Here is some poetry and prose
works that I wrote under the alias Xavier Crane. All my works are
submitted to RedPencil for
review-RedPencil is a writing community that reads and gives feedback
to works submitted by various authors.
I probably shouldn't give away my pseudonym, but meh. Anyway, feedback
for my work is always appreciated. If you have comments, good or bad,
feel free to email me at happyburger@softhome.net.
Be sure to put RedPencil in the subject line so I do not mistake it for
spam. Heh heh heh. Anyway, ONWARDS.
Newer
Works
The Glorious Chore
-THE GIRL-
today
oh, today,
she was dressed in black
and i borrowed her scarf,
and wore it
buffoon-ish
to make a mockery
of the things
that made my vision
fracture into a thousand pieces.
-THE PAINTING-
we browsed through the gallery
passing hundreds upon hundreds
of moments on canvas
(or board, or wall, or corner)
when without warning
"The Ascension of the Virgin"
threw us each
into our own unique
13th century.
-THE MUSIC-
sousaphones are NOT
supposed to be glorious
to the ear
(or any other part)
yet my heart
leapt and swelled
when i heard it-
the bass *smiled*
through me,
and all i could return
was a belly-laugh
----- Sunset
so it began kind of like this:
as we drove,
away from here and up the hill
i noticed the sunset
brilliant sunset
of red and orange and FIRE
through the trees that were
black with night
and there was a terrified little boy
in me, then
and i hugged my books closer.
----- Today
today:
it is possible to seize a moment
in the awkward gel-air
when motion is difficult,
breathing labored
the blinding silence
being okay.
today:
i am able
to see the sun rise red
and see six moves further
than my opponent
today:
i saw that the dream within me
had not died
and that i could still
continue
today:
the paper cut funnel
sucking my ideas
was dispelled
and i *get* it
really, in my
composite atoms
i understand
today.
----- Blue Moment
it was a white time
or blue (yes, blue)
it has been too long.
today i stole a moment
alone with someone
and a song
and we made it
a blue time
and i smiled
and she smiled
and we should NOT HAVE SMILED
but we did
and now
i am left only with the thought
that it was, despite,
worth it
for a blue moment.
----- Gray
the low, keening wail
of a mother
who has lost her
youngest child
...
snuck through the air.
it was low, barely audible.
the casket was closed,
thank any mercy there might have been.
my ears, and heart,
could not be.
nor could my eyes-
tears flowed from them
as they never have before.
it began to drizzle
the drops punctuating
each breath
ripped from the air
the trees were black and the stones were cold
and the only points of other color
were the bright balloons
the children released.
as they rose,
my hopes
left with them.
----- The Lonely Frost (I Know It Well) this is how i
spent my saturday evening:
i love, and am in love, and am loved, and all is red and bright and warm
but i am afraid-he died, not long ago, and she is not well
i want to hug her but now is not a good time.
i eat dinner, watch a play, go for a drive
seek the northern lights, watch the eclipse
bring some friends and melt the frost
(the lonely frost, i know it well)
and talk and laugh
and return
and sit
and dream
and watch
i love and am loved again
but i am afraid-there is something
vast and dark and enormous
in tonight.
it is late.
i write a letter,
to stave off the frost
and sign it
my name,
"pondering the beauty and
fearing the vastness
of everything that is"
and i am
and it is cold.
------ Deepest Moonlight apparently you drank too deep of the moonlight i had feared
to taste. i wonder (and know... oh, i
know) what darkness could have wrapped you in that night in that endless place.
i hope you find wherever a place that is worthy- and where you can rest after the long day. ----- most
unfortunate "it is most unfortunate" i mumbled, intensely conscious of all the things that were
happening outside of my bubble. over there they were playing, over there they were singing behind me they were laughing always they never we or me or
us but this is all right, it is not so bad it is NOT SO BAD it is intensely painful. it is most unfortunate. ----- Prometheus prometheus stole fire from the
gods. on this cool September night the breezes of ages come
whipping around my house, gray and lean and full of
promise. i am full of desire- to quest for something of my own to steal from the gods and bring to earth. ----- Dark Canvas it is evident that we live in times of darkness mixed with times of light to create the impression of stars winking out of a great dark canvas. ----- A Conclusion i came to the conclusion that
i have wasted my life when, after a night spent staring
wide-eyed into the pit of infinite doom created by the play of light
and shadows around my spinning ceiling fan, i realized that there had
never been a moment of crystal joy that caused me to utter a
small gasp and recoil in amazed fright from the immenseness of beauty
around me. ----- Poetry of
the Grand Pursuit i'll bet she writes mediocre
poetry, the kind that i write about how sad the grand
pursuit of the unattainable can be when it is shared with
someone who is beautiful. ----- difference
of motion i am too plain for her. i move in a way that speaks of
hours spent at computers and a life perhaps wasted if
viewed by people with standards that require less intellectual
pursuits and more canoing down the river.
but she moves in a way that
makes me lick my lips and tremble, inside while smiling outside, and
saying "Would you like another drink?" ----- deep blue we all sit at the lunch table- she is crying again. "what's wrong?" a beat. a pause. three periods. ... "nothing" ... it is not nothing. we know
this. still. another beat. a sniffle. a hiccup. another of both. ... "i hate being me." ... amen, sister. ----- not myself everything breaks i think -the pavement is around me, i
am not myself everything is orange-pink and
black, the night is everywhere shadows. i am frightened, terrified, i need a hug more than i have
ever needed anything and the night is dark. i am not myself. ----- i would
argue it wasn't brilliant; in fact, i would argue that it
spoke more to the foolish, who disregard capitalization
and embrace only what punctuation greets
them when they awake in the morning
with a pen in their hand from the night
before when they fell asleep in the
half of an idea, curled all about them like a
large puppy full of love and fur and drool
and smiles and panting. ----- Willow
Morning there was an early morning fog i saw rising from the near middle of the almost dried-up river. it was warm and humid,
especially so for morning. there had been no rain the arms of the willow were
around me and it was comforting- i had fallen asleep with only the leaves to shelter me and they had kept me whole. -----
Older
Works
Disclaimer: a lot of the following
stuff is VERY VERY BAD. Please do NOT comment on this stuff. It is
embarassing, but here for posterity. Thanks.
What's Wrong? What's wrong? Your
face, usually so luminous, is tonight dark. Was it me? Was it... love?
Hate? Fear? Fate? Did someone say the
unspeakable? Did someone do the unthinkable?
Please don't be sad. It kills me slowly. You know I'm here. I'm always
here. What will make it better? What
will make you laugh? I'll do it, you know I will. I
love you, in my own way. Don't be sad any
more. Hey,
we're lucky! Don't you see? There are many worse places we could be. Your light... so bright,
usually, but.. you're so sad. Why?
Don't be-my sympathy turns to anger. Not at you, but at the world, at
God; anything that can exist and make you and others sad *needs* my
rage turned against it. You are wonderful! Don't let mere existence
cloud your beauty. If
you need me, I'm here.
I'm
always here, for you. ----- Tell The
vision of the street, the scent of possibilities and ambition, the
music of revolution, the poetry of the simple, the light of the heart...
Rivers of strength lie dammed behind walls of silence.
Conversations of power never begun. Unquenchable thirst unsatisfied.
Who are we to be silent? Our
promise exists, it's there untouched-I have seen it, held it, cradled
it in my arms, to my breast, like a newborn baby-only to watch it slip
away, back behind veils and masks and a thousand little excuses that
keep people from coming together and seizing our inherent power.
We all are pristine wastelands of beauty, untouched, unsatisfied... why
do we fear what we have? Why
not speak? Who told us we couldn't be? Fie,
fie this life. Or if not this life, then this being silent. End the
silence with the magic words I don't have. End the fear with the spells
of release not found in any of my tomes. Say
with your tongue what I say only with a pen. ----- Luminous If I was what I am as opposed
to who I am, I would not be long for this world.
I
have my freedom, you yours, but these CHAINS OF THE MUNDANE hold us
down.
Afraid to let, terrified to speak, always lurking just beneath the
surface.
We get *at* it, but never *to*
it.
Who are we?
-You
tell me. ----- Welcome Stranger in a familiar land. No wise men find we here. Unwelcome nights, Less welcome days.
Perpetuating sameness for
reasons unknown. Why breed what we despise?
Carbon-copy paperdoll me's.
Not me but... me yet. The parts you fear are the
parts with which you battle.
Raise the standards to fit
those who care Raise yourself to meet those
you love Love those you love.
All else is naught. Cosmos contained produce
sights believed and feelings prescribed.
"all
of which makes me anxious, at times unbearably so." ----- What Am I? Choppy installments of
ridicule intermixed with brief moments of burning poignancy.
Unbearable flashes of
understand coupled with crippling instances of doubt.
A terrifying inability to
express... anything.
Impossible dreams crossed with
unalterable reality.
Held down by chains of the
mundane.
Dreams of the fantastic.
Eloquence of the unutterable.
Wonder at the known.
Fascination with the obvious.
Unfathomable questions, unseen
life, dark words with bright purpose.
Love of beauty and fear of
same.
This, and more, am I. ----- Unknown...
Unseen? Stars shine in the universe of
your eyes, yet- I'm hidden. Or worse, seen but
forgotten. I have a universe too, you
know. I am
to me what you are to you. You
are to me what you are to you. I am
to you what I am to you. What
am I to you?
Oh, am I fun? Pay attention
now! Oh, fun's over. Turn away. Why? Must I *always* be fun? For you,
perhaps. To me, a whirlwind.
You are NOT VAPID! Why pretend
so? Leave the false lights of darkness behind. You have no idea of your
damage. Were
this a song, this would be the musical interlude.
Can't stand the loneliness,
but I'm always alone. A round ped in a square hole? You could be round too. But... but... why aren't you?
Peh. Screw square holes anyway. Back to the drawing board.
Alone? ----- Journey (A
Healthy Dose of Nonsense) DISTILL GREAT HUMAN TRUTHS.
Spoken like a true Mark Twain.
If I had a guitar, would you be my E-chord? (What the HELL kind of
question is that, anyway? Is there even such a THING as an E-chord?)
Neurotic mind (can you tell?),
paranoid sleep, confounded breaths in deep canyons.
Nothing actually has a point,
it's the --{-PROCESS-}-- that matters most!
I'd rather have a wonderful
time getting there and not actually arrive than to have no fun getting
there and less fun once we arrive. What'd be the point of that?
Walk through me, if you want.
----- Cheers Go, little one. Leave me. I
will take and face that which I would wish upon no other; I will do
this beacuse I love you and the love I hold knows no bounds. I alone
will battle the storm while you huddle close with your brothers and
sisters, safe and warm inside. I'll hold back the night in the way that
I can, knowing you and those are with will forget me and what I do, but
that is all right because I do it for love of you; pure, unrequited
love that breaks my heart freshly each morning when I awake and realize
I am still and always will be alone for you, alone of you, alone even
with you. I'm always broken when I see you, but it's a brokenness of
joy because to see you is to know that you exist and love allows that
to be enough. Still... I weep for you even as you fill me with joy.
THIS is love, and what love does. Cheers. ----- Excerpts
from "The Third Symphony of the Dead, for Xylophone and Kazoo" VI. Don't be scared, this is the
fun part. It's the razorbacked rollercoaster bus ride at the bus stop
of love right by the bust of Rodan and Rodan made The Thinker who is
thinking constantly and wondering deeply if existence has any more
meaning than this manifesto which isn't. Wouldn't it be funny if our
lives were some sort of cosmic joke? Oh, heehee, I get it, chuckle
chuckle, chortle chortle, guffaw? Erm, perhaps funny is the wrong
choice of words, especially when this SHOULD be in mandarin Chinese to
be published and posited just south of the Great Wall of Chicken
Innards which was formed to hold back the sea of ignorance but sprang
many a leak along it's great sides. The sea of ignorance is in fact
sweeping about my feet as I fold paper into little boats and let them
sail on to hopefully reach some other island such as myself and then
set up a colony and eventually strike out to become Vikings. Vikings should win the
superbowl. So should Green Bay Packers. Wow... I just made a football
analogy, and I hate football. It's the sea of ignorance, I tell you! My
island! Submerged! Forsooth and verily, dada
lived for a long time and then died before it was born, leaving only
the remnants of its shell in such places as Zurich, first-and-last for
us, and New York, closest, (except for the dada colony in Iowa which is
as magic and mysterious as the elf zebra). VII. We're getting closer to where
you wanted to go anyway, go away, take a plane train or automobile
across the Orient Express because there was a murder there once you
know I know we know I do we do you do so COME ON. Rock out because what else can
you do? VIII. I'm long-winded. Had you
noticed? I thought I noticed you noticing. Hell is other people, said
Sartre. God is other people, said Srini. I am other people, says Dada. This is the Third Symphony of
the Dead, For Xylophone and Kazoo. Play it at the same time from your
ears to your nose but not with your mouth because that would be
bourgeoise, and we don't want to be bourgeoise, and I'll bet that
bourgeoise isn't spelled that way, but spelling is for losers and
CAPITALISTS and DIRTY DIRTY Ditch-Diggers, not that all ditch-diggers
are dirty and that is an ignoble profession, because that's not what
I'm saying, not at all, you're completely missing my point. Darts have
points. So do charts. Chart rhymes with dart... give me a
dartachartchart and a wheelbarrow full of anarchy and I'd be a happy
clam, not happy AS a clam because I once met a bipolar clam who was
only happy some of the time and when he wasn't happy he was extremely
not happy to the point of being beyond sad and lost in the depth of the
ocean where he lived with his mom and his dad and his four brothers and
sisters where he played in the Undersea Wind Symphony, he played a
French Horn which is ironic because it's not french OR necessarily a
horn because it was underwater and stuff works funny down there like
garbage pan lids are only some of the weirdness. I met a bird once named Harry,
except he wasn't, and the joke was on him but he never knew because he
was a bird, content merely to sing the songs that his ancestors gave
him which is NOT dada because we make up our own songs and our lexicon
is constantly evolving and changing because we're not content to let
others label things for us. (have you noticed there's
profound thought mixed in with the craziness? AH, and THERE'S our whole
goal! ah ha! little did you know that this was a work of staggering
genius and heartbreaking wonder because it was so CRAMPED in the
CRAZINESS! but it's there! ah ha!) VIV/IX. Have a truck for dessert with
that waffle. Why waffle? Because waffles are the supreme expression of
the universe, and no one can argue otherwise, because someone told me
Mein Kampf was written by Marx and I almost cried when I realized my
education had been spent listening to people like her when I could have
been learning in the real world but instead had been inclosed in prison
made of jell-o, of garlands and fluff and cake and apahty, OH the
APATHY, it burns sometimes because you know it shouldn't be what it is
but it is what it is and no one can claim otherwise, or so I've been
told. I'm only 17, I shouldn't feel
old, but I have to feel old because the people that ARE old are doing
almost nothing to fix the hurts that they made with their skunk-smells
and atomic bombs and not only that but (here's the actual serious part,
where Dada drops away) our society is so misdirected that it hurts to
live in it and be a person like I am. So. Back to the dada. E L E P H A N T
M A N ----- A Rant of
Middling Length I am VERY FRUSTRATED. Those of
us who write poetry, listen-it is VERY HARD. Poetry ought not to be
doggerel and a lot oh-so-much of it is. It is icky, I hate it, I am not
intensely in love with my own work or anyone elses and it is DAMNED
depressing to read a book full of Beat Poetry from the most glorious
generation and be aware that no matter what you say or feel they did it
already. Grr Each
thought will be a new paragraph but they are all related because it is
more like chapters in a book than books in a series although that works
too. What do you
do when you are enclosed all about an intense feeling but lack the
talent to air it adequately? That is the dilemma I face because
existence is intense and I can recognize that sure, and even enjoy
reading other people's takes on it and all that but if I try to let it
out it is HORRIBLE and I do not want to be horrible. I am not a zombie,
I am not soul-less, I am not without at least an attempted nod at
almost everything that has come before. Grargh! Talented people, HOW DO
YOU DO IT? There needs to be a secret formula written on parchment and
locked away in something similar to the Poet's Arc of the Covenant. Language is
astoundingly, frustratingly inadequate. Sigh. I
love you. Good night. -X
-----
Whew. What a bunch of... crap, eh? Yes. Ah well. This is the way Home.
