tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55382922011-07-08T03:43:32.470-07:00No Bones.Maybe we'll laugh it, or cry it, or bleed it. But get to it. Now. Write your story down. The rest of us need it.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.comBlogger661100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-76298625190870385342009-09-20T11:29:00.000-07:002009-09-20T11:30:18.440-07:00I no longer wish to create.I no longer wish to write.I don't want song, or word.I have no need for art.I am sounding out my request to any God that will listen.Give me a foreign beach.Give me a sunset.Give me a hand to hold on to.I wish my life to be poetry.Every action a song.I want my days to be the paper I spread my ink upon.I want 'lost' to mean 'home'.I want the salt water on my cheeks to beSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-61254455343804930392007-12-04T13:46:00.000-08:002007-12-04T13:47:42.191-08:00The clock on the wall is God. His hands, sweeping by, reminding us that time is running out. So get to it, boy. The window is my eye. Looking to possibility as a green horizon. And the path is the new vein, running down my arm. Saying, "Blood is compulsory".These shoes. I have always known I walk around at the expense of my sole. Wearing thin. But my feet feel so much better there.I breathe in. ISeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-80404695904142111412007-05-25T04:14:00.001-07:002007-05-25T04:14:49.686-07:00Big WorldOur hands met in a mess of rust red. Pressing the clay into heart shapes as they reached into one and other for something to believe in. But our journey began before then, in fits and starts. In passing scenes of first act exposition. My wondering eyes and yours of gloss and experience on summer nights of velvet lines. We would be forced together, it seems, by happenstance and wine,Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-40736995668756319732007-04-26T13:22:00.001-07:002007-04-26T13:22:35.732-07:00Let us go forward then, in full bloom. Daring to be only what we are, at last. For in our kiss, we felt the future. But in our haste, we taste our past.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-74476639679704821652007-04-08T17:55:00.001-07:002007-04-08T17:55:56.374-07:00The whole wide world swirls in a myriad of colors. And if you are the sapphire sky, then I am the emerald field.And we are the horizon and all of the possibility that rests upon it.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-82240883158592671522007-02-14T09:01:00.000-08:002007-02-14T09:02:16.239-08:00An Open Letter to the Love of My Life. Dear… I don’t even know what to call you. But, already, we are beyond such things, aren’t we? When you wander into my head from time to time and form to form I am left with out a course of action. Mostly because action seems… so… very…very… silly. But this time. I took said action. Here it is. I am sounding this letter off of the sky as Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1169796668436192862007-01-25T23:30:00.000-08:002007-01-25T23:31:08.450-08:00Push harder. It’s the cork that keeps us from negotiating. It is the hip lashes that are bound to the wall we are trying to move. Like rippling beasts. This will evolve. Each revolution around a pixilated world are just metaphoric steps, aren’t they? Because no one really moans like that unless they know someone is listening. I was listening. My body is foreign to me nowSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1167981003602243012007-01-04T23:09:00.000-08:002007-01-04T23:10:03.613-08:00To WitWe are base. Like the asphalt.And she is light.Like fire.Like Life.We are the frauds that face ‘perfection beyond ourselves’, crying.Licking at one and others bleeding feet.We gnash and twist in carnal dance, all woe and regretAnd she is amber golden drops of yes in crystal flutes held high, like a fist.And silver hue in lightning blue shot across miles and miles of now.We are led.Led by Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1159408121710282042006-09-27T18:47:00.000-07:002006-09-27T18:48:41.730-07:00Burn it Down When we divide ourselves by expectation, again and again and again, we are left with a sum total of zero identity. Scrubbing the filth off of our own skin, until only polished bone is left. We think beneath this layer is the start of our own beauty. Hoping each revision is a step closer to perfection instead of a leap away. If I were a painting, I would be the primary Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1153597619590783532006-07-22T12:34:00.000-07:002006-07-22T12:46:59.740-07:00To those who still read.. thanks for being patient. Reasons for my absence on my Live Journal. www.livejournal.com/users/no_bones. Finally, a new poem. May not be done yet. We'll see. LOVE SONG I plant kisses strategically down your spine in an erotic Morse code. Tapping the prologue of our story onto the nape of your neck. We'll use the path from your thoughts to the journeys end, between your Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1147155733812088442006-05-08T23:21:00.000-07:002006-05-08T23:23:37.176-07:00I am rain streaked windows that cake with dirt, showing time veins from beneath itself, in rivulets on it's surface.I am screaming. I am screaming. I have no voice louder than the ones in my head.I am a stutter step tap dance down long streets that I would like to walk again because I think, but don’t know for sure, that they will lead me home.I am dancing. I am dancing. I keep time to the rain, Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1143371572570258192006-03-26T03:12:00.000-08:002006-03-26T03:12:52.583-08:00Sometimes we are made aware of beacons in the rest of the dark. Like stars littered across the attics we trap ourselves in. Sometimes we chase rainbows with beggars eyes and wishes like children. Some people are like soup soaked bread crumbs and wool mittens with the fingers cut out. The rest of us are chimney soot. And they are ‘chim chim cheree‘. They are song filling every corner of the Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1143244974062272782006-03-24T16:00:00.000-08:002006-03-24T16:02:54.076-08:00Like middle lines on the highway. Pushing torn skylines to far off places. The bottom half of the sky is soaked in ink. The top is far to bright to stare at. And I am in the middle somewhere. I have fewer buttons than one would like it seems. The road is straight. Straight. The winding ones come after. And my tank is on empty. Empty notions of full tanks and nowhere to go but there. And alone andSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1139996836241966792006-02-15T01:47:00.000-08:002006-02-15T01:47:16.256-08:00Last Call at the Beauty BarWe burn fast and hard across an ink black sky , leaving short-lived trails in our wake. Waiting to awake in startling white marble columned coffee shops. Turning heads of ancient prophets who recognize truth with a frown but honesty with a nod. And we come clean in the spotlight. We tell all our dirty secrets one rhyme at a time. We confess our evils in seventeen Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1136433570348943922006-01-04T19:58:00.000-08:002006-01-04T19:59:30.356-08:00 “Don’t forget me. Okay? I want to be remembered. Just not this way. I will remember you as a dancer who could weave patterns through the rain. And you remember me in a sailors cap and dungarees.” “The smell of this never seems to go away. I won’t forget you, though I may over look us sometimes, just the same. I meant it when I said it. But if you wouldn’t mind. Do your best to forget Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1136337622710285792006-01-03T17:16:00.000-08:002006-01-03T17:20:22.730-08:00 Don’t. Don’t tell me about troubles. Just drink. Me from my side of the cup and you from yours. Alternately. Each sipping the wine of our mingled story until the dregs in the glass are soaked up in the communion bread of our sacrifice. Then together. Each struggling to tip the glass with mouths on opposite sides. Moving our heads to avoid each others. Until our mouths are caught by gravity Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1134612537617201702005-12-14T18:07:00.000-08:002005-12-14T18:11:05.866-08:00A Little Something.My definitions of love are written in your penmanship. Universal texts about what is and what will be, bound and stacked in long halled libraries built for the memories of you in my mind. Books missing every other word or every other page but still some how managing to say something. With notes on the jacket. Reviews from the Titans and the Furies saying things like..Riveting Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1132733807230901932005-11-23T00:16:00.000-08:002005-11-23T00:16:47.243-08:00This was an LJ entry.. but I think it is a poem as well..My fate seems to have become sitting in a corner writing poems in my head for someone who is gone. Hoping that tonight will be the night that you will need me, or come to your senses, or decide to break the rules, or something. But it won't come. The phone stays silent. So does my room. And I have already begun the process of becoming what Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1132191967856466732005-11-16T17:44:00.000-08:002005-11-16T18:12:11.566-08:00 Fuck It Up.Waiting still. She can wait for years. Wait through storms, and presidencies, and tears. Wait through the painful images Dar will cast on the wall off your mind that the projector of our past is pointed at. We have no screen. No false pretenses about what these images will do to the walls of my mind..Heart...Mind. I never seem to mind. I just lie to myself about my ability to Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1131679525170828652005-11-10T19:24:00.000-08:002005-11-10T19:25:25.183-08:00Inspired by Emily and a picture she sent me.. Sometimes we wear our brands on our backs as plainly as our hearts on our sleeves. Hers are cut deep. She never wears white because the wounds always seem to be fresh and bleeding and the label works its way through. No matter what. Seems that the words are different for everyone but amount to the universe’s sick version of “kick me”. Doesn’t it? AndSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1130396930501272492005-10-27T00:07:00.000-07:002005-10-27T00:08:50.510-07:00I'm on a haiku kick..This one is partly inspired by Big Poppa E.Haiku for Duckie.Dude.Moly Ringwald doesn't deserve you.She never saw what she had.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1130351306870904342005-10-26T11:26:00.000-07:002005-10-26T11:28:26.876-07:00A Haiku written by Kari, Scott, and myself. Title was compliments of Jocelyn:Zombie Sex HaikuThey took my good hat.Like shower scenes in prisonIt's all up to me.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1129765016722651972005-10-19T16:35:00.000-07:002005-10-19T16:36:56.726-07:00A Haiku written by Kari O'Connor, Andy hall, and myself at a poetry event.Exquisite Corpses Haiku:Pooh Bear eats corn poneReally hoping that this worksBut I can't see shit.Strange. But it makes sense to me.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1127207947115658122005-09-20T02:02:00.000-07:002005-09-20T02:20:56.383-07:00It’s obscene. My ridiculous belief that this pain is unique. That somehow I have tapped into my own sinking ship. My own emotional Titanic, so to speak. And I will be drunk on poetry. Inebriated with alliteration. Plastered in prose. Shit faced with metaphor and simile. I will wallow in my own persecutions and fill my quill with my failures in love. I’ll write my “fuck-you’s” to the girl that Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1126141164768911392005-09-07T17:58:00.000-07:002005-09-07T17:59:24.773-07:00Haiku number two.If only I hadOne more syllable. Then ICould finish my Hai.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1125604785844591682005-09-01T12:57:00.000-07:002005-09-01T12:59:45.850-07:00HaikuDo you think the mothKnows the fire will kill himAnd just doesn't care?Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1125123562915530712005-08-26T23:16:00.000-07:002005-08-26T23:19:22.923-07:00The ringing of my ears quiets with the memory of your taste. The tears seem to retreat at the thought of your eyes, your smile, your face. And the will of dotted lines following our path to meet at a border between us, both figuratively and literally, is how I have expended my hope. Bread crumbs of longing on a path I will choose not to follow back. Abandoning the end of my rope. Left there like Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1124496282409864492005-08-19T17:04:00.000-07:002005-08-19T17:04:42.410-07:00I would give anything to change five minutes of one morning in July. I would give anything to have been the one that you made cry instead of the other way around. I would give anything to be border bound on a long drive back to the life I picked for myself over the course of the best year of my life. I would do anything. Anything at all. But my words have failed me. As they have failed you. EverySeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1122407118315009612005-07-26T12:31:00.000-07:002005-07-26T12:45:18.323-07:00I grieve in the sky. Sometimes on the road. But never at home. This seems to be the order of things. But when it hits me, it's usually amidst a journey. During those distant times when the stranger to my right and I don't speak, so I am left with time to think. And then they turn to those I've lost. Recently and years past. And then the tears come. And, fuck, do they come fast. And I, who has to Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1121905580834765472005-07-20T17:22:00.000-07:002005-07-20T17:26:20.840-07:00Feeling like Shiva. Eight arms frantically grabbing at the hundreds of pieces to the jigsaw puzzle. In the dark. Feeling the edge of each one and trying to force them to fit. Unaware of the larger picture they make. Too busy looking at where each one goes to notice that "I" don't fit. You see, the problem, as I see it, isn't that we didn't try. It's when we quit saying "hello" and started saying,Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1120568288000500172005-07-05T05:55:00.000-07:002005-07-05T05:58:29.773-07:00Just In CaseSurgery today...To Everyone:In the immortal words of Bill and Ted's.Be excellent to each other.And... to you.I never loved anyone more.... ever.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1120201394599618922005-07-01T00:01:00.000-07:002005-07-01T00:08:34.110-07:00I am an asshole. I admit it. But at least I am learning. You see, this mind is like a steel trap that is always churning. And I am willing to recreate, redefine, shine, polish, and perfect myself. In a way that is a model of what you require and desire to keep. And this I would do for me. My last ditch effort to keep the things that help me to round off the pointy edges until I am what I choose Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1120201277549545112005-06-30T23:56:00.000-07:002005-07-01T00:01:17.550-07:00We fell in love over Turkish Coffee and Whiskey Sours. This was before we began to count the hours.. And I am left, wanting to know, can it be stopped? Or have we already tipped the domino? My God, I stand barren now.. Believing Keats less and less and Etheridge Knight, more and more.. As I fill the empty spot inside, by taking into my lungs, the smoke form the cigarettes I promised you I'd quitSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1119999629898081922005-06-28T16:00:00.000-07:002005-06-28T16:00:57.846-07:00New name. Comments now too. Look out!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1119999452717184362005-06-28T15:56:00.000-07:002005-06-28T15:57:32.723-07:00Yay Darcy. Thanks babe.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1119979309094708822005-06-28T10:21:00.000-07:002005-06-28T10:21:49.100-07:00Yeah, that's kind of what I figured...Well, thanks for the ride, everyone.I'll walk from here.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1119661264370538062005-06-24T18:00:00.000-07:002005-06-24T18:01:04.370-07:00Are you out there? Do you read this? Drop me a line if it isn't too much trouble to tell me if I should call it a bust or continue.Much Love,SeanTenbones@excite.comSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1113334285300758872005-04-12T12:30:00.000-07:002005-04-12T12:31:25.300-07:00In Good Company.Yes. It's True. The space between here and forever could be filled with your words. Ideas tumbling in a tide like water. An ocean of your prose, so thick that it crests in metaphor as it swells. Casting scattered sentences on the shores. The seashells reciting their favorite verses when held to your ear. And the sky, leaking muddled line after muddled line that collects into Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1113334170024128952005-04-12T12:26:00.000-07:002005-04-12T12:29:30.026-07:00Standing in the pool of light. Moving in small circles. Smiling. Glancing. Talking in brief phrases, punctuated by laughter. And all the while aware that things had shifted. The planes of our potential, meeting, and shifting, and pushing to form a snowy mountain between us. And each wrapped in skins, marching up the face between the tall pines to crest the top, and over if need be. Me, crashing Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1112205106899267572005-03-30T09:50:00.000-08:002005-03-30T09:51:46.900-08:00And now I, feeling burdened by our faults and selfish choices, feel a sense of my salvation in the ringing of our voices.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1101694877347481012004-11-28T18:20:00.000-08:002004-11-28T18:21:17.346-08:00At Best.
At best I’ll go to Chicago without you and begin to make a solitary life for myself. The picture frames that once held us, now sitting empty on my shelf. And I’ll pursue my dream of being a hopeless romantic revolutionary, who revolts in ink and paper. I’ll write for all I’m worth, in your stead. I’ll compose catchy little pieces of poems to be assembled later in my head, as I ride the “Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1097442070807100012004-10-10T13:55:00.000-07:002004-10-10T14:01:10.813-07:00She really did love you, Rob. He really did love you, Lindsy. I really do miss them, Tim. I really wanted you to know them, Caily. I really love you, Daddy. The fabric wears thin. The pages turn and sometimes new chapters have to begin. I like my shoebox most of all. More than the comfort of nothing at all. Grief defines us. So we should let it. It is what binds us and shows us the way.
Abbott, Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1096750311618745032004-10-02T13:10:00.000-07:002004-10-02T13:53:44.506-07:00Standing in the pool of light. Moving in small circles. Smiling. Glancing. Talking in brief phrases, punctuated by laughter. And all the while aware that things had shifted. The planes of our potential, meeting, and pushing, and forming a snowy mountain between us. And each wrapped in skins marching up the face between the tall pines to crest the top and over, if need be. Me, crashing into you Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1095461779569149552004-09-17T15:51:00.000-07:002004-09-17T15:56:19.570-07:00Who the fuck am I?
I’m a person of peace with a warring soul. I’m both Aaron and Lee, stuck in that hole. I’m dancing, with no rhythm, to the rebel songs. I’m adopting a tongue to which I can’t belong. I’m hoping to open eyes by writing about grey with black and white. I’m shielding my eyes against the light.
But who the fuck am I?
I want out. I need to go. I’ve given up. I see the salt water Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1093997343868938942004-08-31T16:59:00.000-07:002004-08-31T17:09:03.866-07:00Why write?
I am writing for something profound to say. Or if not that, at least a profound way to say it. Mixing the mundane fears and hopes of everyday into something that just might appear important enough to say. But I don't have shit to write about right now. And I mean that in a good way. You see, things are on an uphill swing. And I suppose I don't write because I'd rather sing. It's kind Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1093471453380632492004-08-25T14:48:00.000-07:002004-08-26T14:47:22.246-07:00Thank you for bringing back my pen. Thank you for being my muse. Thank you for understanding the confusion and making sense of the words I use. Thank you for being just what it is. Thank you for restoring my faith in the power of a kiss. Thank you for letting somethings be only for you and thank you for saying you believe what I say to be true. Thank you for understanding, "We'll see." And thank Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1089660817526356822004-07-12T12:33:00.000-07:002004-07-12T12:40:53.543-07:00Where have you been? I was wondering if you were ever coming back. I was starting to worry. Just a little. I didn’t know how else I was going to get everything from in here, out. I wanted to. I want to. But know that you are here before me; I have nothing to say really. I just want to know…
When’s it gunna rain?
I want it to be me now. I want to be fixed to. I want you to see me in a new light,Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1082961474658488952004-04-25T23:37:00.000-07:002004-04-25T23:41:26.763-07:00Feeling like a giant gift.
The bows and ribbons tied.
But when you open up the gift,
There's not a thing inside.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1082441414814224662004-04-19T23:10:00.000-07:002004-04-19T23:13:11.606-07:00My sense of self abolished. Replaced with version 2.0 . My hope of all I’d like to be has ended with the show. Don’t worry. I wasn’t offended. I’ve wondered if you were a figment of my imagination too. To good and sometimes way to bad to ever really be true. And there’s no way you could know that I’d made up my mind a long time ago, that you would stay on the shelf. In that shoe box on the left Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1078257359680974622004-03-02T11:55:00.000-08:002004-04-19T23:06:12.826-07:00Butterfly
Butterfly, fly away. It’s time for you to go.
Butterfly, fly away. Amidst the soft white snow.
Butterfly, with wings on air, as you stare at us below.
Butterfly, Butterfly. I guess we’ll never know.
“But spring comes fast.” She whispers.
“And things will grow again.”
“And once I was a dream, it seems,”
“That I hoped would never end.”
Butterfly, our Butterfly,
With wings of snowy Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1077610877995482042004-02-24T00:21:00.000-08:002004-02-24T00:23:18.746-08:00Living my life in a chemical haze and I can’t get the shit off my shoes. Trying to find the one who pays for me to sing the blues. And I am trapped, somewhere deep inside my head where visions of you are growing dim and then dead. Hope is a precious commodity now. I find I crave it more now than before, as I kick and scream and wail against the locked and boarded door. I’m calling to you from Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1075682813634369022004-02-01T16:46:00.000-08:002004-02-02T18:43:14.996-08:00Our world is so incredibly sign oriented. They are everywhere. Unconscious mediators for a world of flesh and blood robots, who need constant instruction. Yield, Do Not Turn, Walk, Don’t Walk, No soliciting, Keep Out, Exit Only….Eat at Joes. I think I’d like to make a million signs and sprinkle them evenly about the world… Big, beautiful reflective yellow signs, bordered in red, with dark black Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1072867932178714782003-12-31T02:52:00.000-08:002004-02-01T16:47:19.653-08:00In Loving Memory of Abbott Garcia
He is gone. He is gone. And yet the clock ticks on. In a flash the master of forward momentum is taken by air to the grave. Nothing we could do. No one we could save.
We stand now. One fewer. But as a whole, truer. To ourselves and to our concept of love we learned from our meanderings into life together. Tying off to the rocks above and holding on tightly to Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1068529489780654202003-11-10T21:44:00.000-08:002003-11-10T21:44:46.996-08:00The Proof is the Blood in the Rock
Mulieres cellam ineunt exeuntque loquentes Michaelangeli.
Will there come a time when I won’t understand what will go on and what must end?
Will I learn not to care as I grow cynical and old, and value my memories like silver and gold? Will I place a rake before I eat, with an inch or two between hem and sock? Will I long for time to spend with you when Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1067553215723092662003-10-30T14:33:00.000-08:002003-10-30T14:40:15.610-08:00 I broke free. I tore the binds of time. I shattered the hour glass into a thousand pieces and scooped up a handful of sand. Millions of grains running slowly through my fingers. As if I’d reached into the sky and plucked out stars. Yes. So many grains of stars, slipping so quickly away. And I could control how quickly they ran by. I went forward, to a time when I was old, looking back at the Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1066934378010974432003-10-23T11:39:00.000-07:002003-10-23T11:39:37.593-07:00Weathering the tempering fire of my friends. Finding means that we can convince ourselves will justify the ends. And the truth will be found between straight shots and cigarettes in parking lots. Because our victory is in the stem of the champagne glass and the knowledge is in the slate hung before the class like a dead man on the end of a rope with not much of an opinion but a whole hell of a Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1063908200971218912003-09-18T11:03:00.000-07:002003-09-18T11:03:21.060-07:00Outwitted.
He drew a ring to keep us out.
Heretic, Rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win.
We drew a ring that took him in.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1063778569626817192003-09-16T23:02:00.000-07:002003-09-16T23:02:49.743-07:00The whistle blows to start the race,
I watch them all run by.
And then I bend to tie my shoes,
With no intent to try.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1060910243466574552003-08-14T18:17:00.000-07:002003-08-14T18:21:51.956-07:00Beauty behind bars,fair maiden. One who shall pretend. A humble paige who wants to know a will that will not bend. Satisfaction in defeat? Or simply in the know. Of reality touching bleeding feet in a game called status quo. Tell me of your evils. Your soul I need to know. Let comfort be my guise to you and compassion be the show. Take my hand my sister as I show you all my fears and let me pray Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1059525749099562852003-07-29T17:42:00.000-07:002003-07-29T17:42:29.140-07:00I’m a monarch with no one to rule. I’m a sick joke on the lips of a fool. And she can’t get enough inside. At least not enough to fill her. She never wanted to be a butterfly. Just a caterpillar. And is their a difference between déjàvu and coincidence?Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1059089100452185802003-07-24T16:25:00.000-07:002003-07-24T16:25:00.463-07:00It all seems so obvious to me. The danger of a second glance. So incriminating. We all have a certain capacity to deceive ourselves and beyond that, it is a choice. Destiny, death, chance, circumstance, the car accident late at night. To some degree it is all a decision. So is the inability to look away. To stare in hopes of catching a small bit of flesh under the red and white sheet. We all haveSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1058385210228779172003-07-16T12:53:00.000-07:002003-07-16T12:53:30.100-07:00I am words. I am a gift. I am the voice of the artisans of this age. I am slam. I am beat. I am rhyme and meter, sometimes sloppy, sometimes neat. I am in San Diego trying to learn to teach Yoga and struggling to cope with the rage. I am the writing on the wall as well as on the page. I am torn into trying to figure out what to do with what I am learning and what I know. I am an ex-pastor named Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1058050148802013972003-07-12T15:49:00.000-07:002003-07-12T15:49:08.810-07:00I want to love in bright and vibrant colors, swept across the sky, with a paintbrush in haphazard strokes of intimacy. Reds and blues and greens, clashing across a skyline that is a testimony to my ability to love completely. I want to love like I’ve never been let down and I have no cause to fear. I want to drink an ocean full of love in as I paddle frantically to stay afloat. Sucking it down inSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1057725441677805542003-07-08T21:37:00.000-07:002003-07-08T21:38:41.290-07:00That bent corner below Shakespeare? That's me. And what does Shakespeare really know? I think his most profound and prolific statement was this, "Take it God. For it is none but thine." Do I serve God? When I am naked in the corner, in the dark? With thousands of little fingers pulling me down? When I have no verse to hide behind? When I am a mad scientist mixing dreams with metaphors to make Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1057264755548906992003-07-03T13:39:00.000-07:002003-07-14T13:38:04.950-07:00Experience. Experience, they say, is what you get when you don’t get what you want. They say a lot. And usually, they have no idea what they are talking about. But sometimes, we take a blind shot and hit. And sometimes, we bet once and quit. And sometimes we gamble with the houses money. And sometimes we’ll take the sting, if we get to taste the honey. And give me a home where the cell phones allSeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538292.post-1057175535603526542003-07-02T12:52:00.000-07:002003-07-14T13:38:36.440-07:00 And then I'll have everything I need. And then I'll have the tools to start the deed. And then I'll kiss you, cause I won't be afraid. And then I'll lie in the bed that I just made. Listening to the chaotic rhythms thumping in my brain. And singing loud, and singing hard, while dancing in the rain. And why so far away? Why can't salvation be here? And why should I ever chose to win the Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05350855482436124924noreply@blogger.com0