Ce Que J'ai Appris [what i have learned]

A POEM OF AMBIGUOUS PROPORTIONS

...What have I learned?

Je ne sais pas...alors.

J’ai appris.  J’ai appris. J’ai appris

Everything spurs from the intentional—the eventual.

With age comes increasing struggle to see,

My intentions are hazy

Too quickly—the time comes and goes

And this indistinct blur is nothing at all but that

A blur

—The clouds after it rains.

But slivers, slivers, there have always been slivers,

Through which I see a city, soft in shades of gray

A sun peaking out from beneath this collage

Of steel laden inhabitants

Chez Moi

Mais, Mais, Mais,

The rain has slowed for some time now, as the sky begins to ripen.

The haze, not gone, remains in the distance,

And the stain left behind, on my squinting eyes, is blue.

Blue. I don’t know what to do with blue.

I see, now I see—

I’d rather have just a sliver of light than be blinded by an overflow of Blue.

Beauteous beckoning blue

Bewitchingly decadent blue

Que Faire?

Hélas, hélas, hélas

I’ve looked up towards the sun too long

Although it feels like just a moment

 —unable to unwind

Now, in the forefront of my mind

Is not the last blue sky I saw.

But rather, the gray mist that came before

How fondly I will remember those silver slivers of light

Those falling, fleeting thoughts,

darting towards a steel ideal.

 I knew—at least I thought I knew

Distinction cannot appear behind a haze.

I knew. I knew! I knew?

Yet I squint to get a glimpse

Behind this opaque blue—

My intention? Qui sait?

 Je Continue.

 J’ai appris J’ai appris, J’ai appris

This wave has come at me in threes.

I smell Remnants of blur in the breeze

Cette vague, Cette vague de ma vie
Taking French / 2011.

Heights

             My friends from High School recently came to visit me and the three of us took a train into the city on a Sunday afternoon. Personally, I was hoping for a mellow escape—while simultaneously ignoring an unfinished paper looming in the distance. My friends were hoping for a little adventure, not very familiar with New York City, and ready to make the most of the one afternoon that they had to explore. What we found was right in between—just what we all needed. We found ourselves at a downtown apartment right off of Wall Street—a friend of my friends whom she’d met in her travels.  Needless to say (as the pictures sort-of say it all) he was exceedingly wealthy. 

And I was exceedingly inspired, to each their own.

It’s that feeling in your stomach, as if you swallowed a phone and keep receiving texts—that faint buzzing, that weakness of limbs, subtle numbness of fingers. The fear of heights doesn’t seem like fear at all. Rather, carnal reaction.  I can’t control it, I can’t stop it, I can barely endure it, but I don’t mind it. I step away from the edge with a jerk of my legs, when my newly fragile body has had enough. I wasn’t fragile before. But that was before I found myself atop the world. Well, sort of. Atop of the city hailed the greatest in the world—bright lights as far at the eye can see, subtle lights even further, and a newfound trust in the existence of the lights beyond the horizon, an assuredness resulting from this feeling.

The feeling of insignificance that spurs from the realization that we are all just tiny specks of dust within one of the thousands of illuminated squares, sitting side by side on the face of a high-rise. And Simultaneously, the feeling of insight, spurring from the realization that each speck of dust has the power to think of them self as a speck of dust, the power to draw the shades on their illuminated square, the power to look down on the rest of the specks, with respect or distain, depending on the day, depending on the speck. And furthermore, when those specks get together, in a cloud of indiscernible dust, the power to build the greatest city in the world.

Downtown NYC / 2011

life, simply.

Life is not a building

It's a railroad

We're not building up,

We're moving forward

For--if we simply build upwards,

We're destined to come crashing down. 
2010

Bronxville, NY

When the gum on the curb sticks to my sneaker and sentiments fall from the overflowing receptacles that haphazardly line the streets within which my life is confined. I find—that it’s time.  

To get out of here for a little while

Take a trip to a place where the times a bit slower 

Where people are scattered and voices ring lower 

To leave the place where walking means walking with purpose 

Dragged towards the loafer-clad leader of this circus 

And find myself in a place

Where meandering is a pass-time, acceptable all the time

Where everyone is on time. And you can’t see the deadlines.

They’re blurred between elderly strolls and supermarket stands

Between houses becoming homes and pickup games of soccer

Between the branches of the trees beneath the tracks that I ride

To get out of here, just for a little while.

Take a break. Take some time. Take a trip and unwind.

I walk the paths beneath the tracks, not worried about my frayed suede latching onto the remnants of a rushed lunch break or a breeze-blown receipt book.

I look up when the rumbling trains pass above, filled with comings and going, leaving behind only rays of permeating sunlight.

I skip stones in the water where fish don’t reside and couldn’t if they tried. For, long-time hasty-living suffuses the shallow stream.

I see fragments of metropolis in indistinct spraypaint conceptions that complement the water’s reflection of my face.

Smiling. For, I found my escape.

From the excitement of knowing there’s so much to know 

Where separately together we can’t help but grow 

And a fascinating person is always at hand.  

Where everyone's a notch in this five-borough plan 

That's why it's just for a little while.

Bronxville, NY / 2011

Uncle John is Swimming

As anniversaries approach, 

serious sentiments emerge

from the unkempt places in our minds. 
Let them...

Uncle John is Swimming

I am underwater.

and the whole world is silent

except the beating of my heart

and the whispers of my thoughts.

A sea of sadness,

A sea of strangers

to everyone but the deceased.

Oh, but the wise know one comes for the living,

so they are displaced

from a family displaced.

My breath is staccato.

Between the notes my heart skips a beat

so loud that it vibrates the wrinkles-

of an aged father.

My head is underwater.

Alas, the receding world is silent

until-a wave of sadness hits me like a load of concrete blocks

escaping from the back of a truck.

New Jersey fears,

nightmares.

Ode to the highway,

the passed away,

and the far away.

Ode to the resting place.

Ode to his resting place.

To dirty water tears

in sewage drains,

gifts to the deranged displaced.

To crumbling bodies

held together by crumbling souls.

I’m crying now with my eyes sewn shut

and all that’s released is steam

from the heavy heat that is my thoughts.

A valley of volcanoes –

beneath a coral reef.

Floral Wreaths

line the coffin,

a funeral of mass proportions,

broken vindications,

the faucet needs fixin’.

But the hands of the man of the house

have turned to dust,

the pipes rust.

The bathroom is underwater.

A family underwater

We are all underwater

And he is underground.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour

Expectations are intricately intertwined with experience.  For example, even if I attempt to keep my mind blank before a show, it is inevitable that thoughts begin to brew about what the concert will reveal. Often times I tend to forget this pre-concert ritual. For, the show, more often than not, takes me away, if not in the exact way that I had expected, on a parallel plane.

When I saw The Asteroids Galaxy Tour, however, my vague ideas about what the show was going to be and what it actually turned out to be were so different, that it struck a chord within me.

Sitting on the floor of my room on the afternoon of the show, I couldn’t help but move my body to the sounds of Asteroid’s eclectic Danish pop music as it overflowed from my speakers. Picture this: if my life were a television show, this would be the moment when the camera would zoom in on my serene and happy face as the sweet sounds of a harp played and the scene faded into a fantasy. In this daydream, I was jumping around in a sea of my peers, young and beautiful, clad completely in sequins and stars.

That is not how it went down. As soon as we arrived it was evident that we were the youngest people there. We stood, surrounded by well-dressed, hipper than hip 25-30 year olds, calmly waiting for the show to begin. We were jittery. My mind was having difficulty processing this: people aren’t piled on top of each other? What? No pushing for a spot up front? Seriously? It was nothing that I expected. It wasn’t crazy, but it was beautiful.

It was just a sexy, soulful starlet and her gang of groovy dudes, jamming. No one was dancing on top of each other, but no one was standing still. Everyone was enthralled in the music and no one was overly enthralled in his or her vices. It was a short, sweet and energetic show. It was perfect and it was nothing that I had expected

Lead Singer Mette Lindberg: Isn't she awesome?

2011

Rocking

Rock

and roll,

it’s out of control.

The beat of the drums

echoes deep in my soul.

Rock back and forth

in the waves of the sound,

with edges-so rough

and a base, smooth and round. 

The rocking chair under me scrapes on the ground. 

Rocking and rolling, 

my heart skips a beat

and I’m tapping my feet

to this music-so sweet. 

This room full of passion has become my retreat

and this rocking, rocking, rocking chair-my seat.

To sit back and observe

a rain stick turn-full of pebbles

and faces, lighting up,

those silly little rebels.

Pretend to be bad

but your innocent, I’m sure

for, the sound of the music is nothing but pure

and the eyes in the audience say

“Give me more” 

More beats and more drums

more twitling thumbs

fingering strums.

More base-smooth and round

vibrating the ground,

more moving around

more rock and roll sound.

Creative Writing Class / 2009

Writers Block

In a society made of words, consumed by the media, writers block is a relevant issue. I wrote this silly poem a while ago, but at this point in time, it couldn't apply more. 

Writer’s block

Brings me back

To the time my greatest worry

Was afternoon snack-

And on the way home not to step on the crack

-For fear of breaking my mother’s back.

The words were jibber jabber, sacred jargon

And the lessons please, thank you and beg your pardon

I wish I was back in kindergarten

When roses were red

And violets were blue

Now flowers are so complex in hue

And everything seems to come back to you.

I’m out on a tangent

That’s driving me wild

The face of a woman

But the eyes of a child

I miss the days when things were mild

The sun came up and went to bed

Along with the old man who bumped his head

And blushing faces turned pink, not red

Tick tack toe troubles have faded away

Board games grow dusty, waiting for a rainy day

And building blocks sold at a yard sale in May

While the block of a writer-is here to stay.

Poetry in English Class / 2009

Wandering New York

When you’re moving in transit, all that you have are your thoughts.

             Darting eyes litter the streets as lines form in either direction on the sidewalks. Headphones play and glances are picked up and put down more quickly than it takes for a full opinion to be formed. Look right, there’s a twentysomething with a patchy red beard, tuning out the world with his ear buds. Look left, there’s a hotdog cart, gone in the time it takes to glance at the price, replaced by a baby in a stroller, a highfalutin businessman, a beauty, a sob story, an unexpected friend. And then it’s on to the next block, on to the next set of sights and sounds, on to the next bunch of peripheral people with courteous commuter smiles.

All the while, my mind is wandering, racing, trying to keep up with it all:

‘Didn’t ask for that extended eye contact’          

‘Come on slow walkers’

‘Cute baby’         

‘I wonder how old they are’

‘Do I look that young?’

‘Cool long trail shirt’

‘Shit, almost tripped there’

‘My lucky day, another walk sign’

               I’ve arrived, and I join the masses, delving into the depths of the station. Teller, Ticket, and Human Traffic: typical tribulations. The people who’ve got plenty of time are rushing; the people who are rushing are sprinting.  There are a slew of undecipherable ramblings heard overhead but no one really reacts. Until the track number is posted—then, It’s a human zoo. Flocking figures fixate on the gate. The ten minutes allotted for boarding never seems like enough time, everyone shares a common goal but no one seems to notice anyone else.

‘Excuse me, pardon me’

‘Pardon me, excuse me’

‘After you’

‘After me?’

‘Actually, after the man in the wheelchair’

             The talking is limited as everyone claims his or her seat. Strangers accompany friends, as friends split up to accommodate strangers. Slipping into a seat is unsettling but once you’ve sat, your satisfied. One by one, the headphones go in and the computers come out, books open and eyes close.

It’s the first leg, the last leg and the middle of a journey: to each, their own.

And at the end of the day, when the train stops at your station, 

and you lift your suitcase from the overhead compartment or your backpack from your lap, 

allow the man talking on the phone cut you off or maybe find the gumption to cut him off instead, descend the stairs and make your way off of the platform, 

perhaps smile at your mom in her minivan, 

maybe slip the key into the ignition of your Audi 

or even just begin the walk, 

you’ve made it—you’re going home. 
2011

Lotus

For those not familiar with Lotus, the band is composed of four young and funky dudes: Mike Rempel on guitar, Jesse Miller on bass and synthesizer, Luke Miller on guitar/keyboard, and Mike Greenfield on drums. Stylistically, lotus combines classic rock and roll jam band rifts with electronic beats. Their music also has hints of jazz and funk. Truly, they span multiple genres in each song and do so with complete fluidity. If you’ve never listened to Lotus, your ears are missing out on the sweet sounds of innovation. If you’ve never seen Lotus live, you’re missing out on the experience of a lifetime.

Flash forward to the middle of a crowd. After a long anticipating subway ride laced with glittery expectations, we were an arms length away from the stage. Nestled between our neighbors, we were like cheerios in a bowl—If cheerios could dance until their fingers learned how to dance on their own. Every second felt like the tireless effort to compact five ulterior seconds together. But, we were not tired. In fact, we were tireless. Our limbs, not bound by the confines of our frames, reached out into the crowd, seeking new sets of senses.  

They played, not only in music, but in shades of color.

 The lights, the sounds, the subtle ticking of the drummer’s base: I took it all in. Yet, as soon as any given sensation made its way to me, just as soon, it had been refracted. Energy bounced back and forth between the arrays of individuals, radiating vibes that fit together like lock and key. With each note we bounced from place to place, with the fluidity of a stream and the intensity of lightning.  

We were a part of something beyond us, but we felt as if we had created it. Still, we all knew it was more than that.  It was more than the lights, more than the sounds, more than the colorful clashing of clustered people. It was a scene so picturesque and beautiful, that as soon as it began, I was mourning its loss.  As soon as I thought about the place where I saw standing, I was thinking about the vividness of the memory the moment would yield.

We kept our minds awake all night, charging. Replaying the scene over and over again, adding without subtracting. Attempting to build, within the confines of our minds, something concrete to remember it by. For, alas, it was just a memory that we all wanted to go back to—and that brought us together, sitting in a circle, with the music still ringing in our brains, deeply, positively, sincerely knowing that we were a part of something special.

Terminal 5 / Fall 2011

Sleep On

sleep on.

2am is well upon us

the black night air has captured me

I am too awake to notice

that my whole world is but a dream

I gasp at the sudden realization

everything is becoming clear to me

I lie not awake, seeking slumber-

but sleep, for my whole life is but a dream

screams-and dire hopes of waking,

are all drowned out by my TV
words I've read they try to break me
songs I've heard they try to shake me
from this sleep they hope to wake me

are all drowned out so easily

In fact they lull me more to sleep

sleep on-for my whole world is but a dream.
New Jersey 2009