Demo(lishment)(nstration)

The bar was dropped,
and my chest pushes it back up.
Great feet scramble above my head,
like quiet mice
fleeing the horrible villain,
Superpoog.

How to Teach Guitar Lessons

Read the epic novel.
Dance the fancy feet.
Snatch the screaming voice.
Reveal your true identity.
Practice dissolving nitrates.
Yell at the lazy beans.
Break the pi bonds.
Type in the letters.
Eat the pineapple pigs.

High School Decisions, Scene 2

Brutal conciousness
that drags down on my shoulders.
It must die or be saved.

Lifting it is easy,
but I cannot put it down
because it is too important.

I decide to risk my burden,
and hurl it out into space,
in the hopes that another will catch it.

Gameday

The gameday has arrived,
and the air is filled with electricity.
A matrix of nerves is sideswiped in my mind
as the enemy enters into my vision.
I scream and charge.

Growth

The city is glistening,
and I do not know why.
The shimmering lights
dance softly to the music.

Gold and orange sway
in seas of silence and color.
The shadow of the sun
prolongs the night's coming.

Out in the city,
people drive home from their jobs.
The lights move with them
and appear as one dull glow.

But up here,
the city is glistening,
and I do not know why.

Acceptance

I enter the room
and watch The Batman
reveal the news.
At first he misspells my victoriuos name,
but soon corrects it and whips.

Radiohead

The music in my head
tells me what color to make my life.
I walk through the hall of blue
and watch the red accents flash,
as they walk alongside me.

The music in my head
tells me how fast to take my life.
I walk down the hall slowly
and watch the somber blurs,
grimly dashing to their duties.

The music in my head
tells me what to hear in my life.
I walk down the hall of chaos
and listen to the sweet jazz,
enticing me with their mellow harmonies.

The music in my head
writes my life into song
that never repeats,
but always resolves.

A Hint of Exotic Vegetables

Sleepy jazz and slicing cables
jar me from my dozings
and begin the countdown.
Rapid tritones,
incidental, as always,
indicate the time to depart.
Drudging off to study language,
in what would be suggested creatively.
But is it?
An hour later, my day begins.

Complicated Life

It's very complex
like a matrix of spiders.
Those spiders have dreams, 2.

Autumn Breezes

My body is warm in the pseudo sun,
but I shiver as the fog blows into my mind.
the wind howls constantly,
so that I am deaf to reason.
The mist blinds me with an image of disclarity,
and the haze consumes my vision.
Leaves shift unpredictably deep in my awareness,
colliding with all that is central,
leaving me paralyzed with anticipation.

Outside the world,
there is no fog,
no secret's descent with a cloud.
They don't know of my challenges,
the load that I must bear.
To them, I am the fading fighter,
not ready to fall into the shadows
that grant salvation.
My gloomy burden lie far beyond their intuition,
and they will never know of my autumn breezes,
the dying summer breezes that bring me the fog
and invite me to the bittersweet haze.

The Definition of Insanity

Sprinting and screaming.
Sweating and working.
Laughing and waiting.
Celebrating and bonding.
Walking and talking.
Eating and bravery.
Ridiculousy and infamy.
Trust and extremity.
Listening and hoping.
Arriving and anticipating.
Cutting and relieving.
Sleeping and resting.
Eating and revealing.
Driving and socializing.
Unloading and preparing.
Dressing and practicing.
Performing and learning.
Focusing and relaxing.
Painting and envisioning.
Spitting and asking.
Sprinting and begging.
Fixing and giving up.
Determination and obtaining.
Dashing and marching.
Warming and zoning.
Eliminating and becoming an independent gear.
Silence.

Doing and forgetting.
Perfection.
Retreating and disappointing.
Recessing and lining.
Recieving and accepting.
Leaving and chatting.
Loading and observing.
Moronizing and sitting.
Joking and confessing.
Fading and fighting.
Blackness.

Awaking and shocking.
Calling and speaking.
Stepping off and retrieving.
Waiting and telling.
Full circle.

Marching band trips.

An Average Conversation

Extraneous roots.
Estranged roots.

Push vs. Pull Essay.
Pushing what people say.

Jazz improvisation.
Living life improvised.

Tiny Power

The smallest one with the greatest load.
The smallest one with the biggest two.
The smallest one bearing the most responsibility.
The smallest one creating the greatest din.
The biggest ones fall to the tiny.

The Difference Between a Tuba and a Guitar

Spinning cycle wheels,
devouring outer space,
digesting Jupiter in instants,
and holding it for eons.

One Who Abandons Another

The gloves smite my cheeks
as my eyes long to close.
White flashes before my eyes with each blow.
My face gleams red with blood,
Arms struggling to re-enter the scene,
muscle removed and replaced with pain.
The referee watches, but does not end the fight.
The lights remain, but the roar,
and the rage,
and the ring,
fade...

Vicious and Viscous

The acid thunders down the slope,
accelerating at an evil rate,
as it devours the hill beneath its avalanche.
I stand strong at the base of the hill,
braced for the impact,
but not the bite.

The Worker

Wandering halls wandered by all,
a writhing maze of human flesh,
walls of chatter line walls of brick,
and floors newly waxed already showing scars of friction.

Always calm but for once an hour,
a flurry of people scrambling through,
all marching to a new death,
walking to their joys,
running to their melancholies.
Everyone feels differently.

I feel warm and belonging,
greeting friends and joking with unknown spirits,
Headed to math,
a snide determination and excitement fills me.

Clubs

A plethora of social nuances
running rampant throughout the school.
Most accepted by the majority,
others shunned in fear.
Factors motivate each individual.
Some choose in need.
Others choose for fun.
Few choose for individuality,
but these few are rewarded.

September

Tomorrow brings September.
Tomorrow brings the end of summer.
Tomorrow brings the season for blue jeans and hoodies.
Tomorrow brings the unofficial start of autumn.
Tomorrow brings cool fall breezes.
Tomorrow brings black nights and bright lights, surrounded by friends.
Tomorrow brings the beginning of a new school year.
Tomorrow brings the sound of thundering drums.
Tomorrow brings a sense of unity.
Tomorrow brings a time of rememberance.
Tomorrow brings a wonder of time.
Tomorrow brings a new hope.
Tomorrow brings the beginning of a spirited celebration.
Tomorrow brings September.

9-Volt Batteries

A shopping bag bearing fruit,
soggy from its journey.

A friendship born of a joke,
a mentor teaching his equal.

A gift always given,
unwrapped by its giver.

A troupe self-assembled,
cohesive by attraction.

A duty to a VIP,
unknown until tomorrow arrives.

A game of rivals,
powerful among culture and questioning in nature.

A tragedy of pride.

High School Decisions, Scene 1

Scribbles on an open range,
reminescent of my thoughts estranged,
attempting in vain not to desire this power,
to strike another man and drive him down like a tower.

Tremendous momentum rides with the quarterback,
my mind draws upon the joys of all my past sacks.
But I left football behind to continue my dream,
to open my emotions to the musical stream.

There's no good metaphor to snagging a pass,
leaping over the corner and tearing the grass,
Even in practice I'll miss the drills repetitions,
football has always been in my definition.

Phone Calls

A chain suspended above the cosmos,
carrying on past planets and stars,
a desperate grasp at communication
to an alien always concealed by masks.

The chain is made of steel
and plated in gold.

It is tethered to a great hook,
protruding from the depths of Earth,
the solemn anchorman stands at his mournful post.

The chain dies far away,
and no one is there to save it.

Ethereal Visions

Earth and rain collide
in the bright antechamber
below the river.

The currnets ring proud
against the atmosphere
combating silence.

I am sliding by
the stone enclosure encloses
and captivates me.

Completing a vicious task
that brings great joy
and staring down at the list
as the letters slide into new order.

Marching Band

I step out of the car
and am instantly charged by a joyful troupe
who thought I was dead.
Lifted off my feet,
I know this is where I belong.
The freshmen are many and shy,
unlike any others I have seen.

I learn our section is small.
The weight on my shoulders is doubled.
A large band, a small base.

I converse with the drummer
in another band
soon to take off.
We resolve to begin the hunt early.
We become professional hair stylists
and have many satisfied customers.
Asking our customers about musicians
is the best way to search.

A Short Haiku

I return triumphantly from the Great White North.
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Loyalties chosen
epic trials and choices
imminent, tragic.

Gord's Fishing Lodge

OK, I lied. Amongst packing and preparing for my trip, I didn't have time to prewrite this last poem. However, an unexpected stop for the night at my grandparent's home (I'm still in Canada, and I'm still marveling at how their highways have speed limits of 110 mph! Oh wait...) gives me the oppourtunity to post this.
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Traits die with traitors
but thrive throughout loyalty.
The family is strewn
across thousands of stars.
A son of the wild falls far from all,
but brings with him the character of many.
Unrelated features disguise identical minds,
and bonds break free of the prejudiced judge.
Ties among friends become brothers in life,
but foreign stars must stay removed from the sun.
Two different planets, yet principles alike,
that may never collide, or else they may die.

Lightning and the Sun, Part 3

An enormous oak tree retrieves my wandering gaze
and draws me to it.
Its towering heights ascend to heaven,
its white branches trapezes.
Underneath, the roots have failed to hold their soil
and the spindly arms provide a type of shelter.
From it emerges a person.
A sillhoutte forgotten in my unwilling night.
All but forgotten,
covered by dusty quilts in the corners of my mind.
Lightning smites my brain,
and my head explodes with terrifying thoughts, memories, and emotions.
I toss my life into the air and ask for the name of my savior.
She smiles and laughs.
And I awake to find myself lying on a sandy shore.

Lightning and the Sun, Part 2

Awakened by the rising eye,
I find myself on a sandy shore.
Nearby, a deserted boat dock collects green leafy ropes
almost as fast as the boat house becomes coated in algae.
I am alone on Earth.
I stand, shaken at first,
but then explore the woods I am submerged in.
No animals sound their prescence,
no insects swat my face with felted wings,
no birds sing of the dawn.
I continue on.

Lightning and the Sun, Part 1

The water is swift and icy,
and I must escape before I drown.
My fingers flail and thrash,
searching the air for hope.
My hand collides with another,
and I heave with all my strength.
Catapulted onto the bank
like the stone from the sling,
my back burns against the rough sand.
No longer in my deathly swim,
no longer the victim of a tragic fate.
My eyes fixate on a person,
a sillhouette rising from the beach.
Unable to express my confusion or gratitude,
my head slips to the ground and lulls me to sleep.

A Hearty Resistance

The shadows snatch my feet
and heave them away from the rock.
My fingers grope the rock determinedly.
This boulder is the only thing I love,
my passion,
my muscle against the burden.
The shadows shriek and strike the rock,
the clang of pickaxes confirming each blow.
But the rock does not break.
It does not chip.
It does not crack.
It only digs each crevice deeper into the pebbled soil,
becoming more massive with each swing,
more immense, powerful, and proud.

A Slight Rerun

The noodle was my friend.
We spent lots of time together.
To have been friends with the noodle
was an honor.

That's Odd...

I never understood
the way a single note
could make me tear.

I never understood
how that upbeat chorus
leaves my dancing feet helpless.

I never understood
why the lamest of laments
slips right over the major chord.

I may never know,
I'm not going to try,
music is the mystery
not meant to be solved.

Some Findings in my Notebook

Three hearts, right in a row,
how they got there I don't know,
I hope they are from a particular artist,
then maybe this could finally pull through.

They sit across the open page,
like prayers sent up from an empty stage,
A desperate wish, an epic risk,
could unexpected happenings be at hand?

A Theory on Life

Greetings to all,
Whether or not you knew this, this past weekend was a test of Blogger's delayed posting feature. My posts for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were all prewritten and set to post at a certain time each day. Needless to say, it worked great. So, the real test comes now. My next nine posts, including this one, are all prewritten and scheduled realeases, as I am going on vacation! Enjoy!

Life is naught but a collection of songs,
telling the events of you and the people you know.
When songs from different lives meet in synchronicity,
there are only two potential results.
A beautiful friendship may begin,
or a vicious conspiracy explodes out of mind,
and consumes the sounds of existence.

Water Parks

Ice cream melting in my hands.
As the helpless outer laters begin to slide,
the icy core watches in patience.
Chocolate chips are washed away in the torrent
and the cone crumbles.
My sticky fingers scramble to contain the mess,
as the wight of the heat threatens to destroy me.

The Grass Field

Drowned in peace,
embraced by turmoil.
My desire lies among the sharks.
I seethe with anguish.
The sea's waves coo their bitter melodies throughout my body
and whisper of sacrifice.
Unable to break its vice, I lie by the bay.
Stars hide beneath the city lights,
like eyes cloaked in blackest shades.
The illuminations seduce my heart's secrets,
the crys coaxed away from the chamber.
Lights dance over the white foam and enrapture me
with their irresistable glowing bands.
Eyes closed, chests of gold and rubies rise from the water
and offer themselves to me.
But I look again, and the towering ships leave me on the docks.

The end of a strange beauty
marks the beginning of a dark and deceptive age.
Love, passion and acceptance swirl in the whirpool of insanity.

Recording

Practice.
Convince.
Practice.
Teach.
Practice.
Create.
Practice.
Improvise.
Practice.
Relax.
Practice
Focus.
Practice.
Silence.

Record.

Hallelujah

I've got some more song lyrics for y'all!

Hallelujah is originally written by Leonard Cohen, but in my opinion, Jeff Buckley's version is by far the best. You can read more about it on my "My Inspiration" page. For now, enjoy these haunting lyrics. all credit to Leonard Cohen.

"Hallelujah"

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe there’s a God above
But all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who has seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah

(azlyrics.com)

The Show, Part 2

His story is one of a man who's tale is one worth telling.
As his tale nears its conclusion his voice gains strength and power,
until every syllable becomes a blow to the chest of every observer.
Suddenly he unleashes a scream of passion,
of enthusiasm,
of unrivaled intensity.
The stage is drowned in lights
as the man becomes a silhouette against the overwhelming sound
that fills the room.

The show has begun.

Uptown Movies

The theater wears a cloak of shadow
save for the holes where light can enter.
The twin doors open with a queit protest
and I enter the chamber,
hoping to unveil its secrets.
The foyer greets me
at its frayed carpet and cracked tile edge.
Tan walls are scarred by poster marks, faded and forgotten.
The glass boxes entice me
with their lies of salt, illuminated.
Carpet, heavily trod upon, suffocates the cement below.
A wind whistles through the building.
Its spirit whispers of hauntings, of memories, of tragedy.
I peer around the corner into the room
where giant screens once ruled each night.
The blackness counsumes the space,
as if the show is about to begin.
The seats are filled with visions of elegant people,
high classed couples,
wealthy young men in pursuit of love.
One of the women looks intently at me,
expressionless save for her transparent stare.
The wind ruffles my hair.
I don't belong here.
Striding swiftly out of the theater,
I know I will return,
but not today.

Sitting in a gentle chair,
deflated and irritated at my arrogance,
self imposed by choice.
I meditate to the song
that may become my anthem.
The water waits.

My Old Life

The tan brick buildings loom in my hindsight.
Guitar slung across my left shoulder
and my belongings in a thread-weary bag,
suspended from the other.
I try not to gaze back at the campus,
because I know the secrets contained within their walls
are the archives of my life.
But despite my efforts, my past will haunt me,
in ways both empowering and crippling.

The oldest of the records impart their wisdom to me.
The youngers remind me to never forget my humble origins.
And the youngest of all taught me how to live.

Most of them weren't real,
just props fallen through the holes in my stage
at critical moments.
But some of them remain,
their shadows burned into the film
that covers the reel room
of my mind.

Impulsively I pivot to look back at the walls.
I stand much taller than them.
They stand,
almost bowed before me,
as I have outgrown them.

I turn back around.
The new walls tower ninety feet tall.
But already I sense them coming down to welcome me
until I can stand looking over them.
Like the world I left behind,
this one too cannot contain me for long.

The Show, Part 1

Today is the great debut.
The theater is packed with thoughts and visions.
All of them share one conversation,
a hive of bees waiting for spring.
The electricity dives from being to being,
an arcing spiral, eager to envigorate its victims.
The curtain rises, and the infectious chatter diminshes rapidly.
The artist's figure rises ominously out of the floor,
the lone skyscraper in an abandoned metropolis.
He begins to pace in a meandering inconspicuos manner.
He rambles on in an undefined tone.

Green lasers blind and disorient me,
I wonder if Armageddon has arrived.
I look to my right.
Next to me sits a kangaroo.

October 2nd, 2011

2 hours away,
In a shadowed place,
There's a hockey arena
A gathering case.

Inside the dome,
The guitars rev up,
A silhouette screams,
And the crowd erupts.

I can hear the music
here at home, no drive,
but majesty and vengeance
are only felt live.

Will you take me to the show?
Nothing else, just let me go.
It's my final time,
My last chance to see my favorite band.

Other fans may be strange,
some venomous, some vicious,
but with Gates up on stage
we're all of one mind.

There's air, in a sense,
that's consumed by the shouts,
the amps won't stop pumping
the electricity out.

Will you take me to the show?
Nothing else, just let me go.
It's my final time,
My last chance to see my favorite band.

Music is life,
Music is love,
Music is life,
Let's go...

Will you take me to the show?
Nothing else, just let me go.
It's my final time,
My last chance to see my favorite band.

Waiting

Why did God make us so
we're always needing something new?
why are we always waiting
for something new to do?

Waiting must be a part of life
it's only human nautre;
Nature grants us random gifts
what we want we're never sure.

I can't wait forever,
I won't wait forever,
God must have skipped me
when he made his patience rounds.

Love waits for anything,
seasons any reason,
so why is it I who has to wait,
especially on this?

Summertime

I remember last July,
the heat was full and the sun rode high.
Met a girl who was named for June
and dreamed away the afternoons.

Her eyes were brown like cherry pop
shorts always matched her purple top.
Most stunning girl I ever knew
by autumn she'd make my heart blue.

She said she'd never leave,
never break my heart, never make me grieve.
The end of summer is always strange
but why did her leaves have to change?

We would sit and laugh about
all the people heading south.
Her ice-cream lips were warm and sweet,
around her I'd hear my heart beat.

Summer days to summer nights
walking under bright street lights.
Sayin' how we'd never split
the next day she had called it quits.

She said she'd never leave,
never break my heart, never make me grieve.
The end of summer is always strange
but why did her leaves have to change?

I'll never forget those summer days,
I'll never forget her perfume haze,
Though she may be gone from here
my summer girl's in every tear.

She said she'd never leave,
never break my heart, never make me grieve.
The end of summer is always strange
but why did her leaves have to change?

My 100th Post

My 100th post has arrived! And we shall celebrate with another poem. Untitled, albeit. I didn't feel right assigning a label to this one.

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The dust is wet with tears.
And still they run.
Your eyes are red with regret.
They look strange against the brown
I am used to seeing there.

Lashing out at those who cared.
Accepting forgiveness only to strike again.
Wondering why they abandoned you.
Destroyed by the betrayal of your friend.

I watch you coil once again.
Laughter and sobbing boil in my throat, locked in eternal warfare.
Lunging, caught unprepared at the shortcoming.
The scabs on your knees and elbows
split open like blooming flowers.

Blood, dirt, and water race by my feet.
They mix and remind me of lava,
the fire carving down the weeping mountain.

Your shackles rattle and slide.
Your wrists are raw with cuts and scars.
The key sits next to you.
You choose to ignore it.

The jury announced their verdict
to allow you return to your thriving life.
But the judge overruled them,
sentencing you to four years of loneliness,
an isolation broken only by my prescense.


Anger at the judge's cruelty fills me,
and I resolve to release you.
But then I remember.
You are the judge.

I really like the color on that painting.
When I look at it, it's like home.
But from this angle,
the peaceful blue turns to an angry, unpleasant red.

Asiento vacío el lunes

Los estudiantes ríen y se ríen.

La muchacha me pide ayuda.

La chica de la silla vacía no dice nada.


La maestra nos enseña a hablar

en una lengua extranjera.

Todos lo posible para comunicarse.

La chica de la silla vacía no dice nada.


La sirena que marcó el final de la clase resuena desagradable.

Todos los paquetes de sus notas y las hojas.

La chica de la silla vacía no hace nada.


La miro.

Ella está vestida de blanco,

y coronada por un halo de pelo rubio.

Sus ojos son de un tono triste de azul.


Hablar en voz baja, le pido su nombre.

Ella sonríe y se desvanece en la niebla.

La sirena completa su ciclo.

Empty Seat on Monday

The students snicker and chuckle.
The girl behind me asks for help.
The girl in the empty seat says nothing.

The teacher teaches us how to speak
in a foreign tongue.
We all try our best to communicate.
The girl in the empty seat says nothing.

The siren signalling the end of class blares obnoxiously.
Everyone packs their notes and leaves.
The girl in the empty seat does nothing.

I look at her.
She is dressed in white,
and crowned with a halo of blonde hair.
Her eyes are a sad shade of blue.

Talking softly, I ask her name.
She smiles, and fades into the haze.
The siren completes its cycle.

Boarding with Mr. Paeters

Arrive at the meeting place.
Mr. Paeters is already practicing.
We are excited for the journey.

I hop on the board.
It begins to roll,
like the panther stalking the prey.

I learn to carve.
The wheels slice the pavement
like knives.

Mr. Paeters teaches me some tricks.
They are difficult,
but I achieve them with practice.

We go inside the Paeters home.
Tiny people in a tiny box
teach us more tricks.

We pack for the trek.
Apples, rolls, water.

A note alerts the rest of the Paeters family
to our absence.
We set off.

Exploring undiscovered mountains.
skating over glass floors.
Walking across the Sahara desert.

We reach the central.
A combination of walking and riding
moves us slowly towards our destination.

Giant metal beasts race past us.
They are all hunting,
or perhaps running from danger.

Several tractors nearly decapitate us.
They take up both lanes of the road.
Mr. Paeters and I briefly enjoy the open riding space.

The jam is resolved
and we are forced to walk again.

Suddenly, we find ourselves in the back of a police car.
We cannot open the doors.
Our hands sit in grooves behind our back,
but we are not handcuffed.

The friendly officer helps us to reach our destination.
Mr. Paeters and I bid her farewell,
and continue our adventure.

Skate through the park,
and down the hills.
grass, cement, asphalt.

Take a break
for water and an apple.

We find a smooth road.
Racing down the hill,
we carve like no other.

Finally, we are exhausted
and call for our ride.
Mr. Paeters, Sr., comes to retrieve us.

At the Paeters household,
we greet our friend, Mr. Sandels,
with some lovely messages and voicemails.

Downstairs, there is paint in the bathtub.
We scrub it off
into the drain.

Seated around the dinner table,
we enjoy the delicious meal.
There are three choices.

We discuss the pronunciation of Paeters.
It is French.

Our friend, Mr. Sandels, arrives.
The three of us head downstairs
and send more messages.

Outside we go,
to get some tattoos.
I am severely disappointed.

We travel to the home of Mr. Waffles.
We chat, and sprint away quickly,
without Mr. Waffles.

We ride in the driveway for a short while more.
and then my father arrives,
and I must depart.

I am riding in the back of a cop car. My hands are behind me,
but not cuffed.
I have not been arrested.

Something is missing.
I whirl about frantically,
seeking the absence.
But it remains unknown.

The Choice

Note: This is my response to a prompt on dailywritingpractice.blogspot.com. Great site, if you are interested in writing at all I would say you should give a prompt a go one day.

Surrounded by noise
yet the noise is surrounded
by my skull.

In the antechamber I stand
spinning around in place,
looking at the five green doors.

One to death,
another to life,
the other three unknown.

They all look the same,
except for one,
where the knob is tarnished.
The third from the right.

Or second from the left?
Fourth from the door
with the chip in the paint?
There's a door with chipped paint?

They all look the same.
Two hours and two years
have the same impact on one's mind.
It's just as well I don't know
how long I have been here.

The noise is still there.
Not in the background,
but poorly concealed in front of all.

The antechamber has walls
of a sickly purple.
They remind me of a dying lavender.

Unconciuosly one door is selected.
I stride towards it,
not really knowing why.

I open the door and sprint through.
The people walking outside pause
and give me strange looks.

The king and queen watch solemnly,
suspended high in the window.
Occasionally they glance down at my defeated soul.
They are satisfied.

Writhing against my bonds,
I watch them hang.
The hooded hangman heartily chuckles at each hanging.
His deceptive hands seem to slither up to the lever.

It occured many years ago.
My debt is still unredeemed.
I must save them.
Yet I remain leashed by my bane,
suffocated by the twisted laws of authority.

Misunderstood by the jealous monarchy,
my saviors are commited to the hangman
on false accusations of treason.

The doomed snatched me away from my executioner.

I sit in the cage.
White metal engulfs me, trapped.
Outside, the tree grins.

Old friends rediscovered
while the joyful music proudly sings.
I am content.

Inconsistencies in Pop Culture, Part 2

What is the morning?
A beginning?
A prelude?
An opening night?
That doesn't make sense.
Night and morning are not the same.

What is the afternoon?
A middle ground?
The main attraction?
Limbo?
But the afternoon has a general sense
of time and space.
Limbo does not.

What is the evening?
A warning?
A final call?
A neutral ground?
A time of dying?
The moon is born in the evening.
That doesn't make sense.

What is the night?
A sinister thing?
A time to sleep?
A calling to certain life forms?
Ok, obviously not true.
The sun is much more attractive than the moon.

All of these things prove that Richie Valens never existed.
Neither did your kneecaps.

A Year Ago, Part Two

A bouquet of roses,
a colorful symbol of life's gifts to me.
Bonds blooming,
wonders unfolding,
the petals of hard work blossoming.

But the flowers sit ominously upon the grave.

The epitaph reveals the birth of a vicious prejudice,
and harmless exaggerations darkened fatal.
A single raindrop crawls downward over the carved words
as I read.

The stone is decadently engraved,
comforting to the ones
who come to grieve.
They did not foresee his impending downfall,
but I did, powerless against time.

Next to the date of birth,
the dash seems to carry on into eternity,
a mockery to the life mercilessly severed.
The date of death is not yet written.

I stand over the tomb,
the assassins' eyes burnt into my mind.
The shield has become sword,
and staff become snake.

A gunshot rings out in the distance.

Struck down by the beautiful thing,
the infallible,
the just.
His valiant flee had begun too late,
too long lured in by the treacherous music.

A siren echos from across the fields.

The murderous troupe acts on.
They have done no wrong by the jury,
but the righteous were merely lambs before the wolves.

The raindrop completes its excruciating descent
and scatters in the grass.

A chilled hand comes to a rest upon my shoulder.
My friend greets me silently
as the warmth swells throughout my body.

July 12, 2011.

Its appearance in the rock was not at all unexpected.
Its prescence was prophesized by the earth.

Yet the raindrops continue to fall.

The dash's reign of invincibility is no more.

Infallible.
Invincible.
Individual.
Ideal.

The hyenas observe, taking shifts laughing and weeping.
Some do not ever laugh.
The injured lay at their feet.

Attempts to help turn.
Nightmares and fears realized.
Rainbows do not lie.

Atlanta

   Rather than post a lengthy poem today, I thought I would showcase some great lyrics by a great band. I have been addicted to the song Atlanta by Stone Temple Pilots the past few days. It's not my usual type of song, slow and nostalgic, but something about it just draws me in. Haunting lyrics and a very resonant, almost ethereal backing. Here they are.

She lives in a bungalow
She kills me with rosegarden thorns
She waits for me
My love is unusual
It's painted with roses and thorns
with her I'm complete

She lives by the wall
and waits by the door
She walks in the sun
to me

Visions of Mexico seduce me
It goes to my head so carefully
Memories of candles and incense
And all of these things remember these

She lives by the wall
and waits by the door
She walks in the sun
to me

She comforts me when
the candles blow out
the cake has grown mold
but the memories are sweet
The laughter's all gone
but the memories are mine
The Mexican princess
is out of my life

She lives by the wall
and waits by the door
She walks in the sun
to me

(lyricsfreak.com)

But you wanted to wait.
I said no, then yes.
But you couldn't wait.
Do you stand by your choice?
Was it your choice at all?

I see your future.
Two years to go, until you will be fooled.
Two years to gain the wisdom of three.

Inconsistencies in Pop Culture, Part 1

I have always wondered about the phrase
"head over heels in love."
It is used to describe one who has
such strong feelings that they seemingly
lose control.

But since we are humans,
and walk upright,
isn't our head over our heels
under normal circumstances?

Therefore, the phrase should be "heels over head in love."

However, that may be unusual,
but it doesn't fully describe the emotion
of being helpless against your emotions.
It should be something a bit more shocking,
like "stomach over head in love."

Yes, that's better.

Be a little whimsical.
Level yourself over the sunny pavement.
Be happy and enjoy your life.
You've got the good life.
Long live life.

Reliving the day at night.
The darkness is my medium on which to analyze.
An unusual strain in my neck.
My companions have returned.

Pink Floyd Enters Reality

The white bricks stand ominously
against the sobbing sky.
Lightning licks the air
with its fiery tongue.

I sit on the hill and observe.
I look at the determined performers,
desperate to save the, and.

I look at the weak.
They expended their might
attempting to rescue the, and.

I look at the oblivious.
Foreign to the tragedy,
carrying on with and without the, and.

I look at those seated with me.
My friends, scanning the horizon.
We are clouds.

It is midnight inside the wall.
The sun sets behind us
and casts our shadows upon the wall.

I plead with the star,
begging it not to fall from its heavenly perch
and plunge us into the icy black water.

It says no, and the pendulum slips further still towards us.
But perhaps it will destroy the wall, before it can crush us.

I feel the urge to weep.
So much lost,
so much left to lose,
so much contempt,
so much potential wasted.
All gone, killed by the beautiful thing.

Riding in the car
with several pigs and phoenix
preparing to play.

The Aftermath

The trees have been destroyed,
and along with them their tale of sorrow.
Dreams and nightmares recorded, now lost,
but for the pain they brought.

The canyons are filled with dust
and desert weeds thrive where once
an oasis burst forth.

Fire consumes the leaves
on which the phoenix was born,
and the ancient bird glides overhead,
casting a shadow over the glowing embers.

The young warriors beat the ground with their callused feet,
ignorant of the battle already lost where they stand with pride,
nervous and adrenalized for the encounter.
They need not fight.
Struck down our leader goes silently in the past.

Music

My life is documented in the lyrics.
The music resonates with my emotions.
The beat is that of my heart.

I cry at the music.
I laugh with the music.
I fight to the music.
I celebrate with the music.

I was born with the music.
I will die with the music.

The music has destroyed me.
The music has rebuilt me.
The music has saved my life.

The song is about my friend.
It is about her,
but I did not write it.

The song is about my friend.
His spirit drives the tune,
the motor.

The song is about me.

I am about the song.

My life is the song.

Anticipation

The thrill of the chase.
The evening which I live for.
The hunt has arrived.

A Short Proverb

Hello all,
   I'd like to share a phrase I found in my novel that I feel is very unique. I don't think it's meaning is a physical one, but a concept, or a look into our minds. Anyway, I just really enjoyed it. This is from the book The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It's a good read, check it out.

"Whatever happens once will never happen again. But anything that happens twice is sure to happen a third time."

Just some food for thought.

A Year Ago

A day at the studio reminds me
that I have a long and very strange past.
Stranger yet is the year gone by,
started today, a year ago.
I reflect on my accomplishments and mistakes.
The roads not taken loom far behind in the rearview mirror.

A year ago, my only care was tamed aggression and a small brown object.
A year ago, I considered an option that would have left my spirit destroyed.
A year ago, I thought cool was a word that beared merit.
A year ago, ignorance donned the mask of mastery and decieved me.
A year ago, confidence was a gift I did not have.
A year ago, a second chance was granted to me.
A year ago, the peak had been conquered.
A year ago, I was invincible.

A year ago, I didn't know how good I was.
A year ago, I didn't understand my worth.
A year ago, no one had ever paid close attention to me.

A year ago, I had never disappointed anyone.
A year ago, I had never broken a promise.
A year ago, nothing had ever truly hurt me.
A year ago, no one had ever truly hurt me.
A year ago, I had yet to begin my crossing to the other side.
A year ago, I had never lost a friend.
A year ago, I had never felt a friend slip away.
A year ago, my pride had never been shattered.

This year has shaped me.
All my previous life experiences
prepared me for last year.
And this year will do the same for the next.

Maybe things the sun would have shined brighter
had I taken the other roads.
Maybe I would be farther advanced in other things.
Maybe I wouldn't have known pain.

But I know that my choices were all correct.
This is the best life for me.
No regrets forever.

Dreams for Only $1.99

Eat the banana.
I don't want to eat it.
Eat the apple.
It is old and sweet with rotten flesh.

Fall into the empty space.
Run frantically back and forth,
trying to escape while the jaguars
laugh high above.

Hurtle through the clouds.
Paranoia and sympathy at
the green one.
It is your friend.

Crawl through the tubes
hanging from the Empire State Building.
They are made of soft fabric
and are fun to tumble in,
but don't roll out of the ends.

The Inevitable and the Unrivaled

The man is undefeated.
All cower in terror.
Electricity splits the air
as he storms into the hall.

Sneering, he raises his eyebrows
and chuckles,
spreading his wings wide,
pawing the air.

I watch in silence
at the back of the room.
I feel my spirit growing restless
and an aggression rushing forward.
A small smirk on my face.
He is not invincible.

Thoughts of defeat
pound through my head.
Not of my own downfall,
but the one which will befall him
at my hands.

But not today.
While his passado is weak
and his psuedonym weaker yet,
he has not proven himself a real threat
to the righteous.

Still, I sit and wait.
The sinister panther, perched in the tree,
just, but dark.
Perched in the tree,
above the alpha lion.

America Day

I look out my chamber room door
and watch the tiny flames
dancing in the air above the street.
I am hopeful.
Not for the lights.
But for the strength of the people in this country.
Although justice has regained its sight,
and the river is in flames,
we will remain one.
Though gold is becoming lead,
and the violins have reached their fortissimo,
nothing can defeat the spirit of the patriotic people.
The U.S. of America.
The us of America.

Far Away

On a hill.
See the dark.
Observe the glow.
Hear the silence.
Comprehend the noise.
Fear for friends.
Communicate for reassurance.
Pray for intervention.
Relax when fulfilled.
Hope for relief.
Wonder at status.
Thank for salvation.
Be at ease.
On a hill.

Disregarded

Listen to the music
and sit by the window.
Write down what you hear.
Try to decide the best way to interpret
the assimilation of tones.

Read what you have written.
It is a tangle of wires,
all of which combine to accomplish
an unknown purpose.

Recite your words aloud.
They blend harmoniously
and capture the music.
Feel the tumblers aligning
and the lock sliding open with a click.

Things look simpler.
Problems reveal their solutions
and dreams enter reality.

I do the same.
The music is constant and universal.

Impact

When something encounters and comes in contact with something else,
we say they are touching.

When something comes in contact with something else while in motion,
we call this a collision.

When there is a collision, the force that the objects exert on each other
is called the impact.

The word impact can be used in many ways.
It can be used in the literal sense of the word,
where a physical object hits another physical object.

It can be used to describe an effect that an action or reality has on a person's emotions.
When something dear to us is gone, our emotions are greatly influenced.

It can be used to describe the effect a metaphysical concept has on people.
Love is a conceptual sledgehammer that blind sides its victims.

It can be used to describe the relationships between metaphysical concepts.
Joy and sorrow together often create turmoil.

It can be used to describe the effect a mass action of a large group of people has on their surroundings.
When a group of people all decide to carry out a singular action simultaneously, the impact on the physical, metaphysical, and human objects nearby is hurled into a state of chaos.

What if a metaphysical concept collides with a physical object, which then has an effect on your emotions, which causes you to have an impact on a massive group of people, whos' emotions create a collective force on a metaphysical concept, which strikes another metaphysical concept, which makes you extremely happy?

Or a physical object has an impact on your physical being, causing your emotions to be impacted, which creates metaphysical concepts within you that conflict with other previously existing metaohysical concepts? When their fists stop swinging, your favorite soup probably won't taste very good to you any more.

Our world is based off of the effect impacts between things have on each other.
If there were no impacts, the world would be a very boring place.

While some impacts may not seem beneficial to you at times, they will always lead to more impacts that will benefit you in the future.

That future will have an impact on the more distant future.
But if that future didn't exist, wouldn't that reality of a nonexistent future have an impact on your present?
Therefore, doesn't the future's existence also have an impact on your present?
And since the past used to be the present, and the present used to be the future, doesn't that mean that the future also had an impact on your past?
Something that has not happened yet has impacted something that happened many years ago.

Therefore, time does not exist.

The Great Noodle City

I ride out of the desert
and into the forest,
where my history is written.

The gatekeeper welcomes me to my city.
I am fearful to enter.

First I must walk through the house
where the beast that defeated the city
was born of the counsel.

A meeting is in session at the table.
I enter and am greeted
with honest grimaces of contempt.

With as much respect,
I continue walking while offering them my greetings.
I have yet to revisit the ruins.

In solemnity I remember the way to the ruins.
Navigating the routes, I am silent
and I finally arrive.

Skyscrapers tumbled and the debris removed.
The ruins are gone.
Burnt by the beast in pride and mockery.

The shock of their absence
seizes ownership of my consciousness
and collapses me upon my knees in tears.

The ruins were all that remained
of the blooming city.
The final sign of the city's once great power
perished along with them.

Future generations will never know
that the city ever was.
They may even construct their own cities
on the foundations of the old.

They too will see their cities crumble before long.

I weep at warnings overlooked.
Regret and shame are not present within me,
but a genuine sadness for those heights
never achieved.

I do not know
what the present would be
had I heeded the omens.
But I did not.

Visions of failure not acted upon will always become reality.

Lying in bed,
texting,
reading,
half asleep.
I feel the sudden urge to cry.

Sitting in the Quiet Room

I go to the quiet room because it is quiet.
The quiet room is stacked 50 feet high with intelligence.
Some strange authorities urging the scrutiny
of all of it roam the premises,
and tower over the helpless noodles
on their raised pedestals.

Thousands of computers all scream at once.
Some are angry, some are confused.
But they all are trying to get me to
absorb the knowledge.

Enormous grids make up the floor.
The noodles timidly carry on their business
as medieval warriors leap into the air
and ruthlessly murder those fighters
who do not look like them

Fearful, I begin to run.
It seems the knowledge only grows larger the farther I run.
I run faster, and the knowledge skyrockets
at a dizzying speed.

Terrified, I lunge forward.
I am standing under a red light.
A powerful sound assaults my ears
and a giant stack of books slams down next to me.

Suddenly I realize the quiet room is not very quiet.

Advice for the children.

Doorways and staircases tend to discover
new meaning every time the King of Great Reappearing has appeased.
Morning lilies aren't actually mourning.
And the Hairy Has still roams the Earth.
The Hips Roberto has get
Buzz dim sum salad boy nugget.
178 years of training to prepare The Hips Roberto to face
the Hairy Has.
There is a 30% chance of success.

Grinning at the Disco

Robert sits alone,
not in a corner,
but on a forsaken satin sofa
placed in a crowded room.

Hood up, eyes down.
Slouched over,
defeated.
The world was his oyster,
but filled with sand.

The people hardly notice Robert.
They laugh and dance and sing.
Not a single life in the room
bears as much weight as Robert's life.

They will descend at some point
in their life.
For some, that point may be
in a place that is
a psuedonym for home.
A prelude to a minor key.
Others may find it in a memorable spot,
a vision from a nightmare,
a final trace of a love lost.

Robert has found his at the disco.

The party and Robert's depression
progress and elevate together,
to an intense, impenetrable power,
filling the being of each's participants
to a magnetic invincibility.

In a nostalgic groove,
the leaves begin to change.
The club is taken to a cool breeze,
and the sounds of high school pride
augment the emotions
soaring in the minds
of everyone in the room.

Once again everyone in the room
succumbs to the hypnotic rhythm.
Except for Robert.

The music takes wing,
soaring higher and higher
until it dramatically reveals its full wingspan
and glides gracefully above the partiers.

Robert becomes fearful
as the tumblers begin to align.
But he allows them to go.

Slowly, the eyes rise,
head still tilted down.
But Robert slowly smiles.
A smile of escape.
A smile of self-forgiveness.
A smile of enjoyment.

The Return of the King of the Weasts

Sneaking berries on
my new soup, Noodle Friend Joe
get you me a Spoons.

Beef

Sneaking berries on
my new soup, Johnny Waffles
get you me a Spoons.

An adventure discovered by running away from hoops.

Sneaking berries on
my new soup, Boris Paeters
get you me a Spoons.

Freedom

Sneaking berries on
my new soup, Jerry Sandels
get you me a Spoons.

Hairy Has Survival Documentation

Saturday, June 25
Deer Park, WA
Mix Park
8:20 PM

I was performing with Bram Brata when my friend Matt awakened me to the presence of the Hairy Has. He chose to appear in the form of an extremely fluffy and hairy dog. It had taken mind control over its "owner" and had her under the illusion that the Hairy Has was her dog. The Hairy Has never made any threatening moves, but when Jansen said that our fate awaited us, the Hairy Has looked directly at him. Fearfully, we carried out our concert and sadly acknowledged each other's roles in our lives, saying our final goodbyes and hoping that the end would be swift. The Hairy Has chose not to attack during the concert. He probably enjoyed our music. After the performance, those who had been alerted did our best not to alarm the ignorant and fearfully went on with our normal duties. Soon, we realized that the Hairy Has was no longer visible in his dog state. Wary to assume that he had left, we realized that more than likely, he had turned himself into a tree. When we concluded that this assumption was false, we became aware of the very real possibility that Philip may have been killed and had his body taken over by the Hairy Has, but this was also proven false. Amazingly, everyone there that night in our band is still alive. We continue to ponder the cause of our survival and prepare for future encounters. The four of us who learned of the Hairy Has being in attendance of our concert plan to travel to Europe in order to consult the Bearded Pig of Denmark, the only other being known to have seen the Hairy Has and lived. Until then, we marvel at our historic experience and attempt to allow life to carry on as normal.

Driving

I explored a dirt road today.
I looked at the shrubs that grew along
the shoulder.
The body of the road
rumbled under my tires
and sounded like it was
in pain.
Soon I came to the face of the road.
It told me, "Watch out for the Hairy Has.
It roams the nearby terrain."
I found the end of my time behind the wheel drawing near.
Bye, Ter. Rain began to fall.

Ramblings

I ramble about my life inside my head.
Reliving my past sometimes helps me
to know that I am not insane,
and that my actions are justified.

I think about what I did today.
My roles in the lives of others changes
often.
When I awoke, I was my own best friend,
with no one to worry for.

I then became a sign of strength
to those around me.
Leading those on the same journey
with a forceful determination.

A swimmer striving to improve.
A musician playing his solo.
A doctor preparing for surgery.

Later I found myself enfulged
in another leadership role,
yet in a way that challenges its brave
in more unusual ways.
I must know where I am
and where I need to be
in order to guide the children
and protect them from the cats.

Flung through time I may not
take off the big shoes yet.

A student in a classroom.
Observing my teacher with admiration
and a curiousity born of unfamiliarity.

My feet are sore
but the big shoes
call out more for me.

Waiting.
Waiting for those
who are afraid of becoming ill
and leaving me to bear the burden alone.

I cry in pain
and hunger for rest,
but the big shoes aren't finished.

Waiting.
Waiting for my ticket away from the big shoes.
The ticket is small
and made of paper.
I see myself and my struggles
captured in the paper.

Finally, the big shoes smirk
and allow me to remove them.

Strange Communications

I thought that something might happen
because the Great Bean Master Of All Bean Masters
told me to do this.
But I'm sure now that this is not what he meant.

I feel not betrayed
but a melancholy sense of gratitude.
The GBMOABM obviously has my
best interests in mind.

So I rebuild my house
where I store stuff that makes other stuff
move.
I fear not, for I know that the GBMOABM
has control of all the noodle kingdoms.
He's like my boss,
since I am the King of Noodles.

Hello Again

I am back from North Dakota. However, I have to jump right into swim team, Vacation Bible School Crew Leading and Driver's Ed. So I don't get to relax or even go back to Bram. I really wish I could, it's been three weeks since I was at the studio.

Cryogenic Noodles

There were some noodles
a really long time ago.
They were very different
from modern noodles.

Some scientists found them
and froze them.

Dream Noodles

Dream noodles
Are noodles
That are made of the dreams
Of the young ones.

When the young ones dream,
Their dreams soar away
With the wings of bumblebees
And the desires of beans.

Then they arrive at the noodle factory.
There, the dreams are turned into
Small cats.

The Quest for the Noodling Ninja Noodle

Ninjas flying through the air.
They are made of noodles.
Noodles that are cooked.
Noodles that are also booked.
They are very busy.

Ninjas that aren't made of noodles
are made of noodle.
Noodling poodles are often
ninjas in this guy's
lunch.

Where do noodles originate?
That's a question for
the Noodling Ninja Noodle.
He is a professional noodle,
but he is also a professional noodler.
He sneaks through the skies
at dawn
running on noodle rainbows
that are made of noodles.

How to find the Noodling Ninja Noodle?
It's a very confusing process
that may hurt your noodle's brains.

Irony is not very ironic
when needed to find the Noodling Ninja Noodle.
The Noodling Ninja Noodle only converses
with those who can attack
with the power of the dreams of beans
and run with the speed
of fleeing notetakers.

So where does irony enter
into the equation?
Irony is the thing that we all know
in our hearts
but can't express well,
especially when taking a very special
fast subway.

Noodle Heroes

Noodles have heroes.
It's true.
For example, there's Spider-Noodle.

The return of something very cool.

Cell coverage has been restored and I am happy.

An inhibition in correspondence.

I'm now technologically in sync with the rest of this state.

Here in North Dakota, we've experienced an uncharacteristically high amount of rain the past few days. This rain absolutely soaked the ground. All nearby dirt is basically clay like you'd find near the ocean. In some places in the yard around my grandma's house, you can stick a solid metal rod several feet into the ground.

Anyway, this softening of the soil caused a nearby cell phone tower to sink into the mud and collapse. Therefore, I have no cell coverage here. I know it's very stereotypically sound to say that this sucks, but I'll say it anyway. This sucks. So, I'm sorry if any of you reading this are trying to reach me. If you REALLY need to get in contact with me, email me at denin.koch@students.rsd.edu.

The Noodle Parlor

Hey, Joe,
I was in your establishment
not too long ago.
Unless by long ago you mean
several milliseconds.

I did some fun stuff,
like throwing things
and enjoying some hash.
Bash.

Later, I ate some pizza.
It was nice.
I especially like the way
you put Dorito shards
on your pizza.
It's in good taste.

While the beans talked politics,
and some young whip snap has,
my thoughts drifted
to my piano friends.

Then I realized that
my piano friends weren't important
since I had been released
from prison.

So instead I let my mind wander
and found myself thinking about
a noodle.

This noodle is a noodle
of mine.
It's kind of a long story.
Actually it's unfinished.
Like, if it were a book,
the last 200 pages would be blank.






The old man and the sea.
This, dear friends,
is definetely
and without a doubt
not the noodle I was referring to.

By the way...

To the next friend of mine that reads this blog, and is in Bram, it would be much appreciated if you would put my poem "Weeclee Noodles" as the Weeclee haiku of the day. That would be nice.

Honesty

I went traveling today
after a bean suggested it.
I traveled well; it was nice.
I saw many things.

I envisioned,
wait, no I didn't.
I actually saw them:
some photos from my present,
some places from my past,
and some stuff I did
and will do again,
once the water has subsided.

My travels were travels.
I moved through space.
But I also accidentaly
did some experiments
with beans
and the space time continuum.
Thank you.

An update on my current state of existence...

No poems this post. Sorry.

I'm in the great state of North Dakota as I write this at 11:23 local time. The time is an hour ahead here from home (for me, Richland, WA).

Some might ask why I'm in North Dakota. Well, the main goal of the journey was to visit my grandma. Other than that, and to visit my grandpa's place of resting, I'm not entirely sure. I mean my grandma's great and all, but there is nothing here. By nothing I mean NOTHING. For the hour and a half drive throught North Dakota to here (about 100 miles west of Bismarck) you are basically driving the entire way through a giant wheat field. The most exciting discovery I have made so far is the small playground a minute's walk from my grandma's house.

I'm pretty excited for later this summer though. Lots of cool stuff. Tour with the steel drum group I play in, gigs with my rock groups, a trip to the Churchill river with my other grandpa, church leadership retreats, marching band, jazz combos. All sorts of fun stuff. Of course I can't wait home to get home and just chill with my friends too.

To my friends back at steel drum, you should tell Mr. Leggett not to start anything cool without me. Like Blue Rondo or Mariella's Dance. Please.

Goodbye,
Denin Koch

Weeclee Noodles

Hey, noodle friend Joe,
You, has the beans, of wisdom.
Has time has red hash.

Noodles Playing Poker

Come sit at the table
and watch the noodles
playing Texas Hold 'Em
and Five Card Stud.

There are some interesting
noodles at the table
but they all fulfill
various stereotypes.

That noodle at the end
it is well liked
but very quiet and reserved
and makes some stupid desicions sometimes.
It sits and awaits its downfall
with ignorant joy.

See the noodle to the right
and how it is pretty confident
and not afraid to put it
all on the line.
This noodle fears not the beans,
and knows what it wants
at all times,
even on its birthday.

The noodle further left,
in a world of its own,
one might suggest,
is a very cool noodle
but only to those
who can appreciate it
fully.
A tragedy is achieved
when people ignore it.

The noodle who is dealing
has a way of making
all the other noodles
feel safe.
It leads with kindness
and a sense of equality
normally only found
in your everyday
kindergarten,
but not to suggest that this noodle
treated the other noodles like kindergartneners.
It's very complicated.

And finally,
there's the noodle with its back turned.
This noodle is an odd noodle.
Don't get me wrong, Beanmaster,
it is a very nice noodle.
But no one but the King of Beans
can ever really anticipate its move.
Somestimes it bluffs.
Sometimes it folds immediately.
And sometimes it pulls a
really good hand
from out of nowhere.
The noodle is the ace
that no one can find.

These noodles are playing poker.
They are taking risks,
making decisions,
being rewarded
and sometimes are smite down
by the odds.
It's actually kind of like something.

The Mission of I

I.
I.
I.

What does it mean to be I?
I has a world of their own
where nothing but I's desires live.

This world can only exist
in a state of nonexistence.
The time when this world becomes real
is the time at which I dies.

Sometimes this world is barren
save for one dream.
One.
Alone.
With nothing to accompany it.

If this dream is ever realized,
more must come to take its place
regardless of how fulfilled
I becomes.

Sometimes I's world is overpopulated
with hopes, fantasies,
visions, nightmares.

When this happens,
I must not lose faith
and continue to carry out I's
solemn mission, which will be
as long as there is someone
in our world
to dream, hope,
have faith,
and have fear.

We all have a responsibility to be I.
We all have a responsibility to desire.
We all have a responsibility to dream.
Without these things, I's world
will desist from its state of nonexistence
and all the nightmares of I
will be realized
in the minds and hearts of those
who let I die.

The Journey and the Noodle

Once, in a place far from here,
there was a young noodle,
who really wasn't all that young.
He was only young
to most other noodles,
which could mean lots of things,
like that the noodle was extremely old.
Actually it doesn't.

This noodle had seen lots of things.
Good things. Bad things.
He tried to remember how each thing
made him feel
in case he was ever asked by a physciatrist.

There was a time when the noodle
wanted to forget the way
some things had made him feel.
He wanted to leave it behind
and start again,
like so many beans before him.

Then an unusual circumstance,
which was pretty unusual
according to most,
forced the noodle to go away,
away from the pain and the happiness,
the fresh and the stale,
the old man and the sea.

The noodle traveled far
and got really bored
whilst awaiting his destination,
the home of lots and lots of
wheat.

But while on his journey,
the noodle had an epiphany,
and was greatly confused.

He realized that while
contemplating his life
amongst the wheat,
the King of Beans had come
and removed his earlobe.

Pink Floyd

I listen to Pink Floyd
because I enjoy their music.
I like the way they are very honest
about their feelings towards beans.

I can't help but feel a little sad
because what they sing about
sometimes applies to me.

They sing about pigs ruling the world.
It's not so far fetched.

They sing about feeling lonely.
I've felt that way before.

They sing about beating hearts against a wall.
It's true.

They sing about commercialism.
Well, there's not a lot to argue against that.

They sing about wanting to go home.
Doesn't everyone?

Pink Floyd helps me to understand
why  I must be strong.

A Pile of Noodles

It's amazing.
One's life is nothing but an endless dive
down through an
endless pile of noodles.

Yet we allow several noodles
randomly selected
by the beans
to shape us.

What if the noodles selected for me are slightly undercooked?
I don't deserve that rat.

Noodles Only

Are you a noodle?
No.
Know.

Could you ever become a noodle?
Maybe.
May bee.

Does this involve you right now?
I don't know.
I don't, no.

Do noodles have opposable thumbs?
Yes.
Yesterday.

My yesterdays are full of questions
but few are really important,
like why my parents are making me visit
Ulcer, WA.
I hope to bean finding those answers
in my future.
Few churn.

Churning is an art
that beans attempt to master,
but are left disappointed.
This app pointed.

There is not an app
that will turn you into a noodle.
Don't be ridiculous.

Ridiculousy is the most difficult
of all arts
because alienation is possible.
Alien nations.

I think its possible that aliens have nations.
After all, they are pretty ironic beings.
Beans.

Clutching with Concealed Desperation

Clutching to a surfboard while being pitched
by the terrible waves.
The surfboard is in danger of breaking,
and I fear that my time above the water
may be short.

The Golden Noodle Knight

Strength is my advantage.
I will power through thee,
oh Golden Noodle Knight,
for you do not know
what it means to defeat me.

You may try to conquer me,
but I am the King of Noodles
who can not be defeated
by such simple things
as beans in my stew.

An Experiment in Existence

I went back there today.
To the place that doesn't exist.
It left, never to return
but may come back one day
on the strength of hope.

I saw the things that once were
but aren't.
I observe the cycle of life
drifting in and out of existence.
I watch a plant grow
while another fades away.

Soon the waters will turn
and I must go.
But the rain will stop
and the tides will subside
and the tsunamis will shrink
until they are peaceful waves.

When this happens,
I will be prepared
and surf into shore on the waves
where the sanctuary will be back
waiting with a life renewed
and a strength unmatched.

The Lamentful Noodle

This noodle has put me in an emotional blender.
Was, not.
Is, not
And could be.

The blades are very sharp
and I fear
if I don't escape
I may become noodle.

My Friend, the Noodle

The noodle is was my friend.
We spend spent lots of time together.
To be have beans friends with the noodle
is was an honor.

Noodle Tears

See that noodle.
That noodle is nice
and pretty cool.

The noodle in Question.
It may or mayn't be
a good swimmer.

Suddenly, said noodle.
Is drowning.
In a pool of broken dreams.

I think about my life.
And how it compares to my life
that is out of the Question
at the time.

So, regardless of the dormice,
calling to be rescued from their brutal nightmare,
I realize that I should probably save the noodle.

I swim over to the noodle.
And pull it back to Safety.
And there was a great realization inside my soul
as I began a third life.

There to great me was Darwin Leon.
Oh crap.
That's not good
considering I was trying to
save a noodle
at the Time.

Noodle Adventures

I think that this
is a really bad idea.
It's not my fault even though
the noodle thinks it is.
It wasn't my fault that it
was had to be has.

The noodle wanted an extended procrastination
from its fate and demanded
all of this with subtlty.
I said, "Look, I have
other noodles here. I need to address
them as well."

The noodle replied by
pretending to cooperate.
But it didn't.
So, it's still there, where
I am aware of it,
but
it didn't get what it wanted.

The Meaning of Life Explored, The End

So what does all this mean?
How must one discover life?
Through pain? Cleanliness?
A general unification of humanity because of rebellion against the beans who control us?

I think not.

The Meaning of Life is kind of an abstract concept,
so I think you should ask your local Picasso.

The King of Noodles

Today, whilst enjoying some ice cream with some friends, I discovered yet another of my seemingly endless identites. I am the King of Noodles. Beyond any doubt, I have been found after much deliberation. And there was much rejoicing. However, due to some contradicting responsibilities and abilities associated with some of my aliases, I may have to embark on a deep, epic, soul searching journey to Beantown, USA, and I may find that I may not be who I thought I was.

Either way, I would like to take this oppourtunity to explain my duties and privileges as the King of Noodles. Tonight I will post the final installment of my acclaimed series The Meaning of Life Explored, and will begin a new series documenting my adventures as the King of Noodles.

The following poem is a very detailed explanation of my daily noodletasks. It may be too intense for some beans.

The noodles enter the cavern of fears and saliva,
with some hesitance and in a tangled conglomeration.
Their silent cries tickle my nose and make a dying lunge
at conformity.

At this point, the noodles lose their hopes
and they are alot like knotted ropes,
except in an ironic protest.

The noodles are attacked by calculus,
weighed, poked, prodded, yet left totally and
completely unharmed.

Some things push them,
organizing them in no particular order,
that is,
if by no particular order you mean perfectly arranged
in every impossible way.

The noodles are stacked sideways,
and then stacked in the traditional sense of the word,
in the style of Merriam-Webster.

Then they slide down my throat, unharmed,
except really scared.
But scarred?
Of course not, KOM.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 10

I wonder what my life would be like
if my parents had named me Tim.

I would have enjoyed Slim Jims more.
I wonder.
I would have been able to catch rim according to some generous carpets.
I wonder.
I would have felt differently about the Sims.
I wonder.
I would have been left alone by unrealistic whims.
I wonder.
The beans claim that I probably would have led a life much more dim than my life now.
I wonder.
All this I shared with some firmly rooted nomads.
"Why are they here?", I wandered.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 9

Music doesn't belong here.

Music defies the laws of physics.

Music can move large objects with ease.

Music is clean and rejects the evil beans.

Music is immune to the tragedy of entropy.

Unless you are playing free jazz.

Music assasinated the king of beans.

Music makes a better door than a win.

Music is capable of solving advanced calculus equations.

Music caused the fall of Napoleon Bonaparte.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 8

Everyone knows we are here
for a reason.

No one knows for absolute certainty
why we are here.

I'd like to suggest a theory as
to why we are here.

Perhaps we are here because
it's not like we had anything better to do.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 7

I'm just sitting here,
writing a poem.
Oh crap,
nothing rhymes with poem.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 6

Food is here
for the life
sustenance of everyone
in the world.

Some food tends
to taste bad
while some food
often tastes good.

Water is also
important for people
who have a
desire to live.

Shelter is the
most underappreciated of
the many things
all humans require.

What if everyone
just wandered around
and never knew
a home unit?

That would really suck.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 5

Freedom.
Freedom.
Freedom is not an abstract concept.
Don't be ridiculous.

I don't think you appreciate the gravity
of this situation.
Or this sitting room.

I am free.
I am free.
I am Free.
I am fred.

Trees aren't.
Bees aren't.
Knees aren't.
Kneecaps, however, are.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 4

I examine language.
I determine language.
I decipher language.

Language.
Really, a common ground
for expression
and exclamate.
Ion.

For example,
without language,
how could you tell the poog
sitting on your couch to leave?
Oh wait.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 3

Memories are important.
If you don't have memories,
you will have nothing but the beans
to comfort you.

Being responsible is important.
If you participate in irresponsible activities,
such as taking your pigs to work,
or working while slooping,
you will have nothing but the beans
to comfort you.

Friends are important.
If you have none,
you will have nothing but the beans
to comfort you.

Exploration is important.
If you don't explore,
you will not find friends,
or a sense of responsibility,
or memories.
You will have nothing but the beans
to comfort you.

Beans are important,
while they grow up,
you must also grow up.
If you don't,
you will have nothing but yourself
to comfort you.

If the beans ever leave you,
be sure to find some friends,
or a sense of responsibility,
or make some memories,
or you will find yourself in danger
of ceasing to exist.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 2

I noticed once while walking
that disorder is tragic.
Tragedies are a part of nature.

Trees are random.
Pigs dreaming of slop.
Beans wishing for recognition
as an independent nation.

There is no control we possess.
We may not alter nature.
We can only prolong the inevitable.

We can only prolong the niveitblae.

Ew can only prolong the ieivnblate.

Ew nac only prolong het ieivnblate.

Ew nac only ropnglo het ieivnblate.

Only beans.

The Meaning of Life Explored, Part 1

Dirt is. Dirt was.
Life is made of dirt.

I look at all the things that have yet to be tarnished by dirt.

My new socks.
The Boston Red Sox.

The windows at my house.
Windex factories.

Drinking water.
Waterfalls.

My homework.
Deprived pigs.

My green tea.
My green tee.

All these things make me sad,
for I know one day the winds will shift,
and they will get dirty.

The Art of Solitude

I am alone.
But yet, perhaps not.
I am alone only if that
is my desire. My dream.

My silent companion studies me.
It knows me.
My strengths, my hopes,
my weaknesses.

Reassuring, yet dark,
this ominous stranger.
Welcome, yet imposing.
Imposter stalking the night.

In fear I reject my foe,
pushing it back from where it came.
Yet I know that it will return,
by accident, by chance, but not by will.

A cold, soothing terror grips my stomach.
I am comfortably in pain.
The melancholy welcomes me like
a bed welcomes the sick.

This I bear, on and on,
until my silent companion returns,
like a cat in a darkened room,
sitting, watching, waiting.

Eternal Dreamathon

Running for fun.
Running for some conversation.
Running in hope and praying
for the freedoms of the African Savannah.

Jogging for head injuries,
not concussions,
but mental isolation.

Trotting along a dirt road,
I saw some cacti.
They were alone together.

Dreaming of moving swiftly through
the cranberry fields.

In memory of Rybeca Connor

Hey guys,
A good friend of mine, Rybeca Connor, recently passed away in a house fire. Rybeca was a very happy, kind and friendly person. She was a sophomore at Richland High. She was a great person to be around and had a positive attitude towards everything. She will be missed. Please keep her and her family in your thoughts and prayers at this difficult time.

When the Beans Arrived, Part 2

The beans I glared at
were soft hearted
and suggested their apologies.

Quickly removing themselves from the action,
the beans reclined on my couch,
and watched the Food Channel.

I took the beans into my kitchen
and grilled them.

The answers I recieved after my intense interrogation
were of a reasonable nature.
The beans admitted that they had indeed been chased
by depressed students carrying leafs of paper.

We walked out to the street
and there stood,
silently observing the occasion.

The beans propsed to me an idea
of a ridiculous nature
and in so doing I discovered
their organization and nomenclature.

Soon I found myself submerged in their plot,
which was sinister in a bean there done that
kind of way.

The beans were wearing pointed hats
and eating cake and dancing.
They also hit a pinata
shaped like a sloppily built staircase.

However, as the beans carried out their celebration
I sat in a nearby chair and noticed that none of them had said a word,
but that I could feel their emotions as clearly as if
they had shared their feelings while enjoying some nachos.

Fire.
Free.
Fred.
Frodo.
Sodo.
Rodeo.
Rode.
Ride.
Nachos.
Beans.

Ritchie Valens.

When the Beans Arrived, Part 1

One day, I was.
Then suddenly, nothing.
But, something.
In fact, an opinion.

The unorderly beans marched in,
destroying my fallen Jenga blocks
and sharing their withdrawals.

I felt the beans successful frustration,
their party was so stale it smelled of
freshly baked bread.

Soon the beans began to chant,
"We must disband! We must disband!"
and I knew something off hand
was afoot.

I showed them my birthmarks,
one upon my forehead,
the other my entire left arm,
from the wrist on up.

When the hesitant pods saw this,
they screamed and ran,
into my bedroom,
where I kept my equilibriums.

The beans entered this maniacal system
and shared their energy.
My helium disappeared,
and I cried "He too!"


Come back tomorrow for Part 2!

Para bailar La Bamba...

So today is Friday! I had a great but long week. In fact, I think this has been the only day all week where I didn't have some sort of event after school.

Today is Ritchie Valen's birthday. For those of you who don't know who Ritchie Valens is, he popularized the Mexican folk song La Bamba in the United States in the 50's. Anyway, Ritchie's recording of La Bamba is not very good. In fact, it's pretty terrible, made worse by an absolutely brutal guitar solo. Being an avid guitarist, I can't stand it. So I observe this event with a very inspired poem.

This one's called Burning Nachos.

Party time!
Oh wait, dear friends,
it's just a bad pantomime.

Hear the music,
3 chords strong,
and a voice that summons forest ticks.

Really hopeful trees
wait with bated breath
for the cries of freed violet oranges
but are left without them
and are blue.

Sad notetakers run through the woods
abandoning forsaken salts and wheats
and instead pursue some beans.

When this happens,
try to see and wait
for the arrival of the beans.



Enjoy your weekend!

Dormice

Hello all (I'm hoping theres at least 1 person who has discovered my blog so far),
I'd like to post a poem inspired by dormice (at the urging of my friend Emery):

Come, see through my window,
Quite ironically, I might suggest,
See the tiny dormice,
eating at the table.

I know they are weary,
but they fight the war of eternal monotony,
as the turkey sandwiches grow some lovely mold.

Refugees of dreaming teeth,
here they is,
Drubs.

So how do dormice
find their ironic conformity?
It's quite simply, truly,
sand free.

Goals

So mostly this blog is just to kinda hang out here. I might post some sweet poems from time to time. Either way. Little about myself. I go to Richland High School and basically do all the music possible there. Marching Band, Wind Ensemble, Jazz Band, the works. I'm also in some groovy groups around town, like my own rock bands and a super awesome steel drum group Bram Brata. I play tuba, guitar, steel drums, piano, and a couple more, but those are the big ones. I played football this past year, and that was fun. I started for the better part of the season, but decided marching band was way cooler. I'll post more later, but that's me in a nutshell.

Hey there

So my friends asked me to start a blog here for some cool stuff. So I did. I'm Denin. I lead a great life. 'Nuff said.