Catch Some Wide Eye

Archive for the tag “thoughts”

Wisdom Says

The less I speak
The more you listen


On the Meaning of Poetry

Preamble to this post:

Whereas POETRY, being defined by Merriam-Webster as “writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm” and by Oxford Dictionary as “literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature”:

And as LITERATURE being defined by Merriam-Webster as “writings having excellence of form or expression and expressing ideas of permanent or universal interest” and by Oxford Dictionary as “written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit”:

Therefore, I will commence to perhaps finally introduce myself to POETRY, thereby to determine whether or not my creations are, indeed, to be considered poetry.

Emotion is something I’m good at. Too good at, perhaps, a bit tipsy at, even. I’ve tried to educate the emotional out of me, to view everything through slowly formulated, data-specific stiff, logical answers. But there, did you see that? Even sticking a little word like ‘stiff’ into that sentence makes the whole idea take on a negative tone. Corpses are stiff. Living things are fluid, malleable and adaptive.

Emotion is something I’m good at, at least in myself. I don’t know how the emotions relate to you because I’m not you. Sometimes we’re similar, almost the same. Most times, we’re very different. It’s hit or miss every time I take the keys. Intensity, though, that’s something I have. At least most days, because life has taught me that that, too, is not a venerable trait. Too intense, too deep. These things are not good, people say. Balance. One must always have balance.

Distinctive. Artistic merit. Those are things I struggle with. Do I use up all the big words I used in big-people school or dumb it down for the general consumption of the masses? Is “dumbing down” an insult to humanity or a tool to communicate broad ideas in sweeping brushtrokes? Is there broccoli in my teeth? The choice to be precise and articulate or vague and abstract spins about in my mind like the needle of a compass, wobbly and dependent upon where I am standing.

Expressing ideas of permanent or universal interest. I can do that, right? The brushtrokes. Pain. Death. Love. Creation. These are things all humans understand, but would a thirsting child in a war-torn world be interested in my poetry? Would a hummingbird pause to hear my musicless song? Can poetry ever do such a thing, and is that to be our chief aim?

I think, in the end, then, we are all failures. From nobel laureate to ten-year-old lyricist, Wolf to Shelley to Dickinson and back again.

But maybe we weren’t meant to succeed. Maybe it’s not about succeeding at all, but about stabbing about with emotional intensity for the heart of a thing until it stops beating in our ears.

Everybody Needs a Spark Sometimes

Daily Prompt: This Is Your Life

by michelle w. on January 11, 2013

If you could read a book containing all that has happened and will ever happen in your life, would you? If you choose to read it, you must read it cover to cover. 

Depends on the writing style. If it were written in an enchanting, personable language I might be tempted to read it if only for the sheer joy of experiencing they beauty of semiotics. A scant, detached and matter-of-fact tone without any commentary, on the other hand, would not only be unappealing to me, but also grossly out of character. I revel in seeing myself from newer perspectives, whether they are favorable or not, because each pass over my life grants me deeper insight. A scientific statement of facts would be highly unenlightening to me. Yet, if writing style were not a factor, I would have to ultimately say I lean towards no. There are painful, dark parts of my life which I do not need to revisit in prose as I have already spent years exhausting the subject in poetry. As for the future, I have no desire to see what it figuratively holds. I would only purposefully spend the rest of my life trying to foil it, just out of sheer stubbornness.



sandwiched between tall grass

and layers of sulfate

deep underground

tagged in the peculiar proteins

and acids that wind to the stars

like curling stairs

repeating illicit worries

and phasing on dreams

from mother to child

to mother to child

generations together

at last,

it seems.

Radio Head Away From Me

You and me, he said while waving around his large pudgy hands in the stale air, are like radios.

Somewhere between the greasy tang of his scent, the weathered overalls stretched across his plump, generous paunch and the hay stem sluicing the air from its pivot in his teeth, I lost all confidence in his ability to philosophize. And frankly, his pomposity was slightly irritating.

Radios, I echoed stupidly while trying to stare through rather than at him.

Exactly, he said with a broad sweeping gesture of his hairy arm towards a cluttered table at the other end of the room. My eyes traced the outlines of the wreckage and honed in on the details, slowly, methodically. What I had at first taken for a mess pile was actually a series of radios in various stages of repair. There were old-fashioned models with silent red needles sandwiched between analog numbers, dials and collapsing antennae, and there were more modern, sleek editions with fully digitized LED displays and docking bays. The fact that anything other than a starship out of a sci-fi [or is it Syfy?] novel could possible make use of a docking bay was a source of endless wonderment to me.

He cleared his throat, and I turned a respectful and infinitely patient face back to his drivel. All those radios sit on the same table, he continued, and all of us people sit here on earth. Now we may be different models, have different ways of going about things, be a bit more banged up than the rest of them, he droned on, heck, some of us aren’t even all that old yet.

I wasn’t quite sure if this was intended as a backhanded compliment or if he was just senile. Saying nothing, I only nodded attentively, silently hoping cooperation would win me a quicker escape away from this elder and back with the normal people in my fiance’s family. Yessir, he smiled softly, as if pleased with himself for imparting some unspeakable divine wisdom unto the next generation. You gotta let the music play through you, and it won’t always make sense ’cause we’re not always set to the same frequency, ya hear?

And then he closed his eyes.


Promise Ring
It took me longer than most my peers, and I had to suffer through many years of heartbreak. Looking back at it, though, my best friend got proposed to in a parking lot. This, here, is just my promise ring. There really is truth to the phrase, “Good things come to those who wait.”

Whatever that means

Sometimes I talk about things so I can feel them. Because I know I should feel them. Because feeling them will make me feel human (whatever that means). The previous post was fueled by genuine, heartfelt passion- a passion for justice. It is perhaps one of the few things I’ve actually felt this week.

Emotions are a strange land. They can rule and conquer you. They can inform you. More often than not, they just screw everything up and confuse the heck out of you. I used to jump into relationships based on emotions. But feelings change and relationships die. After years of slamming my head into walls, I hunkered down for a few years and licked my wounds. I made a conscious decision to be aware of the partners I choose, to be the one to do the choosing out of a rational mind. This meant that sometimes I found people who were good matches for my personality, who were kind and fun to be around that I just wasn’t in love with. So I’d talk about them as much as I could. I’d tell my family, I’d tell my friends. I’d text or email the beau constantly. To know that he was there. To remember that I was supposed to love him. And after a while, the emotions followed in line. Because emotions come and go, but the decision to stay with a person is an act of will.

Death, however, has left its mark on me. Family, friends, fellow church members, teachers, coworkers, and now students have all left this earth in a hurry. After years of practice, my grieving [and fight or flight] process has evolved into a sea of blankness. If I hear a fight outside my window and threats about a gun, I can coolly call for emergency services and answer their questions with a level head. Not only can I do this, I have. When someone dies, it seems I have become the kind of person who’s supposed to hold everybody together right after it happens. Then, when everybody is well into their repairing, I break down.

This Saturday, one of the students I taught died in a tragic car accident. There were no drugs, alcohol or shenanigans involved. She was even wearing her seatbelt but lost control of her vehicle in a terrible storm and crash landed in a tree. None of these facts even ripple on the surface of my emotions, but I have had dreams. No, nightmares. So I know the facts are buried inside my subconscious, waiting to erupt.

But the tragedy has built over the past week. One of my students has an extremely rare, life-threatening illness. Another has an incarcerated father. Still another is homeless after being put out by an abusive parent. Other than reporting the abuse and making sure the student with an incarcerated parent is not homeless, there is not much I can do for these children. These kids are pretty much my life; they are part of my family, and I love them. I am proud of every wise decision they make, and I suffer when they make poor ones. I want the best for them, but this past week has only brought them the absolute worst.

The problem is, at least for me, I don’t feel a single thing. I know these incidents bother my mind. However, I don’t perceive the sadness in my heart. I think my body is trying to protect me from it, but that is frightening. It’s frightening because I know it won’t be able to hold the sadness inside forever. It’s frightening because I don’t know when or how it will burst forth, or if I’ll even be able to control it when it does. So I’ve been trying to psyche myself into feeling them now, when it still matters by talking about it. I talk about things so I can feel them. Because I know I should feel them. Because feeling them will make me feel human (whatever that means).

Spam, I Have a Special Little Place for You

Hello! I totally agree with what you wrote on the blog. Keep it well, because blogs like this are rare on the net too. A greeting!


Dear Random Bot,
“hello” and “a greeting” are the same thing. There were no opinions stated in the post you commented on so there is no way you could “totally agree” with what I wrote.


hi i came to youre site, and I have read some great information on it. It’s all about the game [LINK REMOVED] let’s PLAY!!!


Dear Spammer,
First of all, it’s “your” not “youre.” This is one of my pet peeves and means enough for instant deletion. I am also not impressed that you “have read some great information on” my site. I don’t make a habit of giving information on this site. It’s basically a creative work space for entertainment purposes not educational ones. Also, what I write has little if anything to do with games. Don’t mention your random game on my blog. It doesn’t make me want to play it. It doesn’t make other people want to play it. It’s obnoxious.


1cE00m [LINK REMOVED] [url=[LINK REMOVED]]xbaenxzlrnnm[/url], [link=[LINK REMOVED]]kutlfpyhsmds[/link], [LINK REMOVED]


Not So Dear Machine,
This isn’t English. Please try again.


MK8JEK [LINK REMOVED] [url=[LINK REMOVED]]pjzxrvjhiaya[/url], [link=[LINK REMOVED]]ugcuygtjwmmw[/link], [LINK REMOVED]


Nope. Still not English.


hello i found your site today and I have read some awesome articles over [INAPPROPRIATE TEXT, LINK REMOVED] here. I just wanna thanks you for publicing [INAPPROPRIATE TEXT, LINK REMOVED] it so we all can learn about it!


Dear Perv,
No, there are no articles on my site about that. I am not publicizing your grimy business, so don’t thank me. There are perfectly legitimate businesses in that field who don’t resort to spamming random blogs and actually offer helpful, scientific information for those who need and are looking for it. I am neither, so scram.


Very good point, certainly note your knowledge on the subject. This is the first time I go, but I assure you will not be the last, I hope everyone who reads this I think the same.


Dear Commenter Who Can’t Read,
This is a blog, not an encyclopedia. I didn’t make a point or put forth any knowledge for you to glean. Also, if this “is the first time” you “go” please do not share with me. I don’t need to know your bathroom habits, although it is probably a healthy thing that it “will not be the last.” The last clause of your final sense makes so little sense, I’m not even going to bother to address it.


I think this is among the most significant info for me. And i’m glad reading your article. But want to remark on few general things, The website style is perfect, the articles is really excellent : D. Good job, cheers


Dear Code of No Significance,
These are not articles. They are poems, rants and random drawings I make. The “website style” is a free template designed by The Forge Web Creations as is clearly stated at the bottom of the blog. You have successfully congratulated me on everything I have not done. Good. Job.


Its like you read my mind! You appear to know a lot about this, like you wrote the book in it or something. I think that you can do with a few pics to drive the message home a bit, but other than that, this is great blog. An excellent read. I will certainly be back.


Dear Idiot,
You don’t write books in things, you write books about things. And, yes, I have written several books which are nicely filed under my “Published Books” tab. I’m also so glad that you think that I “can do with a few pics to drive the message home a bit,”  especially considering that almost half of my posts now are of my own artwork. Oh, and one more thing. I am so glad that I didn’t read your mind. Because you are a buffoon.


you should post more often great read, also like the look of the blog.


Dear You Don’t Even Deserve a Name,
I post once a day. If that’s not often enough for you, follow me on Twitter. I have been known to post anywhere from two to twenty-four times a day. Oh, and I didn’t design the freaking blog, as previously stated.

Ditrie Sanchez

Why I Don’t Do Comedy

The Most Adorable Thing I’ve Ever Posted (and probably ever will)

Forgive me bloggers, for I have sinned. I have become completely, irrevocably and borderline eHarmony cat lady obsessed with what could very well be the most adorable pet on the planet. I’ve spent hours thinking about its cat/dog features, its hyper sensibilities, its compact size, its teeny weeny widdle voice… *ahem* … and its ears the size of Zeus.

So what the heck am I talking about? A fox, of course.

That’s right. Turns out there are these miniature little desert foxes called Fennec Foxes which are fluffy goodness wrapped in a ball of hyper. Observe:

Amazing, right? It can totally jive with cats and dogs, and it can use a litter box. Not only that, but its gigantically huge ears actually aid it in flight. Okay, I made that last bit up, but would you really be all that surprised?

So what kinds of noises does this thing make? Does it growl, purr, chortle…?

Raise your hand if this was your immediate reaction:

If it wasn’t, you have no soul.

Now, amid all this jovial and squee-inspiring research one fact really dampened my mood. Fennec foxes are illegal to own as pets in my state. Well, it’s maybe not entirely illegal to own one, but you’ve got to prove you’ve had at least two years of experience with the animal… which is kind of difficult since almost nobody here owns one. And then you get to apply for a permit. Yippy, skippy!

While I’m at it, why don’t I just buy a koala?

The ears. It’s like watching an animatronic at Chuck E Cheese. How does it DO that? At some points, it almost looks confused about what this whole tickling thing is about. I mean, if you stop and think about it, tickling is somewhere between an itch and a punch in the gut.

Sadly, there are no koala bears or fennec foxes in my future. But you know what is in my future? Babies. Lots and lots of babies. Snails, that is.

Those two weird little blob looking things on the aquarium glass are actually clutches of apple snail eggs (often sold under the name of ‘mystery snail’). The clutch on the right was laid sometime today while I was at work, the one on the left was made last week. Needless to say, I’ve been doing my fair amount of research on snails, but perhaps that is a post for another day. Until then, make sure not to tip your echidnas unless they are very polite.

IDK, spork?

It’s like an inkblot test. Only not. Tell me what you see…

Celebrate good times (come on!)

This is the Epitome of the Internet

Say My Name

i won’t fall waste
to your slack pace
did i fail to mention
once i grab your attention
how i never fell behind
in a beat or a rhyme
and half of the time
i run round you blind
cause i’ve got the stuff
man, strong and tough
things that you been dreamin’ of
things busting full of love
and you can’t even dream this up
how i go slicin’ the horizon
with a tongue like ice ‘n then
heat it up, whip it back and treat it up
cause i am a winner
a maximum sinner
who never quit the game
that’s why you know my name

i didn’t choose a purple love

i didn’t choose a purple love
in truth, it just chose me
it clutched me, gripped me in the night
and never set me free

my tongue was set, my jaw was clenched
against its purple wave
my arms were drawn around me tight
for so my heart to save

i didn’t choose a purple love
with this insatiable thirst
to always bind her to myself
and put my lover first

my brain was wrong, my heart was false
i was one of but two
yet if it comes to fighting days
i know which love i’d choose

Poems aren’t Microphones

One is a chunk (or microscopic spec) of metal, wires and technical magic, while the other is just magical. Or just plain God-awful, depending on the poet.

Luckily for you, I’m not a poet.

I’m a writer bent on semiotics and a musician with a sensitive ear. So, clearly, I despise hearing my poems read out loud. Why? There are a great deal of subconscious, emotional, linguistic and cultural influences that feed themselves into spoken word. No two people will ever read a poem aloud the same way. Minute inflections, pauses, breaths, quavers, pitches and other details will vary from speaker to speaker and even from moment to moment.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a sincere appreciation for the spoken word. It has a jazz-like beauty to it; there is an art to its performance.

But it is a performance. It is something that evolves in each audience over time through a very auditory process. Any shift in that auditory delivery can affect the meaning of the poem, itself.

My poems are visual.

No, they’re not diamantes or arranged into elegant designs. Actually, if you’ve been around me for any length of time, you can probably tell they’re pretty sparse. And there’s a reason for that.

I write for the eyes. When your eyes pass over my poem, instead of interpreting a performer’s sounds over time, your eyes unlock meaning nearly instantaneously. I can’t control what pops into your head when I shoot out the word “tangerine” but I can pretty much bank that something is popping up in your neural circuits. That something is raw, primitive and shaped by your consciousness, your experiences. There is no mediator interpreting words for you to reinterpret. When I send out words, the instant your eyes gobble them up, they become a part of you. It’s the most direct, most human connection I could ever make.

In the end, that’s one of my goals as a creative- to become human, reflect humanity, connect with humanity. The lack of punctuation in my poems is a stripping of formalities. The lowercase “I” is a sign of humility, of diminishing my voice so your own voice can speak louder right from the speakers of your own mind.

I am not a poet, but I am a writer. And in my world, the spoken word and the written word don’t necessarily have to be two different things. But they have the potential to be. And maybe, just maybe that isn’t all so bad.

Garbage Run

my feet passes over
pocked asphalt
that stares at the sky
like moon craters
wedged between parking spots

Don’t Forget Who You Are

we are smothered by 24 hour actors
needling their emotional wares
filling our mind holes with hyperreality

Market Sparrow, Leap the Narrow

Hipster PDA, sync cable, and stylus, a tighter...


tap dancing in the trenches of a thought
ideas get sold and ideas get bought
but who knows which one is the top of the lot
when ideas get sold and ideas get- bought
but we mad dash the fashion
and label the passion
just stuffin’ and stashin’
the verbal whiplashin’
and who knows what tips when it all hits the top
your idea will rip; your idea will pop
it will drown in the market until it gets caught
in the rain tap dancing in the trenches of thought

Down to the Number

you are glorious you
in all of your hip nonconformity
they will never break you down to a number
you are not a statistic

we all need patterns
the stability of belonging
the structure of reality
we need things to predict

you are transcendent you
in all of your eye-opening views
they will never label you as predictable
you are not a machine

we abuse cliches
we fear them
they represent unoriginality
they are the creative well run dry
they are the knee-jerk reaction
they are what everyone else thinks
but you and i
oh, you and i don’t think like them
we cannot be labeled or hunted

cliches are the red-headed step children
that we pretend never really happened

we all need patterns
the stability of belonging
the structure of reality
we need things to predict

predict my next move
and you own me, completely
you are glorious you
and i give you my world to forget.

Hipster PDA - with new templates

Image by karindalziel via Flickr

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