right next door to God
I left my heart behind
I'll pick up the parts later
My Dad is here
I'd like to stop and say "Hello"
or even "Good-bye"
with black stained hands
in his pockets.
He grips a bottle of black labeled Bourbon
and with a grin says
“Fuck the world.”
His mind has become black
from the fact that
for all the work he does
with those hidden black hands
he has nothing to offer
to his family,
not even to himself.
Even Jesus, son of a tradesman,
had something to offer
at the Last Supper.
Instead, the Mexican stands and suffers
and waits for some white man to gather him up.
Work from the black of morning
Work until the black of night
Work until the black of death.
Why should he care
when the black of night, and sleep, and death
will eventually visit him
like the white man coming to round him up
and bury his dreams
into the blackness of this earth?
“My you have such pretty eyes.”
I think, pretty as Blue Butterfly peonies
in spring. So I give her a rose,
a red one. It’s how my love shows
through my shyness. Like a shroud,
clean and pure, she blinds me in a cloud
of lies. Death comes to all,
I say. She’s there to see me fall
before the final credits. The critics all rave
As I suck it up, smile and wave.
I may be goofy
I may be timid
I may be sensative
I may be ugly
I may be weird
I may be quiet
I may be smart
I may be lazy
Well, So fucking what?!
The paint is chipping
The body has dents
and there is a bit of rust
The interior is grey
the seats are worn
and it smells like cigarettes
The floor is dirty
and the dashboard is warped
The tape deck doesn't work
and the seats are broken
People make fun and make little jokes
but Hey, it's my car
and that's all that matters.
he can't,
if he could he definately would.
he can't drive a car.
Why not?
he's got a crooked neck that's why!
he can't look straight ahead,
if he had a straight neck he would look straight,
but he can't because he's got a crooked neck.
It must really suck to be him,
to have a crooked neck.
It'd be difficult to write this story even,
or drive a car, or look a man in the eye.
Boy that sucks.
I kinda feel bad for the man with the crooked neck.
~Kevo
he sits alone on a park bench
but is he really alone?
he has the shade to keep him protected
it's silent and cool, comforting and understanding.
the wrustling of the leaves break the silence
like a soft whisper it sends chills down his neck
deep in the moment the sounds of birds and people
keep him anchored to reality.
And what about the empty spot on the bench?
it offers a seat to a stranger or acquantance
maybe it honors a lost friend or loved one.
Yes, the man sits by himself and ponders life
But he is not alone, he is not alone.
Untitled
Written 1/17/01 Updated 2/6/01
This poem I wrote the day after my father died suddenly. I was on a plane going home and this is one of a few poems I wrote that day in the sky. This is the first one I wrote. I haven't written about my Dad since this day.
Pure white for miles
Black
It took me 4 months to write this fall of 2000. I changed it 3 times, twice I re-wrote the whole poem, only salvaging some key words and phrases. I feel it is almost at completeness. Close enough for me right now. :)
A Mexican stands
To Love Someone is to be Blinded by Someone
This poem was a play with "end rhyme" and it turned out to be a favorite poem of mine. I actually read it in a poetry reading.
So What
I may be lanky
My Car
First of all, it's a station wagon
Man With a Crooked Neck
he doesn't look at you when he talks,
Alone?
I came up with an image of a man sitting on a park bench as if I was watching him from afar. I scribbled a little picture into one of my notebooks during class and wrote this poem beside it. I haven't touched this poem since then, about 1 year ago. I feel the need to revise soon. I will add the drawing also shortly.