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A pop-up book of flowers from grade 4 are driving her insane...

Postby trentm32 » 11/7/2006, 2:03 pm

catch a train ride up to Jersey
I'll find you there alone waiting for me
we'll spend the night in New York City
and watch t he sunrise behind the buildings
"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.

<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>
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trentm32
Oskar Winner: 2005
Oskar Winner: 2005
 
Posts: 2272
Joined: 3/17/2002, 2:51 pm
Location: my heart is in New York.

Postby trentm32 » 1/31/2007, 10:09 pm

"left and right"


weighing these two--
with one gone high
and one gone low
I can't help but wonder:
which way that I shall go

with all your talk
of left and right,
of the way not taken;
not 'wrong,' not 'right'

"undergrowth" and "morning"
as I stand here kicking dust,
and cursing at this yellow wood
as I wish to god 'twas a way to trust


"Tartarus"


I'm crashing
into passion
that's leaking
like a ship
without a sail
sailing in the perfect storm

I'm charting
my own Tartarus
that's starting
to lead me under
underneath this life,
this life I thought this was

these places
they are the truth
the traces
of the myth
below the doctrine
that guides us on this day
"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.

<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>
User avatar
trentm32
Oskar Winner: 2005
Oskar Winner: 2005
 
Posts: 2272
Joined: 3/17/2002, 2:51 pm
Location: my heart is in New York.

Postby trentm32 » 2/1/2007, 10:39 pm



"...these..."

trying to paste
these words I can't say,
from letters to tape
cracking and raped...

...these...

pages so white,
this lighter gives light;
a flicker of fight
and red in the night...

...these...

crashings of thunder,
and bindings of color
my lies here to plunder,
rolled eyes, cosmic blunder...

...and these...

magazines & tries
sharp scissors and dies
all bandied together...
with tears I can't cry

"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.

<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>
User avatar
trentm32
Oskar Winner: 2005
Oskar Winner: 2005
 
Posts: 2272
Joined: 3/17/2002, 2:51 pm
Location: my heart is in New York.

Postby trentm32 » 2/2/2007, 10:22 am

this one feels right...

“maybe someday”

this passion comes crashing through,
like a tidal wave falls
over this letter
propped in the doorway of my mind

these words they drift so long
far into the sea, like satin;
a message in a bottle
only I forgot the glass

waxing poetic in empty rooms
on life, while it’s lived outside
without me; in the streets
that I fain I’ve roamed

surrounded by dust; by the books
I’ve read, a thousand times over
stacking up to the ceilings
until the roofs are there no more

see the snowfall outside my window—
it feels like the heavens are burning
and white ashes from afar
are all that’s left of this hollow sky

staring at the black and white
photos on my walls; of cites
and of countries that I’ve never found before
maybe someday, dear God; maybe someday
[/i]
"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.

<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>
User avatar
trentm32
Oskar Winner: 2005
Oskar Winner: 2005
 
Posts: 2272
Joined: 3/17/2002, 2:51 pm
Location: my heart is in New York.

Postby trentm32 » 6/10/2007, 10:18 pm

this just came out. LOT on my mind...


coming back to this page
so blank-- a ringing in my ears

as pen crashes into paper
and my tears fall
as thick black dots
washing this dark white in waves

and I can't remember her face
or her name--the ringing, so loud now
and I become silent
as it washes over me, in ripples,
so tiny so violent

it could have been yesterday
or a decade ago, or never
God forbid, perhaps tomorrow
I shudder in the cool night
as the breeze blows harder than before
I wonder if it's harder than it ever has

this passion, or hatred, confusion
and the empty words in between
love, maybe--too soon, or too late
it's all because of time, that much I know
poetry and prose and my tired mind
all wondering if it really is the same,
just as it seems

I'd shatter the clock--
but a billion other would just keep ticking
as the moon's slow cycle warns me
that morning is coming
but it's not for hours, not for hours
but is that enough time?

going back, but it wouldn't be the same
two years too late, I think,
with stars above my head, perhaps not yours,
and streetlights make this tapestry of city and night
of country and hell and heaven,
and a passing car

goodnight Rockland, goodnight Babylon
and Manhattan and Boston,
and the empty prairie that haunts me
with a bowl of stars so close I can reach out
and grab them, and hold them
as I wonder why they won't find me
sitting on my own front porch

and I miss you. It hurts to say it,
but God it's true as my tears become water
too real for thick black ink to mask
with a splash and refrain, but I can't find the words
I'm sorry EAP. I tried but there isn't just one
that would say what a thousand pages
and a thousand screams
and a thousand salty drops couldn't say for me all this time

two years two years too years.
I tried the math a thousand times but it never adds up
always a little past twenty when I'm begging
and clawing for a nineteen even if it was hell,
and I wonder if I'd do it all again. I wonder.

but I'm happy now, right. with slaps on the back
and a hand in mine as the ringing stops and I miss it
and I hold the phone up to my ear and cry and
cry and cry over and over and over at the wonderment
I find there. the curiosity and phrases that I beg to explain themselves
but there's only cold plastic and light static
as you're asleep in your bed with a warm pillow and an afterthought

it feels good though, to touch the raw that hides itself so well
behind a smile and a joke and confidence that's so rehearsed
it costs a forest of trees and an ocean of ink to keep going.
the ebb and flow of a thick black river begging me to dive in
as I shiver on the shore watching it wash everything away

sketches, of the raw and the bloody and the sinew that drips
and sweats between the long forms and the tip-toeing
and the martyr complex that kills every good writer
that I just read about in tightly bound books and eloquent sentences.
there never seems to be a good place to get off.
fingers bloody and the pens a nub but there never can be enough.
two years begging for freedom, finally devouring this,
and with enough coffee it could challenge Jack's butcher paper
magnum opus that started all of this in the first place

the clock keeps ticking. thunder in my ears as I notice
that the right time has passed and I wonder if this'll ever make
it anywhere, waiting for something to pierce and shake me to the core
but all I get is silence as the still night engulfs me like the heavens
do a broken satellite that can't hold it's trail

and the park was cool with it's spraying water and chilly wind
even in the dead of summer when the sun would boil it all
the flags tickled the poles and it tickled my ears until I finally
said to hell with it and came back here to bleed it out. thinking
and pushing just couldn't do it all. but I need this, I think. I hope.
I pray.
"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.

<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>
User avatar
trentm32
Oskar Winner: 2005
Oskar Winner: 2005
 
Posts: 2272
Joined: 3/17/2002, 2:51 pm
Location: my heart is in New York.

Postby trentm32 » 6/21/2007, 10:52 am

here's the edited, finished version of what i popped up a week or so ago...

“too years”

coming back to this page
so blank-- a ringing in my ears

as pen crashes into paper
and my tears fall
as thick black dots
washing this dark white in waves

and I can't remember her face
or her name--the ringing, so loud now
and I become silent
as it washes over me, through me, in ripples
so tiny so violent, as this barge tatters the sea

it could have been yesterday
or a decade ago, or never
God forbid, perhaps tomorrow—
I shudder in the cool night
as the breeze blows harder than before.
I wonder if it's harder than it ever has

this passion, or hatred, confusion
and the empty words in between
love, maybe—too soon, or too late
it's all because of time, that much I know
poetry and prose and my tired mind
all wondering if it really is all the same,
just as it seems, just as they say

I'd shatter the clock—
but a billion others would just keep ticking
I think of going back, but it wouldn't be the same
two years too late, I think,
with stars above my head, perhaps not yours,
and streetlights make this tapestry of city and night
of country and hell and heaven,
and a passing car

goodnight Rockland, goodnight Babylon
and Manhattan and Boston,
and the empty prairie that haunts me
with a bowl of stars so close I can reach out
and grab them, and hold them
as I wonder why they won't find me
sitting on my own front porch

and I miss you. It hurts to say it,
but God it's true as my tears become water
too real for thick black ink to mask
with a splash and refrain, but I can't find the words.
I'm sorry EAP. I tried but there isn't just one
that would say what a thousand pages
and a thousand screams
and a thousand salty drops couldn't say for me all this time

two years two years too years.
I tried the math a thousand times, yet it never adds up
always a little past twenty when I'm begging
and clawing for an eighteen even if it was hell,
and I wonder if I'd do it all again. I wonder.

and I hold the phone up to my ear and cry and
cry and cry over and over and over at the wonderment
I find there. the curiosity and phrases that I beg to explain themselves
but there's only cold plastic and light static
as you're asleep in your bed with a warm pillow and an afterthought

it feels good though, to touch the raw that hides itself so well
behind a smile and a joke and confidence that's so rehearsed
it costs a forest of trees and an ocean of ink to keep on going.
the ebb and flow of a thick black river begging me to dive in
as I shiver on the shore watching it wash everything away

sketches, of the raw and the bloody and the sinew that drips
and sweats between the long forms and the tip-toeing
and the martyr complex that kills every good writer
that I just read about in tightly bound books and eloquent sentences.
there never seems to be a good place to get off.
fingers bloody and this pen’s a nub but there never can be enough.
two years begging for freedom, finally devouring this,
and with enough coffee it could challenge Jack's butcher paper
magnum opus that started all of this in the first place

the clock keeps ticking. There’s thunder in my ears as I notice
that the right time has passed and I wonder if this'll ever make
it anywhere, waiting for something to pierce and shake me to the core
but all I get is silence as the still night engulfs me like the heavens
do a broken satellite that can't hold it's trail

and I wonder if it’s true that I'm just a coward with an ink pen
and never a sword, that can't find his rhyme
and I can't find my war among the dozens howling in smoke and sand
and the jungles of concrete and green that surround and engulf the earth like
leaves of grass over a matchbox burned to ashes
in a yard that hasn't been mowed since last summer

and I listen again, the last time I tell myself as I cue my finger to press play again
and again in the dark drive home from somewhere important,
and I wonder just how important as that voice I'd never forget
fills my ears and I can smell sweet cigarettes in the empty air
that's crisp with summer heat and brown grass and your grey eyes
behind hair that I've never run my fingers through

and the park was cool with it's spraying water and chilly wind
even in the dead of summer when the sun would boil it all.
The flags tickled the poles and it tickled my ears until I finally
said to hell with it and came back here to bleed it out. Thinking
and pushing just couldn't do it all. But I need this, I think. I hope.
I pray.
"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.

<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>
User avatar
trentm32
Oskar Winner: 2005
Oskar Winner: 2005
 
Posts: 2272
Joined: 3/17/2002, 2:51 pm
Location: my heart is in New York.

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