Two Zero Zero Five, My Final Thoughts
i.
knowledge is life. wisdom. a
river which flows throughout us and
i am a bridge
sustaining yesterday with
the memory of today.
everyday’s a lesson, i have learned,
needing the structure i’ve become.
am i touching
down, planted in concrete
and able to withstand the
madness and serenity of passing traffic?
sure i am. i stand and i hold on. i hold on.
ii.
saw another movie with its insight cabled
tightly in a two hour twist of ego.
eventually, filmed, i was wrapped in my own
victimization of hubris between the commercials.
entertainment. angles. cinematic grammar
needing the same old stories told once ...
again. over and over again.
nbc.cbs.abc.pbs.mtv, etc. the
dynamics of hollywood empires not fallen nor
erased by its innocence and
rearrangement of reality
so, for a moment, we matter.
on the t.v. a tale is told, tonight, a dance in the sun.
new years yet to come -- recycled., like reruns.
iii.
he likes to read.
always has, until guilt sets in and he
needs to get outside -- live the life
necessary to be written onto page.
and, he likes to journal
how everything/nothing/this matters
all he craves, though, is a good story. how the
race of being human catches up, and
bobo’s burden of the ring
arrives even after gollum gets his way.
unbelievable. that’s how these poems
go. so, for a little while,
he/she/they/we can grow.
iv.
by now, you know that somewhere, over the
rainbow, there only exists more doors to the
imagination.
they each are painted in
the spirit that moves you,
atlases to the moment the journey begins -
navigation-voyage-flight-movement.
you are the
artist with the brush,
randomly pinpointing the
brilliance, radiance, song and dance,
under the framework of sky,
creating the lines, space, a mood on a
kid’s face.
lovelaughterlivingleaving-
everyone must exit the door.
v.
all of us are made of earth:
man, woman, child
awkward forms of bone, muscle,
nerves, and mud, carcassed beings
deep within the
aggravation of its harnessed cravings.
birth begets rebirth begets being born again,
over and over
arriving as dirt, dust and
knowledge. there’s always an end.
rivers teach this: Ohio, good morning,
i am alive
going along with this rhythm, while i have it,
growing into what i’m to become,
sustaining this body until it must be returned.
vi.
in the tree, walnuts. never claimed to be otherwise,
admit it, odd, peculiar, seedlings they are, pink elephants
not meant to fit in all family trees.
but through the leaves the sun is focused,
on those of us pushing the boulders uphill,
living to fulfill dreams which
grow in the garden of a hip-hop, flip-flop life. the
evolution takes time, like the music in our heads,
racing - a squirrel who plays chicken on the highway of life, but prevails.
vii.
look. evil is subjective.
i mean, look at alice.
nerd. dork. a word that rhymes with witch.
ditch. electric chair. flip the
switch and
everyone goes happy.
yodel lai he hoooooooo.
crap. i forgot to add the fabric softener,
and it’s made for a womyn, strong enough for a man.
racist. sexist. bigot. crackerjack cheese puff.
tally the anxiousness, the pace of these words
eagerly awaiting the reader to
run away with the punch line (which is usually bryan)
viii.
moo cow. p.u. cow. pow wow
aglow now,
singing in the field of penguins.
one. two. three. four.
nab your tentacles on the floor.
cot two cot two, giddyup giddyup, giddyup, get down.
oh, no, mr. bill, not another bamboozled
xenophobic, claustrophobic hypochondriac. quack quack quack.
viii&1/2
this is my curse. i
reach to be my best, excel,
and while almost at the sun, my wings
viciously catch fire and i am
icarus once again.
sucks to be me.
cause the next day, upon landing in aches and pains, i’ll
reach the sun once again, or
at least i think i will, but won’t.
flying is for the birds, but
the dream is for humanity.
ix.
look. it’s purely coincidental that
all of us are swirling in this batter of uneaten
cookie dough. eggs. flour. sugar,
even the vanilla extract and chocolate chips,
you know what i mean?
don’t know what i mean? okay.
all of us happen to be in this bowl, right,
with all these other ingredients, totally random,
so we can taste good once cooked, together,
on some pie rack the “man” created for us. but
nope. it won’t work. they’ll forget to turn the oven on and eat us raw.
x.
quazy how the need to go fast
usually ends up in a ticket,
or some crazy internet scandal
causing us to lose money. yet i say
drive fast. make bets. attempt the
impossible and when you lose, play innocent.
now is the only moment that matters.
how would your grand kids feel if you didn’t have stories for them to learn?
xi.
blink of an eye, summer’s here
leaving another generation of imagination attempting the
aggravation of the real world intervention.
i hate to tell them that it stinks, but winona ryder did star in
reality bites. ‘though, once you get past the whining and the
depression and the angst and the drama,
obviously all that is left is happiness, awe and weally whacky
wonder about how one earth could have such
delicious everything underneath forgotten rocks and
living beneath soil only to
evolve into exactly what it’s supposed to be. it’s not just black and white.
xii.
jelly on scones. blueberry pancakes. scrambled
eggs, bacon toast at a diner of old lady waitresses.
rhubarb pie. rice soup. poached salmon.
elephant ears at the fair, hot cinnamon rolls,
monkey bread, christmas cookies, potato salad,
yogurt on top of angel cake and strawberries.
french fries, tator tots. sushi and wasabi.
each bite, a new discovery of what the palate
rationalizes into flavor, taste, aesthetic and mood.
rarely, does the culinary artist within grow, but with
you...you have every right to smack your lips and return to the kitchen.
xiii.
my example is lunacy, i suppose --
always manic in a drive to accomplish
the impossible, on a mission to
hang the crescent moon on heaven’s nail so
everything, for a little while, anyway,
will be serene, calm, so i can exhale with
fuzzy wuzzy was a bear
over and over again
with a smile on my face at how
little it takes for me to believe in
everything you work for. i’ve got your back as you
reach the heavens to hang the better life on that same nail.
xiv.
random they accuse me of being, an
idiot insane on the insanity of the inaneness,
crazy as a loon at a pow wow,
after the cowboys have rode their horses.
randomrandomrandomrandom,
doing/saying/being whatever whim comes to my
overly anxious brain.
fudge. total fudge. i’m focused
on what really matters and that is everything.
x-actly my point. everything is confusing.
xv.
knowing what i know now
entertains me, only because i can
laugh at how stupid i once was.
singing songs are like this.
earlier, i could sing “i’ve been working on the railroad”.
yesterday, i could sing my a,b, c’s.
growing up, i got a walkman
and tuned everyone out. I became a
recluse in black clothing, webbed in internal
realities, because songs helped me to survive.
eventually, i began to listen to different tunes, though.
the melodies of great symphonies before me,
taught me wisdom and i began singing my own song. i say, “sing”.
xvi.
maybe there are werewolves
and they go bowling for lawn gnomes,
running away when the robins start to sing.
i don’t know. i live with a dog who
sleeps and for entertainment, rolls over to
sleep some more. i wish she was
as entertaining as a bowling werewolf would be.
great. now i’m all sad that my canine
exists uselessly, only to flip-flop in dead possum,
not to howl at the moon nor roll gutter balls past
the jolly little dwarves at the end of the alley.
really, my world could be more interesting
yelling, “Juliette, don’t eat the Nisse.”
xvii.
superficial what?
and with std’s?
man, promiscuous little boogers
attend that school.
now, why doesn’t everyone go
there? i mean, if it’s the greatest, brightest, best, ever,
how is it we’re not all there.
are we the dumbest, dimmest and least?
hmmmm. i sort of like that.
all of us can exhale now, knowing how
little we are and unimportant. it’s too bad we know how to
laugh.
xviii.
reaching for the moon one day, i heard someone
yelling it didn’t belong to me.
are you a nincompoop, the voice screamed,
no one, no one is to touch the sky!!!
how sad, i thought,
as i tucked my arms back to their side.
my intentions were good and i planned on
sending the moon back in its place.
life is too grande not to have a taste of
every opportunity which arises, so if they
yell at you, make sure you at least grab a star.
xix.
duh. um. hmmm.
aaaaaahhh...ugh. thud
now, that is a performance. it’s called
a man trying to articulate his passion while
hanging his memories on a nail. it’s a
vietnamese folk tale. i think it was
you who shared it with me, once.
hhmmmm. uggghhhhh, duh,
ahhhhhhhh, whack.
never mind. that was another story, when
no one was around to see my curtain call,
and when the velvet robes were pulled shut before I
had a chance to bow. God, I hate the theater. Such drama. la de da.
xx.
doobie doobie doobie doo
aardvark, cow and ostrich poo,
voo do vat vith vu? woo woo
i dooooooooooooon’t believvvvve it,
dabid hobby -- it’s not even dursday.
hippetty hoppity tru’ dat,
and sing along with this poetic skat,
rapping at the mic, with mickey the rat,
voo do vat vith vu? woo woo
eccentric language stew, yep, that’s totally
you. (mecha lecka hi, mecka hiney ho -- yo)
xxi.
jugs. that’s what they do to
unruly guys at st. x.
see, they do the crime
they pay the time
imprisoned by jugs.
naughty naughy, tsk tsk.
horribly evil it is to stand as a t-shape
idiot with two jugs in each grip. They must
go crazy, in heavenly pain, aching in
god’s wrath that thee hath
sinned. ouch.
xxii.
first it was betty crocker.
ran up with a recipe for
entertaining the heart -- she
didn’t know about L’il Debbie, did she?
how about Sara Lee
or Mrs. Butterworth?
does the CEO tell all the
girls about Silver’s or Lil Ace’s
eight secret ingredients on being a
stud? Lady’s man...Lady’s man!!
xxiii.
nobody knows
all there is to know in this
madness
however, when the wind blows
under our wings we must fly.
you were given gifts to use wisely.
now is the time to
hatch from your senior cocoon and live.
xxiv.
my grandmother taught me to sing the songs
all around me. look at the trees, she said, the
rivers, the lakes, the sky, the clouds and
the kingdom of life.
i have tried to live as she did, and
need her memory in the back of my mind,
always knowing these eyes are watching god, too.
just like zora, i need a world of story. i need words
on paper to make sense of it all.
never forget the color purple
existing in your heart.
sing the song of poets and smile your smile forever.
xxv.
little things matter most
in the end.
born into
body,
you must internalize the magic, the
karma,
never forgetting the blues
oscillating in the accomplishment of dialectics.
ubiquitous infinity
saves all of us in the
end. but this is only the beginning.
xxvi.
jokes on us,
each and every day because
riddles bring nothing but
ego to the punster.
madness, the hubris
yearning to pull a fast one even quicker.
life has the last laugh, though,
and soon, once again, the eyes leak,
never confident of tomorrow’s regrets
eventually settling within us all.
xxvii.
my instinct is to play drums while driving.
i’ve never had a lesson, no, but there’s something about song which
causes my hands to find the steering wheel in a pit-pat
holy experience. at times, my rhythm is
awkward, but so am i, and i have hard time with my
ears. what sounds good to me is purely
ludicrous, but i play anyway.
laugh, anyway.
i sing, too. sometimes with windows open, other times
closed. and when i play, i wonder
how others view me from their roads. i keep the
volume loud. why? why not. when i’m tapping
at the internal drum kit of my soul, as
ridiculous as it is, i’m making music. that’s all that matters.
xxviii.
just yesterday i arrived,
early, in a toyota tercel i named joan popper, my
simple blue traveler which brought my world of books and
story to this land of splooievilled kenyucky.
i have no regrets, either, because somehow i learned to
earn this -- this moment, so quickly shared.
my travels have changed some
and gas prices have climbed, but still i find myself
going, moving, being, seeing, loving the road ahead.
each day i accelerate, sister,
each day the wear and tear of age brings me closer to what really matters.
xxix.
so, i’ve been thinking a lot about loyalty and trust.
every man, and woman, must do this eventually,
arguing, internally, about what is right and wrong. we
need the constancy of sincerity.
mahaffey has this. he’s truth,
always appearing one way, but providing another,
holding on to his beliefs, morals
and convictions of what’s best in this world.
for some, they missed out on this pillar, this
friend who’d have your back during the greatest storm.
every now and then, you meet someone who’s a good guy.
yes, sean, you’re the good guy and i hope it delivers to you what it should.
xxx.
last year, i was in a trinity of disbelief: doubt, discouragement
and leaving. the easiest answer was to leave the
madness when all around me the insanity prevailed.
i have wanted to leave more than once,
catching back up to the life i once lived,
having the bliss created from memory
and living in my wigmore hill past,
especially when another year
lashes goodbyes against the chalkboard.
my instinct is to dive back under the lily pads,
causing a mild tsunami
kicking only the cattails around. this is my
nature, and i want to hide,
intrinsically,
going underneath, instead of above.
however, it’s good to stay still because here
the greatest lessons are learned. i know this now.
xxxi.
a-b-c-
d, 1-2-3
all the spirit belongs to me.
i must shout and i must scream
remembering the purpose is to dream.
m & m’s, with skittles, too,
creating spirit is up to you.
perhaps a dance, perhaps a cheer,
how the individual matters,
each and
every year.
tippety-toppity, trippity, toe
embrace the self, put off the foe.
reach above and touch the moon,
sing the magic of your tune.
xxxii.
my first dog was dusty. my sisters and
i used to swim with him at loch lebanon, until his
chasing of water skiers wore the padding from his paws.
he had a stroke, though - only could use his left leg.
early the next summer, my sister brought home tizzephina
louise. i suppose she’s the closest thing (he
laughs to himself) to this man’s best friend i’ve
ever had.
moons changed through phases and
onward i marched. tizzy saved my sister’s life and
no one can take that back.
that day, i suppose i woke up, once again,
galloping one step closer to the man i am today.
oh, and now i have good ol’ pinhead,
my third.
everyone likes to make fun of her --
really, she’s quite an odd dog,
yet, i love having her around. dog spelled backwards is god, after all.
xxxiii.
jelly. honey. something sweet
or full of sugar. that’s what pooh likes.
not tigger, nor eeyore (which
i tend to be), but good ol’ winnie,
catching some of the bee stings, cuz he’s
always willing to work for what he wants.
maybe that’s the secret
of what it’s all about. we
need to know what tickles our belly and
take all the chances necessary to
get there. not all are
on the way.
many don’t work
enough, don’t have that child within
reaching past the hives thrown their way.
you don’t pooh pooh, you win.
xxxiv.
koi. you knew i’d begin that way,
having the first line bring orange brilliance
along the murky poem -- you knew i’d
need to use those three letters in simplicity, not merit,
glowing larger than the universe.
god, buddha, maude. the one -
i know you know the words i need to say
and i know you know i can only imply them.
nirvana is what we make this life and that’s why i decide to
give, to help, to search for the best in everything i know
until i die, . why. it’s just bry.
yearning to tackle the insecure
egomania a little, sigh, too much. it is time
now. go upstream holding the sun and moon upon your back. swim.
xxxv.
my ancestors make me a mutt.
i come from ukranian eggs,
celtic stories, english pubs, while
holding german oompa oompa tales
everywhere i go. no, i’ve never
lived in vietnam, nor do i sing the
lullabies a generation of immigrants have
entertained in american dreams.
no, i’m not a pure bread, either. i’m more a
garbled basquiat painting of color and
unbelievable randomness that works.
yet, i’m human,
evolving from everything my progenitors
needed to survive, and like you, i’m alive for them.
xxxvi.
very first day, the woman warrior proved her worth.
all of us cracked a smile, seeing another
nguyen follow in rather large footsteps
navigated and hung before her.
your worth was known early on.
now, i nod my head, trusting in the
gigantic being you’ve become. you’ve
undergone this battle, this four-year fight, and
you’ve proven your craftsmanship with sword.
every one in town bows their head and will
never forget your vietnamese power.
xxxvii.
creativity is born with the passion of
loving and living in a blanket of words.
art is a part of writing. writers must
reach deep into their supplies, utilizing every
item available in a new way that lets the
soul
scream. i’ve
always seen the muses screaming inside of you.
part of the creation, though, comes from
awkward surroundings, challenging the
reality you think you know,
diving head first into your
opposites until they’re synonymous with who you currently are.
now, go out there and write. write and make fun of yourself the entire way.
xxxviii.
redheads. it’s not so much they
are hot under the
collar as it is they
harness so much passion within
and don’t know how to use it all the time.
eventually, though, some of them
live long enough to tame the
phoenix.
and then, and then, ah man, the
rebirth, reformation and renaissance is delicious.
krispy kreme donuts, delicious. full of flavor, like black and white film.
xxxix.
returning home is the secret of it
all. when away from what
you knew was last week, the intricate
particulars become more familiar.
on the occasion i travel back,
going over the speed limit
gaining momentum with the miles,
every landmark begins to crystalize,
narrowing in on the importance of what once was.
bygones will be bygones, and flashbacks will
oscillate from neuron to neuron --
remember when we went to brown --
god, it seemed like just yesterday.
xxxx.
sometimes, i can’t harness the
crazy energythougtsmovementsideas going
on in my head, either. i
try to focus, but become blurry in ocean fog,
too quick for my own memory
rapid roads of good intentions are
our best traits -- brothers --
some people don’t get it. how in
every minute of motion we exhibit, we
retain a zillion thoughts/movements/actions never to be shared.
xxxxi
how many of us have learned the
art of giving....of wrapping the self
naturally for the benefit of others.
not many i suppose.
all of us are so selfish with
how important we think our time actually is.
slow down, i say. find the moments on the
clock to pause and commit those random acts of kindness,
helping others so that one day,
under the darkest skies of their existence, they too, can
selfishly give back to this world. we all
take so much for granted: sunrises, ladybugs,
early spring, snowfall, an interesting new friend.
really, it’s quite easy, but we make it more difficult.
xxxxii.
learn. learn even when chalk isn’t on the board.
utilize this moment, now, to think, to appreciate that
knowledge transcends the ridiculousness of school and
each second of your day is the lesson you need to learn.
school, you see, is a gimmick. it’s a tool to babysit
children who are brats, who need teachers outside of
having the bricks of k - 12 game-play.
really, everything i needed to recognize to grow
existed from the hours on the sundial when
no one was offering me a test, a quiz or a paper to be
graded. perhaps the greatest lesson to learn is how
each person deserves respect, has a soul. what we hate in others, i
recall, is something we truly despise about ourselves.
xxxxiii.
and yesterday, while pretending to be a hoosier, i had to
laugh. see, these froads came to my door and
explained that they were cousins to the Nisse, but they had
x-ray vision, which superman stole once upon a time.
so, i asked, you’re kin to lawn gnomes?
cousins, they repeated, we’re cousins....
how else is a monk suppose to get away with
uncommitted night screenings of buster keaton. they then
laughed. the froads laughed at my stupidity and the
zillion romantic notions i have for life -- a figment of their imagination.
xxxxiv..
when we run, we live. the
intensity of the pavement.
lung inhalation, perspiration -- the
limitations of muscle and mind
scrapes everything into nothing,
leaving nothing, exhaling
into everything.
do it, the right thing, &
earn this chance you have
running along this trail.
xxxxv.
quickly, he arrived, did his four years and left.
usually it doesn’t seem this fast, but this time, it’s as if jan
arnow called me up last night and said,
ripley, boy, i need you take this kid
that abe loves so much and see to it he
exists in harmony, in the peculiar sing-song of that
zany brown school. let him be.
so, he came. he danced some....stirred mild drama, then
made a splash of excitement as all our souls were pierced
in the florida sun and ocean salt-water.
then, with the snap of a finger, the blink of an eye,
he moved on and fulfilled the promise that existed within him.
xxxxvi.
cause sometimes,
on broadway, the light is
directly where it needs to be, and
you feel infinite.
sometimes, when we’re
with friends, the music
allows the wind to
naturally blow throughout our hair, and
suddenly, everything is serene. if
only this was everyday. if it only lasted one more day.
no. it can’t. the pace catches up to you and you must move on.
xxxxvii.
how many of us can say,
i understand change. i understand the
exhaustion a butterfly must go through
near the end of its metamorphosis.
the wings, unable to stretch, must cramp,
retained in their cocoon before the renaissance.
and then there are those who know
not only american chrysalis, but have tasted the vietnamese winds, as well.
xxxxviii.
vietnam &
america,
nestled in fetal position, against the framework of
time.
rivers in both lands providing life
against the hardships of survival.
naturally, together, they flow, ya know?
xxxxix.
many nights
i lie awake thinking, breathing deep in my
lungs, letting my day unwind into
exhaustion, makes me want to holler, too, before letting go to
sleep.
time moves, swish, like a shot clock,
rushes forward with the sweat of a brow
and before you know it, your
voyage is ahead of the ships in the bay.
in the end, it is your
soul, your strength, needed to mentor others.
xxxxx.
men like to tell stories.
i’ve told a few myself,
knowing that truth & lies interchange.
eventually, though, the
viciousness of tales catch up
and sooner or later we
need to reevaluate the
cause, effect, trust &
eventually, how much of a man we are. I trust in the man you will be.
xxxxxi
just yesterday, a child
entering her independence, playful, a
scout among the mockingbirds.
she stood in a canoe & thought about the
world: npr, history channel,
an augustine of saints, time. She
dove head first, wide awake,
erupting minimal splash, but causing a wave.
xxxxxii.
leprechauns. gnomes. froads
and nisse. cod pieces &
unbelievable random thoughts
running through our obsessions
and compulsions, control & chaos with
words -- the brain turds of ohio
river b.s..
i must hold onto keepsakes,
give them meaning, containment,
have gates put up and bars, only
to, like you, simply secure my existence of today in magic notebooks.
xxxxxiii.
sea. that’s
all which stands in the way of
nations. mountains. the lines we
decide are boundaries,
restrictions of which culture
actually is which
knowing the scarier truth,
now, more than ever, we are
obviously the same:
freunde und friend.
english to german,
life to life, a prayer to harmonize.
postscript:
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow .. the
way to dusty death.
out....out...brief candle
the shadows have been behind me
however long i’ve taught.
one day, i was young,
unbelievably naive of how deep our
souls can go, and once
again i am an idiot, seeking in vain hope that
none of this is forgotten. i know,
deep down, that it will be.
all of us are poor players signifying
nothing, all our yesterdays light this fool the way to
dusty death.
for now, out. out brief candles.
i beg you soar. i say leave. go. carry this
vision to all that you do. carpe diem’.
exist like no one before you ever has. exist beautifully.
- b.r. crandall
