when I Feel for You
does the Universe Ripple out?
does the Feeling Hit You
in a Soft, Unsuspecting Wave?
do You Notice the Rush
or does it Stay in my Pond?
Boggy
Filled with Mosquitoes
and Brazenly Sincere
when I Feel for You
do Lights Flicker in Your Office?
do You Suddenly Bounce Your Leg
with Excitement?
I am always 80%
Eighty
Per-
-cent.
I am often
Thoughtfully Incompl....
I Send out Feelers
Feelers Filled with Feelings
Hoping an Invisible Connect
Reunites a Visible Disconnect
when I Feel for You
is it Justified?
is it Realistic?
is it Rare?
do You Soak the Feel in,
Store it Away
with All the Other
Subtle Waves
Invading Your Pond
May 14, 2010
A Season of Faith's Perfection
(From the movie "Finding Forrester," staring Sean Connery)
"Sit. Go ahead."
"Go ahead and what?"
"Write."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm writing. Like you'll be, when you start punching those keys. Is there a problem?"
"No. I'm just thinking."
"No thinking. That comes later. You write your first draft...with your heart. You rewrite with your head. The first key to writing is...to write. Not to think. Jesus. Is there a chance you might sit down?"
"'A season of Faith's perfection.' What's this?"
"Start typing that. Sometimes the simple rhythm of typing gets us from page one to page two. When you begin to feel your own words, start typing them. [pause] Punch the keys for God's sake! YES! You're the man now, dog. Jamal? Whatever we write in this apartment...stays in this apartment. No exceptions."
A season of Faith's perfection.
When I walked home on Tuesday
And thought of the awkward time just spent with a woman
And somehow through the awkwardness
God brought me back.
The Grace had returned.
When there's nothing else
You live by Grace.
My Pride was so High
That I thought I could function without Grace,
That I could do good deeds, but not have faith.
And somehow, this would be more noble
And more real.
A season of Faith's perfection
When baseball metaphors creep into my day
And long hallways become playground little league games.
I am the great chess master at the center,
The pitcher,
Seeing that a life guided by Grace
Is one that cannot go astray
And the responsibility of one's burden in life
Is often at the expense of great, magnified fame
And you may never be a Major Leaguer
But you will do great things.
And you may never be a Major Leaguer
But you will do great things.
A season of Faith's perfection
Using words not my own
And making them mine.
Making something external
One in me,
Like my Faith,
Like my friends,
Like the Snapple bottle in front of me.
A season of Faith's perfection
When I overcome my insecurity
About my singing voice,
And trust what others say around me.
More importantly,
Trust they are not delivering lip service.
A season of Faith's perfection
Seeing my family, shattered,
Still reflect light
From the floor.
Knowing that
A New Norm
Means Progress.
A season of Faith's perfection
When believing in God is more difficult than ever.
Yet, entirely around me
Feeling the mind act as the ship Captain
On an otherwise overweight, ugly ship,
Fighting through the mental barriers
Of overeating, not exercising,
And still able to express,
Feel,
and Process beauty.
A season of Faith's perfection
When the Warm Light unites us all
And we cannot put it out.
When my friends band together
In this fucking intense New York City
Hold one another,
Cry with one another,
Drink with one another,
Shout and fight with one another,
And grow with one another.
We are a different breed,
We Intelligentsia of Greenwich Village,
You, Intelligentsia of the Lower East Side
You, Intelligentsia of Park Slope
You, Intelligentsia of Williamsburg
We are all a breed unlike no other:
One stop Shops
Artists
Entrepreneurs
Businessmen
Businesswomen
Lawyers
Engineers
Producers
Lovers
Fighters
Soldiers
Friends.
The circles of musicians
Eventually meld into one
We all believe -
WE BELIEVE -
That time and effort
Spirals us forward
Into progress.
A season of Faith's perfection
When "clarity takes over me"
When borrowed lines from old songs of mine
Say more than they ever have.
When I look towards myself,
See the Warm Light once more
And realize
That someone is holding my hand
As if I were 5.
I still want to get an ice cream cone
Watch the seagulls
And the trains
May 3, 2010
On Faith
Friends of mine have been asking me about my Faith lately.
They both say they're losing it.
I am, too.
I'm sick of defending the organization I was raised to worship with
The Catholic Church.
And I'm sick of trying to speak of it righteously
And to encourage those unsure
That it is indeed accepting
And wonderful
And the correct version of Jesus.
I also seriously doubt the "everything happens for a reason" aspect
God is the Eros, God is Nature
God is the Great System
And we are loved in a morally objective way
We have what we need around us
And we have the ways and means to get it
But some of us do not, or have them taken from us
And that is why, man-to-man, we have an obligation
To fight for those unfortunate
I find it oddly curious that people we refer to as saints
Do their wonderful, their amazing deeds
And all the while, they are told
That performing such deeds
Lead to an infinitely happy after-life.
So, ignorantly, I wonder often
About the true merits of those people's work
Is it selfish at its core?
To do good because it will lead you to an abundance of good?
Wouldn't doing good NOT in the name of God be more noble?
Since the promise of a heaven is not there?
Therefore, you surely are looking out for the betterment
Of your brother.
My faith has been shaken by my own life
By my family and it's falling
By standing at the top of a mountain
On a golf course
And feeling small
And alone.
At the same time, though,
It shifts my focus
My friends that TRULY have made an effort to be in my life
Especially this past month or months
Well, the time spent with them
Is what I take with me
It helps me deal.
The way I thought God used to help me
If all I have is this life
I cherish it that much more
Because I don't lead a perfect life
And I try hard to be a good man
But I very often fail.
Yet those few friends that remain close by
They wrap their arms around me
And they take the place that God once had for me
I feel so far
So very far
From the enlightened feeling I used to enjoy
Life has gotten exceedingly complicated
And I have several moments a day
Where I realize how old I am now
And yet I still want to believe I'm 16.
I believe in prayer.
I believe in the power and RESPONSIBILITY of people
To live change
But I am shaken
And I am so doubtful now
Keep asking yourself "why?"
When you think of the things you do
It was always such an easy response for me
And now, I avoid the "why"
And maybe there is no "why"
Or if there is, maybe it's much more simple
Than what I was brought up to believe
Disease, natural disasters, etc.
All these things exist in a world
And always have.
Their function, amongst others
Is to show us what is the opposite of good
To show us the duality of our world
I want to believe in something
Or someone
And struggle with that all the time.
I want to have a personal relationship
With a force greater than I
And to be loved
And assured that a good life
Will be rewarded.
I'm just not so sure anymore.
They both say they're losing it.
I am, too.
I'm sick of defending the organization I was raised to worship with
The Catholic Church.
And I'm sick of trying to speak of it righteously
And to encourage those unsure
That it is indeed accepting
And wonderful
And the correct version of Jesus.
I also seriously doubt the "everything happens for a reason" aspect
God is the Eros, God is Nature
God is the Great System
And we are loved in a morally objective way
We have what we need around us
And we have the ways and means to get it
But some of us do not, or have them taken from us
And that is why, man-to-man, we have an obligation
To fight for those unfortunate
I find it oddly curious that people we refer to as saints
Do their wonderful, their amazing deeds
And all the while, they are told
That performing such deeds
Lead to an infinitely happy after-life.
So, ignorantly, I wonder often
About the true merits of those people's work
Is it selfish at its core?
To do good because it will lead you to an abundance of good?
Wouldn't doing good NOT in the name of God be more noble?
Since the promise of a heaven is not there?
Therefore, you surely are looking out for the betterment
Of your brother.
My faith has been shaken by my own life
By my family and it's falling
By standing at the top of a mountain
On a golf course
And feeling small
And alone.
At the same time, though,
It shifts my focus
My friends that TRULY have made an effort to be in my life
Especially this past month or months
Well, the time spent with them
Is what I take with me
It helps me deal.
The way I thought God used to help me
If all I have is this life
I cherish it that much more
Because I don't lead a perfect life
And I try hard to be a good man
But I very often fail.
Yet those few friends that remain close by
They wrap their arms around me
And they take the place that God once had for me
I feel so far
So very far
From the enlightened feeling I used to enjoy
Life has gotten exceedingly complicated
And I have several moments a day
Where I realize how old I am now
And yet I still want to believe I'm 16.
I believe in prayer.
I believe in the power and RESPONSIBILITY of people
To live change
But I am shaken
And I am so doubtful now
Keep asking yourself "why?"
When you think of the things you do
It was always such an easy response for me
And now, I avoid the "why"
And maybe there is no "why"
Or if there is, maybe it's much more simple
Than what I was brought up to believe
Disease, natural disasters, etc.
All these things exist in a world
And always have.
Their function, amongst others
Is to show us what is the opposite of good
To show us the duality of our world
I want to believe in something
Or someone
And struggle with that all the time.
I want to have a personal relationship
With a force greater than I
And to be loved
And assured that a good life
Will be rewarded.
I'm just not so sure anymore.
April 29, 2010
The Dancing Ball
When I walk down long hallways, I often drift to pretending I'm standing on a pitcher's mound, ball in hand. In the daydream, I'm not playing for the Yankees or anything, and it's always a Little League park, with chain-linked backstop, and wind whipping through. I'm 12 or 13, and wearing white pinstripes. My eyes focus on something that isn't there at the other end of the hallway, so there's a faint sense of dizziness as I stare daggers through nothing.
When I was younger, I used to be a power pitcher. I would blow fastballs by 12 year-olds and feel my arm tingle. I would love the brute force I applied to a ball, daring it to barrel through the air faster than physics dictate. The ball I threw, I was told, when it was caught, would hiss. I made the ball hiss. Like a defensive snake.
And, I could make the ball bend. In fact, my favorite thing to do in all of pitching was throwing breaking balls; making the ball, through its hissing spin, bend and dip how I want it. Impressively, it was a slow enough pitch to actually watch. But try and hit it with your bat, and you can't. At least, if you were the 12 year-old at the end of my hallway.
About 10 years ago, I started to dabble with making the ball dance. Literally dance. And to throw this special kind of dancing ball required an awkward grip on the ball, and to do as much as you can to "not throw" in your arm motion. Any wrist movement or spin could ruin the dance. You released it as if it were a slingshot, instead of like a rifle. It was not precise, and even more astounding, it was tremendously, almost unthinkably, slow.
Yet the dance - this beautiful dance - of the ball would make hitters' knees buckle, and make catchers jump and dash just to catch it. Even if someone can make contact with the dancing ball, they never make full contact, and the ball dribbles to an infielder to no avail.
So I'm standing at the end of the hallway today, 26 years old, and remember the joy I feel throwing a knuckleball - the dancing ball. And funny how the older I got, the more I appreciated the slower, more graceful pitch, the one just as effective with less effort. And, how I went from a power pitcher to someone who throws "junk" - the slang for all pitches that bend and curve that are not a fastball. To me, that seems to be a logical progression, to start out as a young man relying on sheer power, and then through experience and the acquisition of a certain amount of understanding and control, you can throw more effectively, and slower. And more graceful.
In my hallway, I crinkle up my fingers as if I were about to throw a knuckleball, and I pretend to throw the pitch, feeling the ball slip and slide out of my hand, instead of rolling out as it does with a hiss ball. It darts out to the right, and then rainbows towards the imaginary catcher, all the while shifting trajectory and elevation.
You see, dancing balls are equal parts optical illusions and equal parts physical fascinations. The ball shifts, bends, and twists - dances - because of microcurrents in the air, which are otherwise overpowered by the force of a regularly spinning hiss ball or breaking ball. The microcurrents are entirely unpredictable, and that's what makes the knuckleball so astounding and almost unhittable.
How like life. Like my transition from power pitcher to knuckleballer, experience teaches you how to do more with less over time, to reduce the work needed to accomplish something, and think smart.
The microcurrents that hit the ball are unpredictable, and they are like the many things I cannot control in this life. And so once I pitch, I can only hope the ball makes it to the catcher.
I miss throwing knuckleballs, and playing catch in general. It symbolizes taking chances, leaving things up to Nature and Fate. It's been far too long, and I long for days when I could spend hours throwing knuckleballs against a wall, watching the ball dance uniquely each time, and believing that the microcurrents were going to safely deliver it to the mitt.
Right when I'm about to finally deliver the fake pitch in the hallway, someone enters at the other end from the other office, and looks at me like I lost my mind. In many ways, I'm trying to reclaim it.
When I was younger, I used to be a power pitcher. I would blow fastballs by 12 year-olds and feel my arm tingle. I would love the brute force I applied to a ball, daring it to barrel through the air faster than physics dictate. The ball I threw, I was told, when it was caught, would hiss. I made the ball hiss. Like a defensive snake.
And, I could make the ball bend. In fact, my favorite thing to do in all of pitching was throwing breaking balls; making the ball, through its hissing spin, bend and dip how I want it. Impressively, it was a slow enough pitch to actually watch. But try and hit it with your bat, and you can't. At least, if you were the 12 year-old at the end of my hallway.
About 10 years ago, I started to dabble with making the ball dance. Literally dance. And to throw this special kind of dancing ball required an awkward grip on the ball, and to do as much as you can to "not throw" in your arm motion. Any wrist movement or spin could ruin the dance. You released it as if it were a slingshot, instead of like a rifle. It was not precise, and even more astounding, it was tremendously, almost unthinkably, slow.
Yet the dance - this beautiful dance - of the ball would make hitters' knees buckle, and make catchers jump and dash just to catch it. Even if someone can make contact with the dancing ball, they never make full contact, and the ball dribbles to an infielder to no avail.
So I'm standing at the end of the hallway today, 26 years old, and remember the joy I feel throwing a knuckleball - the dancing ball. And funny how the older I got, the more I appreciated the slower, more graceful pitch, the one just as effective with less effort. And, how I went from a power pitcher to someone who throws "junk" - the slang for all pitches that bend and curve that are not a fastball. To me, that seems to be a logical progression, to start out as a young man relying on sheer power, and then through experience and the acquisition of a certain amount of understanding and control, you can throw more effectively, and slower. And more graceful.
In my hallway, I crinkle up my fingers as if I were about to throw a knuckleball, and I pretend to throw the pitch, feeling the ball slip and slide out of my hand, instead of rolling out as it does with a hiss ball. It darts out to the right, and then rainbows towards the imaginary catcher, all the while shifting trajectory and elevation.
You see, dancing balls are equal parts optical illusions and equal parts physical fascinations. The ball shifts, bends, and twists - dances - because of microcurrents in the air, which are otherwise overpowered by the force of a regularly spinning hiss ball or breaking ball. The microcurrents are entirely unpredictable, and that's what makes the knuckleball so astounding and almost unhittable.
How like life. Like my transition from power pitcher to knuckleballer, experience teaches you how to do more with less over time, to reduce the work needed to accomplish something, and think smart.
The microcurrents that hit the ball are unpredictable, and they are like the many things I cannot control in this life. And so once I pitch, I can only hope the ball makes it to the catcher.
I miss throwing knuckleballs, and playing catch in general. It symbolizes taking chances, leaving things up to Nature and Fate. It's been far too long, and I long for days when I could spend hours throwing knuckleballs against a wall, watching the ball dance uniquely each time, and believing that the microcurrents were going to safely deliver it to the mitt.
Right when I'm about to finally deliver the fake pitch in the hallway, someone enters at the other end from the other office, and looks at me like I lost my mind. In many ways, I'm trying to reclaim it.
April 27, 2010
"Gumboots"
"I said hey, breakdowns come, and breakdowns go
Now whatcha gonna do about it, that's what I'd like to know"
Well, I plan on barreling through
To deal
And come out the other end better
But Life marks you as you pass
A branding of character
Of loss
And you turn around and review your Prior Self
And understand.
"Believing I had supernatural powers
I slammed into a brick wall,
I said hey, is this my problem?,
Is this my fault?,
If that's the way it's going to be
I'm going to call the whole thing to a halt"
Well, it's not my fault
None of it
Yet life has dealt me and those close to me
Considerable tragedy
And so we all grieve
On some level.
I'm learning in this process of moving forward
That we do not slowly stop feeling
Or gradually feel better
But rather, we say
ENOUGH.
NO MORE OF IT.
And we make the sign of the cross
And go to sleep.
Even Superman had to rest.
"I said 'hey, senorita, that's astute' I said.
'Why don't we get together and call ourselves an institute'"
I am so close
And realizing that I need not be so scared
"You don't feel you can love me,
But I feel you could"
Rejection, after rejection, after rejection,
After rejection, after rejection, after rejection, after
Rejection, after rejection, after rejec....
......
......
enough.
no more of it.
......
......
In the calm that follows
Astounding to meet someone that likes you around
Who isn't already a dear friend.
April 21, 2010
April 15, 2010
PLAYOFFS? I'M TALKING ABOUT PLAYOFFS?
Oh man, do yourself a favor and watch playoff hockey. The Flyers dismantled the Devils last night, much to the chagrin of the hometown Jersey crowd. The announcers from MSG NJ, Doc Emerick and Chico Resch, are arguably the BIGGEST HOMERS (Doh!) I’ve ever seen in all of pro sports. They speak of the players on NJ by their first name, and not even by their full name (ie, Martin Brodeur, when he makes a save, is referred to as “Marty” in the heat of the play-by-play – douche chills, anyone??). The color guy, "Chico", speaks as if he never learned his indoor voice, and always sounds like the guy at the party who keeps talking loudly when the music suddenly reduces volume. And he has a thick, thick Canadian accent, so he might as well have stuffed gauze up his sinuses.
The most enraging part is every time a NJ Devil is cited for a minor penalty, they replay the video in slow motion, and the color guy will say something to the effect of “OH, I DOAN KNOW BOUD DAT ONE! GIVE DA REF A-LOOK AT DAT TEN TIMES, I DINK HE’S NOT CALLIN IT EIGHT OUTTA DA TEN! BOY, DAT’S A ROUGH ONE DA TAKE!”
And then they will go on diatribes when the penalty is called against the NJ opponent, how clearly that is the right call, how “DOZE KINDA PLAYS WIT YER STICK ARE NOT APARTA DA NEW NHL, AND PLAYERS GODDA KNOW DAT!”
Well, guess what? Last night, the ever-revered and cherished goalie, Martin “Marty” Brodeur, gave up more goals than his counterpart, rookie Brian Boucher (insert “Waterboy” jokes here). And Philly won in a game that looks a lot closer on paper than it really was. It was so fun to watch all those Aqua-Velvet wearing, IROC-Z driving, wife-beater-under-hockey-jersey sporting Jersey trash raise their hands in disgust moment after moment in the third period, and go home so sad and dejected. A huge win for the Flyers, and a joyful occasion for me, to see the entire institution that is NJ Devils Hockey, Broadcasting, and Fanaticism have their hopes, aspirations, and overweening pride dashed. By a rookie-led Philly team, no less.
GO SABRES TONIGHT!
The most enraging part is every time a NJ Devil is cited for a minor penalty, they replay the video in slow motion, and the color guy will say something to the effect of “OH, I DOAN KNOW BOUD DAT ONE! GIVE DA REF A-LOOK AT DAT TEN TIMES, I DINK HE’S NOT CALLIN IT EIGHT OUTTA DA TEN! BOY, DAT’S A ROUGH ONE DA TAKE!”
And then they will go on diatribes when the penalty is called against the NJ opponent, how clearly that is the right call, how “DOZE KINDA PLAYS WIT YER STICK ARE NOT APARTA DA NEW NHL, AND PLAYERS GODDA KNOW DAT!”
Well, guess what? Last night, the ever-revered and cherished goalie, Martin “Marty” Brodeur, gave up more goals than his counterpart, rookie Brian Boucher (insert “Waterboy” jokes here). And Philly won in a game that looks a lot closer on paper than it really was. It was so fun to watch all those Aqua-Velvet wearing, IROC-Z driving, wife-beater-under-hockey-jersey sporting Jersey trash raise their hands in disgust moment after moment in the third period, and go home so sad and dejected. A huge win for the Flyers, and a joyful occasion for me, to see the entire institution that is NJ Devils Hockey, Broadcasting, and Fanaticism have their hopes, aspirations, and overweening pride dashed. By a rookie-led Philly team, no less.
GO SABRES TONIGHT!
April 11, 2010
Untitled, #12
Come now, Little Ones
And tell me
How the Heart sits inside You
The Fleeting ticks of the Clock
For the first time
You realize
Like us all
That You're speeding
And tell me
How the Heart sits inside You
The Fleeting ticks of the Clock
For the first time
You realize
Like us all
That You're speeding
April 1, 2010
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