I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
And so the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're goin' through

Tuesday, May 1, 2007

Mine, mine, mine, down, down, down, go, go go, mine, mine, mine

So, I'm writing some more of a story bone I put out there early in the month. That was:

"These are not my hands. My hands are warm and strong and meaty. These aren't my hands. These thin and shaky, couldn't harm a fly, not able to grip hands, diseased hands, non-feeling hands. See how they rub together with no warmth, see how the cadaver fingers weave around each other, no magic, no spark. I don't care if they're on the end of my arms, these just can't be my hands. These hands didn't play guitar or put together a thousand erector sets, touch my wife and make love or bathe in the ocean. These aren't my hands with pain filled fingers."

One of the newer sections:
"The good and the bad, always a minus with the plus. Never in balance, the minus tally was higher, until I became unreal, non-rational, imaginary. So you stick this needle in my arm and add to me I know you're subtracting a whole lot more. That okay, there's not much more to give. People have always taken more than I've given. Now that they've taken so much, I'm an empty vessel. But even now they ask for the vessel after all the piss and vinegar is gone. All the bad drains away."

3 comments:

Camille Alexa said...

These are not my hands.
My hands are warm
and strong
and meaty.

These aren't my hands.
These thin and shaky,
couldn't harm a fly,
not able to grip hands,
diseased hands,
non-feeling hands.

See how they rub together with no warmth,
see how the cadaver fingers weave around each other,
no magic,
no spark.

I don't care if they're on the end of my arms,
these just can't be my hands. These hands didn't play guitar
or put together a thousand erector sets,
touch my wife and make love
or bathe in the ocean.

These aren't my hands with pain filled fingers.

The good and the bad,
always a minus with the plus. Never in balance,
the minus tally was higher, until I became unreal,
non-rational,
imaginary.

So you stick this needle in my arm
and add to me
I know you're subtracting
a whole lot more.

That's okay, there's not much more to give.
People have always taken more than I've given.
Now that they've taken so much,
I'm an empty vessel. But even now
they ask for the vessel
after all the piss and vinegar is gone.

All the bad drains away.

Camille Alexa said...

You've got some lovely poetry there, Steve. Hope you don't mind the liberties.

Steve Buchheit said...

LBB, no worries. I have a minor in creative writing, most of which was spent writing and reading poetry. So when I write prose, I tend to think of internal ryhmes and meter. With my music training, the beat is very important. Unfortunately, when I'm editing stories, I knock out much of poetry to favor the beat side, also to even out the prose style.