The Hair Situation

From the fiery death of my punk rock faux-hawk, rises the metaphorical phoenix that is my overwhelmingly long bangs.

Missed my gabba gabba Ramones doo.

Beatnik Prayer #3

I have seen flowers die;

pray I live to see another spring.

Carry me to this conception;

for with the reblooming,

I see reason to believe in god.

Beatnik Prayer #2

Fall asleep on a tiny hill above town,

the sun's gone down,

the breeze is bring leaves to chat;

level with the browning grass beneath.

Its tuck in time and all those prayers are

floating up like birds migrating south,

but there's nothing up that way but a full moon

and some stars.

Some angel catches all those prayers,

and with her fishnet full of hope,

brings 'em to the spark where the dead leaves meet the dying grass,

and fire smoke mingles with the spirits.

And prayers are wooed, danced, charmed,

and answered.

Beatnik Prayer #1

Jesus was nailed to a cross

roads.

Beatnik Prayer #12

Above oceans and snowcaps and tell-tall trees,

Let our spirits roam and have conception

With the vast land below us;

and let us swing and snap to a beat:

how can god move within all things,

there is hatred, pain,

He is tuneless piano, playing in the corner

He is the silent poet weeping some gospel tale,

He is the last drop of desperate bottles of wine,

He is the wave crashing on the rocks,

He is dead and dying,

for He is all of us,

happy and immortal.

so for us, we must have,

dead and dying and happy and immortal.

------------------------

I won an award for this poem, although the award itself is unknown, I do know it will be featured in the spring edition of Otterbein College's "Quiz and Quill," the literary magazine on campus. Yay!

Which leads me to another project: writing all the beatnik prayers! at least, 1-11....

More more more work, it seems will keep Tony a busy boy this summer.

Bristling Winds Atop Harrowdown HIll

Harrowdown is that nightmare place,

where children cower beneath the sheets,

and sweat until in the pools of nervousness,

they sleep.

Harrowdown is where happiness goes to die;

and damn, it's windy.

Sadness becomes noisy business overlooking

the Miserable lake, in this nightmare place.

(Harrowdown is a parable, a children's story I'm working on. Completely unrelated to my other two current projects, Harrowdown Hill is what I believe will be the closest to something like "Where The Wild Things Are," as I'll get. Just read the poem, listen to the Beatles' "Yesterday," and be as miserable as a child going to bed alone and frightened. But wake up and explore the nightmare world, and realize it's all just part of the most fascinating thing children have: wonder and amazement, curiosity, so to speak. This is what Harrowdown becomes. At least, for little Tyler Grover, our main character; updates often...)

Way Low Tide

What'd they do to your world, Jack?

They tie you up like old McMurphy

and zap the lights out for you?

They press cigarette butts into your arms?

Or'd they just tie you up and throw you

in a windowless basement?

Whatever happened, you lost your mind,

or your nerve,

and nursed down bottle after bottle of cheap wine;

it killed you, Jack.

You had to know it was an endless pursuit,

there was nothing to find, not up on Desolation Peak,

Not on the road, beneath any mountain or in any

Canadian-American boy's childhood Connecticut

hideout.

You died on that beach in Big Sur,

San Francisco took you Jack.

Maybe you realized you couldn't find god

in a world that wasn't wanting to have him,

hiding in our roads, sleeping with our virgin beauty,

climbing our mountains, looking at our clouds,

holding hands with blondes, brunettes, red heads,

because these girls, they all wanted the same thing,

wanted to fuck, and you realized this somewhere

down Mexico way,

that nobody wanted to make love anymore,

and that is what scared god away,

and left you alone, high time for another bottle,

on the beach.

At low tide.