apologies & new things.

a week or so ago i promised new poems. i then became distracted editing the video-book project and havent had time to edit the new pieces yet. they've only been slowed. not stopped. new work soon!

also, working on a new website to take the place of this shabby blog.

in the meantime, a friend of mine showed me this the other day. she's a fellow poet and thus, always has neat little things to share that I likely pass on to others.

"telling the truth is like exposing the underside of our wings..." when I find myself judging others too harshly for being so paralyzingly terrified of honesty, I ought to pause and just be grateful I have no fear of heights.

Solutions.

"You cannot solve the problems until you get the REAL ISSUES out on the table"- Reverand A. James Lawson

From Modern Voyage

The gentlemen at Modern Voyage were kind enough to produce a new video for me. Check it out and be sure and cruise over to www.modern-voyage.com to see what other treats they're harboring for your enjoyment.

Machette - Nick Macedo from Modern Voyage on Vimeo.

New Poems Are'a Comin'

NEW POEMS should be up by WEEKS END. just as soon as editing has concluded.

Also, I have a new ebook in the works that will include not only poems but video embeds as well. Tentative title "The Sound of a Spine." more info sooon...

check back often and much. new happenings about to be happening.

sometimes i read certain things and feel understood.

"I have been known to be too honest. It comes honest. I mean to make things better when I lay my cards on the table. It's not to insult anyone or make them uncomfortable. This quality often goes unappreciated as was the case on this day..."- Buddy Wakefield.

Two Tambourines

Let us not act as if we
Were ever anything more
Than what you made us
Out to be in the end.

Just another reckless, temporary, thrill
Used to occupy the landfill of your chest.
Something to spike your pulse.
Make you feel artistic and dangerous.

Bet I should have taken cues
From the way you treated your body
Like it were an apology letter
Trying to dismiss
All the good I saw in you.

Somehow, I never seemed to notice
The nervous blade
Tucked into the folds of your throat.
The way you’d smile, show me the folder
Of engagement rings you kept on your computer
And then say things like,
“Marrying an artist was never part of my plan.”
I was a place holder.
You were busy cutting out of the picture
Well before the end.

The end was a quiet riptide.
Every one of my words swallowed
By the still, frigid ocean of your exterior.
I was the only one trying
To swim us out of the storm.
You were content to let us drown in our sleep.
And didn’t have the decency
To wake me. So when I woke
I thought I was still fighting for us
Until I realized I was trying to breath air
Into lungs that had been still for days.
You were a silent fight. Sucker punch to the ribs
That left a jellyfish shaped hole in my side.

See, like jellyfish
You are gorgeous, spineless, and full of sting.
No heart or guts.
You’re just chasing the warmth of anything or anyone
Who can make you feel like sunshine.

And you asked me to trust you.
No metaphors or clever words.
Just one soul asking another
“Please, will you drop the bullshit with me?”
And I did.

Let you wide in.
Stood still as you ran your hands
Over the scars
Left by my father and my faith,
Sat there listening to your sex speak
On behalf of all your insecurities.
Didn’t flinch at the thought
Of you vomiting up your ghosts.
You were one of the few places
I allowed myself to be more comfortable
Than a room full of strangers with open mic.

I may be the reason you
Will never date another poet.
But you are the reason my stomach
Feels more comfortable swallowing glass
Than it does with trusting again.

I am grinding the memories of you
Down into mortar I will use to rebuild the wall
I dropped at your request.

Memories of how our first kiss
Tasted like an exit wound

Memories of how you told me
I was the only man to ever ask you on a proper date (you deserved no less),
Only man to tell you that you were beautiful (i meant it),
Only man to not try and change who you were (i only wanted you)

Memories of how I hand painted
The skins of two tambourines.
Gave them to you for your birthday.
Cause I thought you were the kind of person
Who would not shake
Except to make a beautiful noise.
Turns out you were a closet full of bones
Stuck in perpetual rattle.

Collecting hearts and degrees
Like they are nothing more
Than notches on the belt
You use to hold your chin up.
You hung coward.
Trying to convince yourself
You are anything but a coward
Afraid to face the truth.

Like the final memory
How the last time I left your house
I noticed those two tambourines
Still in their boxes. Tucked under a table
In the corner of your room.
Hidden somewhere out of the way
Where you would not have to
Risk hearing them shake by accident.
Risk accidently being reminded
That unlike tambourines
We were never a beautiful noise.
(to anyone but me.)

Cannon

I sat in my own church
And listened to a sermon
Where a man preached
To have studied all world religions.
He said, “I know that Hindu’s
Only wish to escape their bodies,
All Muslims only want to kill Christians,
While Jesus Christ is the only God
Who tells us to love someone
More than ourselves.”

The ignorance of that comparison
Collided with the pulse in my spine
Like a blind man trying to hug a locomotive.
Left me feeling flat and derailed.
Reached for the best way to love the messenger
Without upholding his message.

However, when I raised objection of the stereotypes
My pastor painted me like I were whistle blowing
In the prison chapel. Called for a town hall meeting.
Whispered Salem in my ear. Told me
That I was making too big a deal out of all this.
Like caring for my brothers of another faith
And having a backbone this loud
Are something I should work on keeping quiet

See Brother, like you, I too call Christ, God.
I too faith with my hands pressed into gospel.
So with all this talk of love
I figured that a comment like,
“Hindu’s only wish to escape their bodies
And all Muslims only want to kill Christians”
Would have been a prejudice we’d of left at home,
Locked away in our forefathers gas chamber,
Retired and embarrassed but repented of.
I guess maybe we were feeling
A little more Old Testament than usual.
Silly me for believing some traditions,
Like hate speech, are better off dead.

With so much cymbal clanging in those words
Tell me how you justify stereotyping Hindus,
Saying they only wish to escape their bodies
As if they’re only trying to outrun all this gravity and flesh,
Like we Christians aren’t known
For being so concerned with our exit to heaven
That we pay no mind of the hells here on earth. Like we’re
Absolved of our responsibility because we promise to pray about it.
Like a 5-year-old boys rib cage
Protruding from his skin like piano keys-
Hunger? I’ll pray about.
Your next-door neighbors busted lip and bruised throat.
From the third time she “fell down the stairs.”-
Violence? I’ll pray about it.
Prejudice? I’ll pray about it. Poverty? I’ll pray about it.

We are known for treating Eden
Like it were no more than a crime scene alter
For us to pile the chalk outlines of our sins on.
There is nothing noble about
Not taking responsibility for our own actions.
Denial is what escape looks like when it’s too afraid to run.
Just brave enough to harm.

But I’m sorry. I don’t mean to preach.
Because I know how uncomfortable
Some pastors get around soapboxes.
Especially when they’re not the ones
Standing on top of them.

So maybe we could look at the facts
Like, fact: all Muslims only wish to kill Christians…
Except for the 99.1% that do not.

Fact: Permitting stereotypes in the name of God
Only further blurs the line between microphones and an M16?
Stand behind your Guantanamo of a pulpit.
Confuse baptism with waterboarding.
Do handcuffs rust in holy water?
Because clearly some hearts do.
Just ask Rick Perry.

Fact: silence is the easiest form of permission.

And I will not permit you to hate-speak
On behalf of my love
Like you have any idea
What you are doing with your tongue.
Dangling from your lips
Like an oversized bayonet
Too heavy for your mouth, son.

If you don’t think the things said
From that stage really matter
Think about the fact that a soldier
Never picks up a gun,
Much less pulls a trigger, until the order is spoken.
The phrase “firing off your mouth” is not coincidental
Or ironic the way bible is a synonym for canon.
Maybe lockjaw is Gods way of saying
Be sure the safety’s on.
And above all else be very
Careful where you aim that thing
Cause you never know who you might hit
When it goes off.