Revisiting

or
Conversations my brain has with itself when I convince myself I’m falling in love

How hard do I have to try to make you think I’m not crazy?
How many times do I have to spell your name before it sounds like my own?
How many keys in this trap door until one snaps?
How many strings strung broke on my guitar until this song about you is in tune?

Monday Monday Sunday Tuesday
When’s the next day of the rest of my life?

Key: C minor
accidental fourth step
below the night we met
in a church, that sanctuary
that day
where we meditated on the scent of indigo
and the sound of lavender ringing
hearts and telling cold
stories that end with goodbye
Good night, good night

Do you believe me, good God?
Have I convinced you?
I’m not crazy, just disturbed
My story ends,

Hello,

and strikes a chord
and hollows out the insides of my brain
What do you think my thoughts taste like?

Oh, and do you know what they told me in art school?
Sometimes
It’s all about the negative space.

EJZ 02.18.2016

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This is a good poem.

Piece together the fragments of your thoughts.
Group them in relation to the spectrum
and spread them out on the coffee table.
Sprinkle
some lavender and
chamomile around
so they look good enough to settle in and seep
into someone
else’s cup.

I’ll take one look
and one swipe of my hand
and make a collage out of the puzzle pieces
you bent and snipped and burned to fit
so nicely
into your idea of Truth
and it will be more beautiful than any song you ever sang –
and that will make you run from it.

And you’ll come back kicking
and screaming
No! then
yes! then
no,
and I will hear you
but I won’t listen.

Should I have added cinnamon to make it easier to digest?
Tramadol to deny?

You see, I do things my own way
and I’d appreciate
if you’d shut the fuck up
and let me hear my own thoughts
because they sing more sweetly than your mental cacophony.

You see,
I’ve seen more corners of the Earth than you thought possible.
No, it’s not round;
In fact, it morphs
and sometimes into the shape of a gun with your finger on the trigger
but never long enough for you to shoot,
only
long enough
for me to change my point of view
and run for my life.

Then it morphs again
and my finger’s on the trigger
but I drop the gun
and let you choose
yourself.

So, I go my own way,
walk on my eyelashes
or swim through the sand
or gather up roses
and grab onto the thorns,
dig through an earthquake
and I’ll probably fall over
but let me.

I don’t want to be saved.

Because the Earth morphs
and becomes an electromagnetic platform
onto which my feet are drawn,
soles bound still to its core.

I don’t really know in which sense I meant
but maybe that’s the reason they’re spoken the same.
Maybe
our souls lie in our feet
and that is why they’re so easily soiled
and just as easily washed.

All I know is life is a choice I make every day,
a chance embraced each time I open my lungs to breathe

but I didn’t put the air in my lungs
I just chose to keep breathing.

Have you ever thought about how we keep breathing the same air through different sets of lungs but all the air we’re breathing has been breathed before?
And it never seems to run out?
And maybe
it’s the love of our lungs for the air that keeps it around?

Have you ever thought about how we write different things down,
abstract or real,
but we never run out of words?
And maybe
it’s the love of our souls for the truth that keeps
us
around?

And maybe
we’re all holding the same pen?

Have you ever started writing and taken a pause to breathe and forgotten where you were?
And you look around and everyone is carrying umbrellas
but you can’t feel the rain?
And then you realize you were just listening to “Dark Side of the Moon” on repeat for three hours
and the pen is still in your hand
and your feet
are still on the ground?

EJZ 06.26.2015

Whisper

The opposite of living is not dying –
it is not living.
Existing is different. Surviving is different.
Counting minutes under
breaths of air and
dollar signs
is different

In many ways

life is but a whisper in a scheme,
a breath of air exhaled in wait.

I want to gather up branches
to crown the fruit of time
framed by genuine sound –
accidental laughter or
unexpected song –
what you hear when you catch people
whispering in wait.

Let’s just
stop contemplating history
and remember why we’re here –

Philosophy is a prescription for over-thinking;
dangerous when abused,
necessary for this stage of outburst –
poison overflowing cup,
just enough so that the first sip won’t kill you
and the next
might
but not in the sense of dying,
just in the sense of
the opposite of living.

Let’s just
keep contemplating
in the sense of gazing
like at stars
in space
where everything was known and never spoken,
translated into light and understood
and maybe surreal
in the sense of “above”,
“above-real”
but just for then,
for now,
for right,
for real,
it was real
and with real
and that moment, framed
with sound of unexpected song,
silent,
only felt
as ungasped gasp,
as a slowing of time,
as a stop
because this is living,
this is real,
this is –

Let’s just
keep contemplating –

I want to hear you whisper before you leave.

EJZ 07.29.2015

Untitled III

Thoughts appear.
Thoughts approach us, softly.
It is our duty to recognize them.

It is our recognition that gives them power.

Re-cognition.
The process of acquiring knowledge and understanding
again.

The thoughts were always there,
waiting, like old friends,
for reunion,
we just had to remember,
to recognize.

Faded, like old photographs,
but still familiar faces.
Nostalgic,
the books you found up in your attic.
You’d expect them mothballed, stale, unusable,
throw-away,
but you remembered.

Fresh and new as ever,
finely aged.
Their spines had held them together.

Your fingerprints sink in to the pages on the old paths they had worn.
You remember the coffee stain from 2006.
You can taste it.
It is still in your cup.

It is still yours.

Set aside,
kept patient for a while,
waiting for you to recognize,
to remember,
to understand again.

EJZ 05.11.2015

Untitled II

Life goes on whether you show up or not.
People change.
Things happen.
Time goes on
apart from your existence

but you’d never know it
because you weren’t there.

You’d only know if you’d show up.

But then other things would happen
unbeknownst to you.

Are we missing out on all those things
we try to believe haven’t happened?

Who are we?
How do we choose?

We go to sleep and wake up
and so did everyone else we see the next day
but we never think
about that –

until one day
that

doesn’t happen.

Time goes on.
Things happen.
People change.

Some of them don’t wake up.

And then what?

Life still happens
like nobody knows
or remembers
because they don’t –
they’re too busy

not showing up.

EJZ 03.30.2015

Philosophical Interjection

“All art, as the letting happen of the truth of what is, is, as such, essentially poetry.”
~Martin Heidegger

To me, the concept of God, of a Higher Power, has never been something outside of myself; it has always been a source of inner strength, wisdom, guidance that knows what is best for me. The struggle has been learning how to listen.

I ask myself, “Yes, but did that inner guidance create the world around you? The mountains, the ocean, the vastness of space? The people and connections between them? Are you protecting life after death?”

My thoughts turn to that inner strength – and I believe we all have one – and maybe that is what threads us together; maybe our inner voices are really all one voice manifested in various forms; maybe that is what created this Earth (I did once say,  “creative principle is my Higher Power”).

This may be a truth I will never uncover in this life. For now, for practical purposes, what matters to me is that I enjoy having a Higher Power in myself;  I enjoy the strength I derive from it, the motivation, the will to wake up and live another day, the sense of love, calm, even exaltation it brings me, the knowing that I can count on things turning out right, and the idea that this world, in fact,  is here, is mine, to respect.

Isn’t that what believing in God is all about?

EJZ 05.21.2015

On Your Birthday

I dreamt I was in a field of four leaf clovers
Emerald green
Soft enough to let them hold me
Rocking me in the sunlight
The freshest air my lungs had ever known
The scent of the newness of spring
and rebirth
Laughter
and sunshine
and no rain.

And then I remembered what you told me,
that your thirteenth birthday
was on Friday the 13th
and that made you the luckiest man alive
because luck
and life
are what you make them.

Dedicated to JLZ
04.13.1943 – 01.14.2010
Happy birthday in heaven.

EJZ 4.13.2015

image

My name is Lyzz and

when I have thoughts floating around in my head and
songs playing in my heart,
I write them down and
they turn into poetry or
philosophy;
often both.

I will utilize this blog
as a painter would a canvass:
A space to be filled
with the contents of my mind,
colored by my soul.

You may think this description artistic,
poetic,
aesthetic,
prophetic,
emetic,
point being,
I must add a disclaimer,
which is nothing but protection from
those of you who should turn back now;
It won’t sound like music
or fairies
or love
or scripture
or anything but fine print:
All works are copyrighted.
Eyes on, hands off.