I get the feeling like it is nobler.Read More
Condensation as only a process that the firmament gets right.Read More
On my weakest Vonnegut maybe ever?Read More
Meyawnderings on candies grown in a lab or a lawn.Read More
For a QB that only Bears fans will ever know the fully story on.Read More
In which I write with no aim in the name of defending the freedom that grants aimlessness the potential for meaning.Read More
Every once in a while my friend Manny and I challenge each other to finish a poem that exact day. Here is 12/08/16's session, and here's to many more dates as titles for poems because the calendar just doesn't get enough play.
my girl only likes life when the walkings imported
she protects herself from threats both boring and domestic
except that high grade boredom, synthetic ease
to defy all the friends who leave
if only I could see them as patchwork family
mother and father as templates of peace
covalent bond my girl grew up inside
I think she knows better how to deal with being part of life
but then I remember I fell for her because she runs the way I do
lets go, my girl, swim the Arno in Summer
off banks and cliff with our naked winded
everything that fights dream is offensive
to the ones who can still pull a decent nights sleep
my girl we only got a couple thousand weeks
to not get our spirits stuck in the tape deck
April of '78 when Roxanne first bass stepped
when you and I weren't aged yet, not even zeroes
the whole world and us ahead of us
and now that we've had it I don't want it, this world
now we kick off shore into the slats in time
like front door bed spread family size wings
a cumulonimbus towards a more barren free
I can't even count how many DEATH tattoos that read LIFE upside down I have seen.
The maximum amount of life/death one can take in on a forearm I'm sure, but the metaphor is one that's stuck with ever since, and not because I find it interesting. Exactly the opposite actually - I find it so obvious I can't tell why it deserves a place on anyone's forearm, back north of elbow area, or at all for that matter.
It's like putting EAT that reads POOP when held upside down.
There is a nearly embarrassing sweetness in so many obvious things I sometimes I have no interest in the acrobatics of "originality" or anything some poets can say, or how they say it, since I'd never hear it from any friends I knew from Cicero. Maybe it's that Sandburg Plain Speech flaring in my bloodstream, but I'm more inclined to admit lately how much I truly love the frailty that ferments into strength in Batman or the curvature in the font on this coffee mug
Loving the simplicity of something, or someone, is a thing I'm really close to graduating to. The face my wife makes when she walks into a room of people she knows. Whoever designed the small push back on entry level keyboards. The absolute purity of drive in a fathers eye's the days he clearly could give a shit about how he's dressed.
There is a high high praise I can sometimes get to when I arrive at that sliver of landing and can admire plainly, no allegory, with a freedom from association. Before all the metaphor and recollection come to douse the object with my ownership. Now quick, shut up Michael before you try and add more insight, contrastings, configurations. One side of the coin will completely do today.
Here's an Arthur Sisley I found at the Orsay in Paris, who is apparently the patron saint of construction, who reminded me of the power stored up in everything unfinished.Read More
I am here to tell you that yes in fact inspiration does have a shelf life and it's best by not sell by.
There's this comic idea called "Mercs vs Jerks" that would pit the love of luxury vs. the love of hate together in some 6-8 part anti-epic, "deprepic", where lawlessness can be experimented from within characters who aren't moonlighting inside their darker natures, like my beloved Batman.
If you steal an idea it gets older, it's how they grow up, and you find somewhere in their bark the initials of previous owners.
When an idea is not aware of why it was stolen or exactly where it came from it does seem to develop social anxiety and is overall less satisfied with it's own life, like children. (Cite your sources, capn.)
I learned this from Emerson. I think he'd be proud of me.
The Internet, in all of it's wealth of information, often makes me feel like it's trying to stunt on my imagination. Constantly reminding myself it's nowhere near the breadth of anyone's imagination.
I am into the ancient forms of self-centeredness : putting your words on every surface that can withstand your medium. Graffiti is the age old impulse to write where people don't think writing belongs so that you discover it belongs right there.
Then there are times you have to write without theme to show theme you won't be mastered by even it.
Buy all of your Bulls gear this '16-'17 season while you can get it for dirt.
Many of the people who don't allow others to change their minds are the people I have my mind fully made up about. The more I love you the more incorrect or confusing I'm ok with you being.
Like a Barcelonian Bovine, get out there and be all of you all at once
What if everything we've lost never gets recouped,
on a molecular level?
This is the end result, apparently, of something a gent named Antoine Lavoisier (Pass the Courvoisier) discovered way back in 1975 that has always haunted my ideas, as I guess good science should : matter is neither created nor destroyed. I've heard energy replace matter before in conversations, which I guess is viable, but I say that because I like eating up big ideas and seeing how they make me feel. Anti-Matter is like the Bizarro version of particles, the snakes to an atoms mongoose, and if I explained it in any greater detail your synapses are liable to cave in on themselves. Look it up though, it's super fun.
My cousin gave me a birthday card once that advised me : Eat up all the poets you can and let them fight it out inside you". I have eaten many poets. I will eat again. You are surprised in your older age by the advice you took, whether by volition or instinct, and how it doesn't quite redeem the pieces you didn't take.
When your then best friend asked you to sing that Rage Against the Machine song and you didn't sing. When your grandma told you she never liked that one girl and you stayed with her. When your good friend "well whatever you think is right"ed you to not take a break from college and broke.
I don't explain myself often because I have often found my self very hard to explain. Intelligibly. Although I have elaborated as much as possible, but that's when you're showy. Or if curt, too vague. All of that has to die. That whole intelligibility and elaborality thing. All of that dies here upon the Newfound Ancient Kingdom of Explaining Yourself to Your Self. The NAKEYYS for short. That was off the dome, btw, I solemnly swear. You see how God encourages self examination? By leaving little hints that he already owns that land?
Was the Law of Thermodynamics stated above different Pre-Resurrection? Isn't life absurd with how many things happen at once, and happen without your force, or in spite of it? My mind often is as sporadic as the life it finds itself in. If I can accept my inexplicability maybe I'll be more apt to accept everyone else's. Less envious when theirs shows, blossoms, catapults.
The loss I am realizing I found somewhere, coiled up in plasma form somewhere on the other side of my life, is the loss of my voice. Somewhere I lost it trying to be an Honest Christian Poet, and ended up none of those things. Lost it trying to defend myself as truthful against a woman who Heiled Hitler. Lost it trying to figure out how to confidently build a house when I only emotionally lived in apartments. How to mete out emotions and pieces of my heart to those who've disappointed me, or who I've disappointed, without frank discussions on that kind of accounting (many I know aren't as open as the memes they post on facebook, and I am not either).
All of that, dead, so it can make it's way into the closed reservoir of existence to make it's way back as....hell, anything. Anything other than raw, immobile, nothing. A.R Ammons has a book called 'Garbage' that I read too young, and it spoiled a couple years of life for me. I was too grateful at a base level to be sad enough for people to take me serious, although I took them very seriously. I take many things too seriously. It ruined me by pointing out how easily the world replaces one thing for another. How some of your friends make better friends without you, and family too. But then how God swoops in and gives you pals and other families and books or obsessions that empty out into entire valleys of unincorporated land - not your lack back in spades, but your hope back in another rack of letters that have just the right amount of complex consonants. How even the dark black nothingness of space is a thing where weight and our math is shattered, or is where our dark black nothingnesses go to be reupholstered (bc you don't know what happens on the otherside of blackholes, DO YOU?!).
My name is Michael Joseph Garza and I have come to the well of my own voice reminding me of the the voice of God reminding us of God. I may be too selfish to do it a different way. Pray for me. I will come back to this well at minimum weekly, at maximum...maximumly. With power and bombast and the vigor of mid-youth, from my house in the MiddleWest Side of Chicago, or wherever my iPhone 5C gets reception is where I'll hail from.
This is the first piece of actual writing I've posted online that wasn't written by hand with pen and paper first. This is my digital lit version of farm to table. I did this while wiping my iPhone clean to maybe give it to my father-in-law, unless it proves corrupted beyond hand-me-down, and upgrade my own phone maybe. I can't tell if I got the runs during this because I was so nervous to tell the truth or because I ate a Caramel Cluster while drinking VitaCoco while reading Dean Young while waiting for my oil to get changed. I am good at angles, but terrible with probabilities.
A guitar is sounding from my neighbors house that never played there before, Wah Pedal, like they're forcing their arm to remember what their mind never forgot. My apps are updating and getting their color back like all of my friends now that winter is sputtering out in Chicago.
I will try to slow down. I'm actually moving as slow as I possibly can. I can feel myself thinking about what I should say next. Which probably means I'm done.
My first tattoo will be We Contain Multitudes, just haven't decided on neck or forearm. I want to put it where my inside is as close to my outside as possible. After searching "where is your skin the thinnest" I've discovered it's the eyelids. Popular culture dictates though that people with eyelid tattoo's can generally never be trusted. It's like we're afraid of putting the truth in too risky of a spot. Or maybe the blankness of an eyelid is what makes way for the beauty of an iris, and we, subconsciously even, cannot stand that ruined.
Regardless, who's down for tattoos?