Winter Poem

To those skeletal trees of winter
Ebony blood vessels drinking the sky
Brittle finger bones reaching for the icy sun
I have seen the way you move--without moving
Gypsy dancers arrested by time
Hard skin caked with cold, dry, gasping air
Spines thrown back in vibrating worship of the world
Paralyzed in that moment of glowing ecstasy
I have seen the way you sway at night
Dancing to the spectacular orchestra of winter darkness
Your bare, brown arms painted white in the moonlight
I have seen the way you whiver, laden with snow
Carrying it on your back, gleeful cherub
You trees, the almond-eyed mothers, reluctant to say farewell
As it slides down your shoulders and off onto
The rumbling chill of city streets and brown grass
I have seen the way you sing
When you think no one is looking
You trees, beaming and lifting soundless hymns to heaven
I love your angelic nakedness, your motionless dance
Splaying your fingers out in the chilly air as
Your slithering toes bury into the freezing earth
You divine ice sculpture, aging ancestors, noiseless companions
You skeletal trees of winter



We had an assembly at school on Friday about Global Warming. It was a really stupid assembly, frankly, and intended for an age group several years younger than ours, so no one really took it seriously. Which is a pity, because I think this is a monumentally important topic which cannot be undermined with comical animations and desperate attempts to talk to us "on our level."

But anyway, it got me thinking that I have yet to make this blog Carbon Neutral, as I have made The Nerd Archives. I then decided to write the best fucking Carbon Neutral post on the fucking blogosphere, and I will post it in due time.

Do not think I have forgotten about my rant about gay rights. That is coming. I will write it over the long weekend. I will have lots of time, because I am sick.

:(

-Christopher

Such a Night

Elvis Presley

A Poem and a Promise

To the girl I met in the moonlight
Ghostly maiden with silver-lidded eyes
With a gown woven from the whispering wind
And a necklace of fireflies

I saw you floating in the air there
Silent angel of the night
With your billowing mane of icy-white air
A quaint, celestial sight

I approached you with a soundless call
In each of your eyes was a spiraling star
A smile played on your snowy lips
A smile like sunlight in a little glass jar

But you drifted off into the trees
And slid through some enchanted door
I spent the night in search of you
Phantom lady of folklore



Just read a Rolling Stone magazine piece on discrimination of gay teens in Michelle Bachmann's home town. I am royally pissed, and you can expect a lengthy rant post sometime soon.

-Christopher

Awesomelicious DeviantArt Artist

I want to show you guys this amazing artist on DeviantArt, who's actually a friend of a friend of a friend once-removed of mine. (Six degrees of separation? Cue Inception music.) Here's the link to his page, but because I know you guys are so fucking lazy you can't bother to move your little mouse over there and click on the fucking link, I'll post some of the photos here.

Check these out:















Is that not the most amazing thing since Ginger Ale? I think I've fallen in love with them. Fucking genius shit, this. He does some poetry too, as if these weren't enough, and it's good it makes me feel like everything I've ever written is rubbish. I strongly suggest you go to his page on DeviantArt and check out the rest of his stuff. Because when I found this guy I felt like William Miller right after he discovered the Who.

Yeah, tonight's the Superbowl. I watched a grand total of like fifteen minutes of it. I'm sorry. I just can't force myself to get interested in football. I feel thoroughly un-American.

Song suggestion for today: Vagabond, by Wolfmother.

Adieu, mes amis.

-Christopher

An O! Poem

O! You forlorn bastards of democracy!
Starving infants forgotten in the ecstasy of capitalism
Who sucked at the stinging teats of bureaucracy
Until it bled and ran dry

O! You weeping imps of Lenin
Cursing the czars of industry
Sparkling movie gods and those
White-collar dynasties of college degrees
And yet worshiping them--their warm glow
Broken--gleeful--embarrassed in their presence
Those dazzling Olympians of television
Those pale-faced Ivy League monarchs
That clean their teeth with your brittle bones
That milk you of your juices in the factories
And recline at night into their furniture spun from cloud
Gluttons of soft pleasures and fine wines
And paper money fat in their small soft hands
Gorging themselves with philosophy and politics
Contemplating life and science while they sip at your salty blood
Your cold, sweet sweat

You terrifying masses! Paralyzed soldiers of anarchy!
Feeble, skeletal ants--yes--but united a Titan!
Furious iron giant--civilization but a spider
Tickling your large, calloused palm
Do you not feel the way its spindly legs bend
Between your thumb and forefinger
Do you not notice the whimpering vulnerability of its
Papery exoskeleton?

O! You idle Israelites! Why do you not sing?
Why do you not bare your angry red backs to the sky--
Laced with angry red scars?
Splash through the streets like a river
A furious, tumbling river of angry red backs!
Flood the city with your numbers!
Tug those softened pigs from their haven in the sky
Make them look at you--despite those cataracts in their eyes
Make them see your angry red eyes!

But you are such beautiful insects
And though you may not realize it, your tears are poetic ones
Your laughter like fluttering folk songs
You valiant warriors for your lives
Who wrap your shivering wings around your children

Fucking in the damp heat of coldwater apartments
Dining like grey wolves on your shapeless-food stamp cuisine
Breathing fast, panting breaths among the other warm bodies
Shitting in the cold disease of darkness
Worshipping God or gods from the bottom of your cavernous foxholes
Setting animal fires loose in trashcans painted wet by rain
Drinking scorching spirits, sacred anesthesia
Crying dry tears, skull split by the dizzying migraines of hopelessness
Birthing in gray hospitals where people wander like lost souls
Raising your children in this lost world

O! You nomadic strays of the city streets!
Abandoned orphans of the American dream!
Release your howls of rage into space
So that the stars may hear them

You beautiful germs of the dirt and cement
Make the moon feel your pain
Make the clouds hear your songs
Make the sun see your poverty
Raise your freshly bleeding hearts to the sky
Beating hot against that calloused palm of yours
Soon the sky will take them up in its
Rainbow fingertips, sun-spotted arms
And rain will fall—

Over this crooked world

Magritte and Ryan Lerman

I really like Magritte. He may be one of my favorite artists. The art I like the most uses a realistic style to communicate an abstract concept or depict a bizarre, other-wordly image. And that's the pretty much exact definition of Magritte.

Good news! I'd like to share with your darling piglets that I won a national teen poetry contest with VOYA magazine. I placed with five other winners nationally. I'm pretty proud. I only get 20 bucks, but hey, it's not about the money! Well, it would have been...if I got more than 20 bucks for it.

Check out Ryan Lerman. He's a friend of Jack Conte. Yeah. 'Nuff said.

-Christopher