Music of Life

I rather like the life of a poet. Traveling and writing; telling stories and meeting new people. Dancing. Okay, perhaps that last one is not necessary to be living the life of a poet, but it is necessary for my poetry.

For me, dancing is the missing connection between hearts. Sure, we can speak words which allude to feelings, and we can hold hands as though treating the other as a transfusion, but dancing creates a rhythmic connection as though the body is moving within the beat of a universal heart – add to this that two bodies are moving together connected by hands to make a circle unbroken – dancing is alchemy for transmuting music to movement through hearts powered by feet.

The common metaphor for life in today's culture is one which refers to life as a race. We are all trying to get somewhere the fastest. I'm still not sure towards what we are racing, but it promises to hit us with the casual snap of a broken ribbon. I am not so sure I want to know what is at the end. Races never really end. People are always running. Or training to be able to run that much faster than their opponent in the next race. What are we running from? To what are we running? Where does this all go? Why do we look so beat when we cross the finish line? I can't make sense of a metaphor in which little is left to interpretation. So, instead, I'd like to turn toward a different metaphor altogether. If one doesn't like the concept with which he is faced, one must invent new words or supplant the old ideas with one more fitting. So, I turn back the hands of the clock into a time less focused on time but more so on timing.

In the Middle Ages, the prominent metaphor for life was that of a dance. I feel as though this makes more sense because music is ephemeral. It will not last any longer than the vibration of a string, the stirring of air. Lungs power music as much as hands do. Music has a definitive ending point, but we can replay the song in our minds a million times over without – melodies get stuck in our minds like stories. Music ends, but it can be replayed, and no one wins at the end of the song except for those who danced. If life is a dance, then we only need to tap into timings in order to tap into time. Feet don't have to move, but when they do to a rhythm, a beauty emerges. And it expands in every direction.

Life is not linear.

Music is not linear.

Dances are not linear, and music is interpretation rather than command. A poet speaks in rhythm just as bodies speak in dance.

Races have a right answer and a wrong time.

Dancers need not apologize.

So don't apologize when your feet feel too tired to move, you are not running a race with points to its end; you are engaged in a dance where the universe holds your hand. Listen to the rhythm and fear not the end of the song; we all will be dipped, but this dip is one of beauty and is not to be feared because we will not be dropped. We will not be dropped. We need not compete to get underground faster.

And I will remember to live, breathe, love, and dance.

Time Flies

Today marks the day that we officially have seen more days in the year than we have left to see. Days unfold. Hours fall out like loose leaf paper. But at least we have a chance to write our hours into poems if we so choose before they're crumpled and lost.

Sometimes I think hours fall off like dandelion seeds when we make wishes. Perhaps an intention gets intertwined with the seeds, and our wishes intermingle with earth when the pods finally find somewhere to land. Maybe this makes the wish come true for the fields. Then someday when someone lays his or head down to name the clouds, maybe a new dandelion will whisper that wish into his or her ears, and that person will be inspired to do something.

Sometimes, I think that the wishes we cast upon far away stars don't just burn to a crisp. I think that our wishes, like the dandelions, plant themselves in the stars and then wait.

Sometimes, I think you are the amalgamation of someone's forever ago wishes come to fruition.

Sometimes, I think we are all someone's forever ago wishes come to fruition.

I know that we all used to be stars. The earth on which we walk used to be 10 million degrees or more. I find it fascinating that far less degrees separate humanity from universe. All love is falling for stars.

Dandelions take our wishes and plant them in fields which used to be stars. We take our wishes and plant them in stars which used to be one mass until the Big Bang separated itself from itself. If wishes grow in fields like seeds, imagine how bright wishes must grow in stars. Unfortunately, stars have to die in order to add what they were to the universe like dandelions have to die for us to make a wish, and we are composed of the bodies of stars, so maybe trillions of years ago something made wishes and the stars held them inside until they died and had their wish-intermixed molecules flying through the universe to plant themselves on planets like dandelions plant their wish-filled seeds in fields.

I like to think I'm something's trillion year old wish come to fruition. I like to think that the best things are worth the wait, and I like to think that even as time passes like seeds falling from dandelions, we still do something with it just by existing. Maybe that's being optimistic, but I'd rather think that my presence is both a wish fulfilled, and way to better the universe's future.

Even if I am merely making wishes with my spare time.

I Came Upon Some Flowers

While walking through the neighborhood of Wichita yesterday, I saw bright, beautiful, pink, fake flowers. Pictured at the left are not those flowers. Lilies sprouting up unassumingly out of someone's garden.

Someone in my family likes to talk about how the United States is in trouble because of all the shady things that the government does... and the companies.

I'm not so sure. We are still a government by the people. At first glance this sounds absurd – nearly atrocious, perhaps not lacking a firm grounding in reality. This idea is like those fake flowers – beautiful but ultimately pointless. Trouble is, the fake flowers looked real enough to be real. And if I had gone about assuming that every single flower I encountered from then on out was fake, then I would have missed a lot of beauty. This is a trouble with people – it's not so much that we forget to stop and smell the flowers; it's that we assume we already know what every flower smells like.

But life changes everything. No flower can smell the exact same, and you miss out on opportunities by assuming. I've missed out on opportunities by assuming. We miss out on the opportunity to interact with each other when we assume that beauty is fake. Not all of it is. These flowers are living proof of this. Beauty grows out of the dirt; it doesn't live a comfortable life because beauty can't be beauty unless it intimately knows ugly, and fake flowers will never know ugly like fake people will never admit ugly, and it's a tragedy. And I know I'm saying two different things now, but the ugly truth is that we have to fake some beauty until the world can see what we're trying to show it, and we have to be real with our own ugliness or else someone someday may confuse it with beauty. And there's nothing worse than realizing, upon close inspection, that what you thought was real turned out to be nothing but fake.

So here's to being real despite the "ugliness" we think it brings. Everything is a matter of perception, and realizing this is, in itself, an act of great beauty.

Check out the Talks!

DrewDat, Luke, ME!

Those three sexy poets in the photo above are (from left) DreDat, Luke, and MEEE! This photo was taken at the TOP OF A MOUNTAIN!! Yup, that's how we Colorado Springs poets do it. We write with our heads in the clouds and unwind in them as well. This all started after a team meeting when Luke, the host of our bi-monthly poetry venue (HEAR, HERE!!) decided to go for a walk. For most people a walk is a leisurely stroll in the park, but according to Luke it is to get a good 15 minute hike away from anything man made and climb the nearest vertical behemoth. It felt good to climb and the view was breathtaking. So, here we are at the top of a mountain. Since space is infinitely expanding we were both on top of the world and under it which was all fine with me.

This Monday, my newest addiction is TEDtalks. I heard about TEDtalks from an old roommate of mine. Do you have a friend that is constantly suggesting things like movies, or tv shows, yet you are too stubborn to try them? Well, that's how it is when my buddy Calvin suggests things. So far he has suggested Ender's Game, Game of Thrones, TEDtalks, and various other shrines of badassitude which have always taken me FOREVER to pick up on. Anyhow, TEDtalks are a series of sub-20 minute presentations online in which the  world's leading authorities in their fields showcase current projects. They vary in topics from technology to social psychology, and even POETRY!!! 

This presentation of TEDtalks is from former US poet laureate, Billy Collins. It's exciting to see that even with all these wonders of technology there is still room to probe into the mind of a poet. What this says to me is that not only is poetry NOT dead, but there is and will always be a constant fascination with poets and various other photographers of the human experience. What fascinates me with these TEDtalks is the way that the presenters present their topics so eloquently. It's as these professionals are poets in their own sense. Kathryn Schulz specifically sounds like a slam poet herself!! CHECK IT OUT! Her presentation sounds like she's about to throw down at some final stage slam. There are some eloquent pieces of rhetoric and prose which seriously made me do a double check and make sure I was watching TEDtalks and not browsing a poetry set. If you have some free time check them out!!

I wish I had a lot more to say to help set up your week, but I'm behind on my Game of Thrones and I need to catch up. I'm on season 3 episode 4 and everyone keeps talking about a wedding...

And Called It Poetry

Where does poetry come from?

Some say it stems from past. It's words we were never able to say in the moment built up into beauty because diamonds are only noticeable when found in the rough. Poets' lives are not easy. I am a poet. Poets' lives are beautiful. I am a poet.

Poetry comes from late night conversations with ghosts. Poetry is haunting. This is why it wakes me with a start late at night and forces me to pull pages close to my chest like blankets. It is communion with spirits who want nothing more than that their story be told.

Poetry is a haunted house. I am a haunted house. I have doors that I know not to open. I have rooms filled with mirrors adorned by sheets I don't have the courage to remove. I have rooms with rustling sounds that I'm still afraid to open. I don't have skeletons in my closets. I have graveyards. I have headstones with epitaphs written in iambic lines so that anyone saying the incantations will necessarily resemble the rhythm of a heartbeat. My poetry is a heartbeat; this is why I feel sick when I skip a line or lose my rhythm. My poetry is a heartbeat – my words are how I perform CPR. No wonder I feel so out of breath every time I perform. Resuscitation is a word that doesn't pass past lips easily. This is why I sometimes confuse my poetry with hyperventilation. The diaphragm should only expand as much as a mind.

I am a poet.

I am still trying to figure out
where I come from and
where I'm going.

I just hope
that my heartbeat
will stay long enough
to open all my doors,
expose my mirrored ghosts,
and figure out
where this all came from
just so I can forget about it,
and focus on where to go
in-stead.

These Are Things I've Learned

This weekend, I learned a valuable lesson.

Today, I went hiking.

Now, I don't know if you know this, but hiking is at least 48% more beautiful if the person or people you're hiking with are comfortable letting their minds wander like the clouds.

Hiking is at least 65% grander
if you have the opportunity to hold someone's hand.

Regardless of which way the fingers intertwine, your hands suddenly have as many stories to tell as your legs do. A palm reader should be so jealous.

When you're hiking and holding hands with someone who has an open mind, this person will comment on the scenery that wanders through her mind, will let you know the kind of beauty she conjures up in words, and her hands will tell stories of sweat and personal triumph to each one of your fingertips. Your hands will be happy they have something so gorgeous to travel and connect with. You, in turn, will also be happy because holding hands is the nonverbal way of saying, "You're worth it" or "You've got a story worth telling" or "We've really got a shot to make this whole trip memorable."

Maybe this is why I like dancing – I have three minutes to share with someone the feeling of "You're worth it." I get the feeling "I am worth it."

This weekend I learned that being a poet allows me to hold hands with the audience.
This weekend, I learned that stages extend their palms face up and ask anyone who steps upon them, "Would you like to dance?"

Some stages phrase it as a statement. Something like "Show me your moves!" with all the bravado of a falcon.

This weekend I learned that I
am allowed to ask stages to dance.
This weekend I learned that poetry is my basic.
This weekend I learned that I really missed
holding hands like I do when hiking today and that
no stage was substitute for that, but
this weekend,
I learned that I deserve
to be on stage, to ask to hold
my audience's hand, and this
weekend, I learned that
every person has a story to tell, sometimes
they just need someone
to hold their hand and say,
"I love the way you wander."

Mid-June in Colorado

Half the team is in Albuquerque for the Southwest Shootout Slam. I am not in that half. I can't wait to hear all about the Shootout. KB and I got together today and worked on some poetry. Our poetry is on fire. 

It’s summer in Colorado again. The fires are full and roaming around the mountains.

An old friend, distant from me by five state lines calls to make sure I have not melted.

When I don’t answer, he pictures my phone: a pile of molten plastic, my lungs black and my bones ash, cremated by nature, recomposing into the high plains desert dirt. He doesn’t bother to leave a message.

He calls a second time. When I don’t answer, he pictures the worms and sits nervous until I get out of work and say everything is fine. He tells me about the girl who burnt his heart down as if we were sitting by the lake again. He tells me I am missed, I am not the only adult to get homesick, and says he’s glad I haven’t become fuel for the fire.

Boulder hasn't been in the path of any fires so far this year. Colorado Springs though, where all my team mates reside, are in the midst of it. Please send your prayers/love/thoughts/good vibes their way.

Love ya.