.

From time to time I still think about my
friend; not because I miss him or the
simplicity of how life was back then,
but to see if it is still true— that his
is the saddest story I ever knew.