THE RUCKUS JOURNAL

She and Henry James

Henry James, can she fix you?

The glass you stare through

The ice cold igloo you seek

To abhor to, when you stand

Behind the counter, like a hunter

Searching for prey, you see and stay

Still for a moment, you seek to own it,

When black hair and blue eyes,

Slender, no pretender to the society

Of the thinner, filling your skies of

Dreams dreamed, desperate scream

For someone to serene you down from

A hay wired world of clock ticking

Sucking life out of you like wires

Bolted into you, loose washers and

Rings bursting at the seam, how come

Everyone is so cruel and mean, they

Seem to blaspheme, but not My God,

Just my decry of his face,

No space for Henry to breathe,

Just this woman who has his insides

In a knot, for sure you’ve heard of

The slow decay of Henry James

But maybe, just maybe one day

Henry will walk redeemed,

There is hope just at the end

Of the rope, Henry sways his

Hands and mopes around this

Silly town.

Is she buying these treats and

Going home alone?

Does she see that I am an

Unquenchable groan for love

To sit besides me like still waters

And deep rivers?

Will she come back you ask?

Is she just another artifact for

You to act and react to? She

Seems stuck on you, yet far

Removed and capricious,

Advantageous is Henry to see

Her walking by, splitting the

Sun, when will it be begun

That she melts your igloo

With a space heater, digging

A hole inside of you, watching

You crumple into something new,

The idiosyncrasies that make up

You, will she see the things

That make you Henry James or

Will she just use you like some

Kind of game and the tongue you

Tame, hesitant to speak, don’t

Show her that you are weak,

Another chance you seek

Above you it spins your dreams

And dented weapons like a warrior injured

In battle, you sat next to the kettle

And how slowly the steam rises and

Whistles for your hasting doesn’t she

Want to go wasting you, away and within,

She sees your secret sin, your quiet

Life of desperation as quoted by

Historians who put there finger

To linger like Henry James always

Asking and blaming as priority one,

Pointing the flare gun, distress signal

The world must know but when will you

Let yourself be the stun that sets

Aglow a new life, a new day

Then the one you’re having today,

Its always been your choice whether

Or not to leave or to stay,

Henry James, she is not what you need

Henry James, she can’t set you free

The Slow Decay of Henry James

The slow decay of Henry James came to

Be at a quarter to three in the morning.

Chest burning, head vertigo, there is much

You need to know about Henry James.

He fails to see the daphodils are still

Gonna bloom like a dimmed light

In the corner of a room, he is covered

With darkness at all four corners

Henry slides the broom engulfing together

The dust upon the floor like his own

Life, dimly lit and profusely

Sprinkled with dirt

Encompassed with tears raining

Out of his eyes, stifled with sties,

Henry James tires to dig through

The salvage of abundant life once lived.

Henry James grew into money

At the age of 17, Henry James

Was treated acrimoniously by

The elderly, never understanding

His assumed gratuity as if he

Stumbled into the wrong board

Meeting meandering about with

Wealthy stock brokers and ceo’s

Never speaking their language.

Patronized for even thinking of

Questions, just assumed wisdom

Surrounded him.

These are the painful sequences,

These are the memories branded

Upon his brain, yes, there was

A whole new way of life, a new

Slice of the knife, splitting

Fresh fare foods and culinary

Classics, Henry had it all,

The perfect mix of entertainment

Tools, flat screen TV’s, endless

Channels for free, but just as Henry

Lies on his couch, feeling like

A vagabond wandering, staring

At the gaudy dignity of his wonderful

House he could not call it home,

Henry sought to roam, to and fro,

In this world, to stay still and remember

The chill lit up feel of mindless alcoholic

Abuse, his parents, the bane of all his

Deepest fears, the source of his tears,

The reason why he runs scared

Henry James it’s as if you have swallowed

A tape worm and day by day your intestines,

Long and small, liver, spleen, kidneys, all

Your remedies are stripping you down

To feel as if you are worthless and don’t

Exist. Your failed attempts to not live

In contempt, drowned by legality,

Discovering your reality but helpless

Nonetheless, the abandoned caress

From your hapless mother, the streaming

Slur, the hullabaloo from your father,

Pushing you to the edge each and every

Day, robbing you of today, this has become

Your greatest loss and just like a coin toss

You are waiting for a drastic change, a

New leaf to carry you in the wind.

For now, for today, you are a slow

Decay of your own existence, you are

Henry James and there is nothing you

Can do to change, this is your life,

This is your reality.

The House Of Henry James

Home is where you make it, yet

Henry fakes it, living in cookie cutter

Houses stacked against each other

Like upcoming housing developments

Advertised by a mind splitting sign spinner,

Begging you to find a place for dinner,

For Henry James a new house must be built,

Set and ready for the felt point pen to sign

The lease, life for him has been like turning

A house into a home, making his name known,

Walking dusty streets alone, a stranger his best

Friend, a homeless man a beggar, Henry’s hope

To forge together, to have a story to tell each other.

The four by four lumber to make stronger

A house fresh with lacquer from the local

Painter, trapping the mouse in moldy holes,

Bedroom sheets a mess from hiding underneath

the blanket, pulling pillows over Henry James he

Seems insane to rebuild and build

Houses not yet his home

Against the grain he aspires to be

Adjacent to the checkered grass front

Yard, how life is so ridiculously hard,

Through each rag tag box he remembers

White socks with no shoes running through

Open streets but reprimanded beyond the

Usual spanking by parents in the living room, things

So cruel and mean done to break Henry

Down and spiral him out of his innocent

Tranquility, Henry seeks a new reality,

New realty, new billboards 140,000 or

Less, no matter the cost Henry will pay

To runaway from all that was a loss,

All that was not given to him,

Like a boss overriding work assignments

Henry James has been sticking out his

Fist for a long time and new cement

Keeps pouring the gasp and pant,

The new payment to make rent

‘When will it be bent inside of me’

Henry seeks to understand

His topography, old cabinets

Of misery, dresser drawers of

Old memories of his wife once

Lived so close to his skin, akin

To every love story ever told,

This once made Henry so bold.

His recent house now sold,

The rustic picture frames, the

Dusted window panes once for

Seeing a beautiful life worth living,

The dingy and shoddy faucets,

 Resemblance of all Henry’s facets,

Like placidly plain diamond rings

That sit in his soul, that make the pain

Sting, ‘why me, why all this miserable

Pain’ the asylum would maybe cure this

But the world to blame is how Henry would

Sing

The bedrooms once gaudy, full of poetry

Framed and signed Allen and company,

‘where has the artist died in me’ that’s how

Its gonna be, He sees flat screen tube,

Old grease and lube for once ridden

Bicycle chains used for exploring

A new world

Henry has emptied out his closets,

Made his jeremiad, fired the maid

Sold his soul for more money to

Run away and in seeking to jump

From house to house he  has

Blown to bits and pieces his

Only bridges to stitch him together.

No place for dinner, just turpentine

Peeling off layers and layers of

Bitter offenses and painful sequences.

Henry James is alone.

Henry James has no home.

A thought popped into my head, how many jobs and dreams have I had. Here’s a little list of dreams.

Historic Aspirations

Fledgling writer

Hercules Firefighter

Original Screenplay writer

Safeway bagger

Restaurant server

Stomp out that fire,

That pipedream, that seam

Through your spleen,

That filters you clean

Like white soap on a

Rope you dream to

Hang onto what could

Make you that man

On the TV screen, it

Turned into a thought

About modeling, a

Poised physique to

Be unique written

On pink paper,

Here I am, a dreamer,

A writer, a rider of the

Tallest waves, unstoppable

Like dry brush fires,

He meets all kinds of

Desires, just don’t stomp

Out you in the midst of

Answering the question:

Why am I the way I am

and who are You?

Its all our idiosyncrasies that

defeat hyprocrisy’s and cause

us to be free.

Taken from Isa. 2:22, this was one of the first poems I ever wrote. Summer 2007. Enjoy!

Stop Regarding Man

Stop regarding man

He, she, they were crafted by my hand

Made for my purposes, made for me.

Lifting themselves up like they

Own their soul, like they are in control.

But God what about their plans,

What about their stand—against you?

What about me, what about she,

God don’t you see, they’re not like me.

God, you listen, you see, you hear as if I

Was the only one around,

I know you see me.

Stop regarding Man

The kings, the rulers, the dictators

They are mature in maliciousness,

Unrighteousness and full of regret, they

Stand under heavy stones that

Just might crush their bones,

Again I say they think they

Are their own, they think they

Control stars and wind,

Money and fame,

Tv and gain,

They play the game,

Standing haughty

In front of ignorant

Victims who

Have nothing to eat.

The wicked don’t sleep

Without scheming

Whom they will

Devour. It tastes

Sour, the flavor of the water.

Power, that’s what they are after.

My hour, my time,

They will cower,

My Name is a strong tower.

Don’t you understand,

My Son is seated at my right hand,

Ready, worthy, eager to see His glory.

Without trepidation he will tread upon the nations.

I am not endorsing this band whatsoever. If anything, don’t even let your curiousity listen to this band. I am not condemning, rather I feel compelled toward Sean Kennedy. A man I once knew for a moment of brevity. It was my senior year of highschool in Fort Collins, Colorado. Sean and I met through Resurrection Fellowship. He came out of nowhere during our Christmas talent show and of course, I was a big showboat and spoofed a song about being too emotional…then I smashed the plastic guitar into oblivion, then left the stage.

Sean, you were there, you sang that song…we will dance through the moonlight. I feel compelled to tell you what I have written in this poem. If you are out there I hope you can find this.

Its this ink bright as day I

Think, Tickle Me Pink,

I can see you’re the typical

Band that doesn’t seem

To understand that your

Lead singer is no stranger

To the altar, is no random

Man with a sleeve full

Of tattoos, rather he was

Meant for greatness and

Worship and before another

One you guys OD’s I think

You should listen to Me,

If you want to rip me the

Shreds for thinking your

Music is upsetting the dead

Life that you’re all living in,

Be my guest, I am making

One simple request: turn

And see that there is a way

Out of the rock and roll tour

Mania that has you all hooked

On stardom stamina, this one

Goes out to Sean Kennedy,

I’ve seen you before,

There is liberty, you

Probably don’t remember

Silly me getting up on stage

And acting your age, playing

My fake guitar and smashing

It on the floor, this was 2004,

Seems so far away and forgotten,

But God, Christ, and Me all

Agree that you have been

Given gifts for His mercy

To light a path, not for the

Darkness to send you back draft.

If you gain anything from this plea,

Please let it be mercy, love and truth,

I pray you change your way, this

Is no spoof, nor hate crime, I just

See and I cry, I hear his voice

Over your life, you Sean and the

Rest of the band, He has a plan,

If not for me, then turn for He.

The long srreet  that connects me from my house to work. My reflection.

Golden Lantern Pattern

Yesterday it was the Trader Joes Crash,

Happened so fast, we had to rehash

Our game plan to keep running, and

Along this path, I do the math:

10 minutes from my doorstep

Is a strip of glitter and amazement

Of a single street’s pavement.

Golden Lantern plays it

Pause and effect pattern.

50 miles per hour they

Are driving, people in

This city, but in speeding

So easily they’ve rushed

Themselves to not feel the

Steps and the forgotten path.

Each day I do the math. 55 steps

I march, slowly like chasing a

Rainbow arch I aim to let the

Colors of this county tell me

What to do

A week ago, the crash of Friday the 13^th,

The broken glass, the shattered wine,

The insane amount of time together to

Rebuild, shoveling loads of money into

Oblivion.

But on the horizon

Between two trees

Hangs the perfect freeze

Frame picture at the peak

Of spring’s genesis, such

Chilling nightly weather

On the corner I see a sign spinner,

Waving his hand, flagging down

To agglomerate the bandwagon

Sliding Sea Brand through his

Phalanges, studying anthropology

He sees the vast majority of faces,

Speed like race wars in fast and

Furious movies,

The pattern of this road causes me

To explode. For its not ignorant,

Nor beligerant but hell bent and Son

Sent must he message be, between

A stranger in the dark and me, quiet

And stark, just passing between time

Zones, I get to areas I own.

The pattern reaps and sows what

I walk on, the faces that need

Someone to stop for their broken

Down ear, a shattered scar they want

For what has made up their feast

Has grown like yeast and no longer

They have peace, no for the wicked

Says Isaiah and just like them, the

Poem always ends, because there’s

No way around loving people for Him,

Not truth escaping fortress any man

Can run too and rocks will someday

Fall on all of you.

I fear the stranger, for I am there

Mediator. I fear the homeless

Begging me for mercy, I fear

Cars and the greasy fix up

They may ask for a ride pick

Up. For many are the faces on

Golden Lantern,

55 steps is the pattern.

Shining, truly like

An efflorescent lantern.

If I stick to the pattern

I just might miss you,

So shout loudly above

The medley ringing in

My ears. I will stop

My walk and help you.

I saw a stranger in need of one simple thing the other day and here’s my reflection.

Jumper Cables

To say I never saw you asking me would

Be my tragedy and my downfall

For ignoring your fall,

For preoccupation to

Start over again.

It wasn’t the pink sky that

Caught my eye, rather it was

The Catcher in the Rye

Society that peddles in the sand when you

Reach out your hand, maybe it’s the sun dried

Retirement or the never ending ointment of no

One begging for a simple request: Can you jumpstart

My car?

And from a distance this world would gaze and

Amaze themselves to sleep, deep slumber like

Mammals in hibernation until December when

Gifts are exchanged and engagements are sealed

Tight, will it be then, when vanity fair has caught

Up with them, then and only then will they reach

Out a helping hand past a cell phone branding of

Pockets deeply buried digging for an excuse to

Leave the desperation scenery. To parade in

The winery, to chalk it up to apathy.

To say I never saw you asking me was

My selfish tragedy, for I could not spare

A set of jumper cables to boost you in

The right direction when you’ve been

Stop lossed, I seem to have endeavored

To do something worthy of my need for

A savior, this current flavor of Orange

County, the hunt and bounty for

Boys and girls that could share toys,

So entwined in self, we have let our

Lives getaway like a loose collared

Runaway dog, we’ve lived in fog

And driven in smog, cluttered

Purview of super glued hands

Still in pockets, like rockets

Jetting the sky that all she needed

Was someone to try and jump start

Her car and so far I haven’t asked

A friend, or a bygone to share

Some oxygen in a hiatus of

Time, to spare jumper cables

To shock our system, to crack

The broken cistern, to sharpen and discern

To say I never saw you, this too would be

True, ignorant was I, unable to surpass

Selfish ambition and paraded altruism

Was the desideratum to make it up

To you, to give you some time,

Some energy, some of me,

Maybe next time I won’t be so

Blinded to the stranded, this

Incident is branded in the vault

Of things to grow into, to be

Like Christ in all that we do.

Did I ever imagine things would come to this? Late nights of poetry plaster on these walls built for the Orange County type. I am no jaded skater jeaned kick flip rebel just looking for a rail to grind. I am no athlete to strong armed to wrestle my opponent against the ring wormed mat. I am just a man pacing like a lion ready to roar, boxed in by choice but free by inheritance, descendant from the mountaintop. Its uphill from here. The crisis might just make us collide so intensely that we forget why we were fighting in the first place. That all I have to hold onto is not some degree or some accolades that men have bestowed on me. Its not that sky that I am looking to. Its not that upward mobility that I get my stability but rather a hidden force beneath my feet that I face, that I chose to crack the mirror and through the bleakest stare I wonder how we got here. How all the pain in this world and in our lives leaves us looking for the Cross. As I recently watched the Passion of the Christ I realized that the most profound truth about all the lacerations wasn’t so much the endless whippings but it was the Ethiopian man that helped Jesus carry his cross. It was this man, just like us, helping Jesus and Jesus himself humbly allowing someone to help him carry it all the way to Golgotha. Its uphill from here, they could both say. For me, I don’t want to be concerned with my autobiography and the things that make me so great but rather the humble submissions that pull me toward that homeless man in the middle of the street as in need as I am for bread, for shelter and safety. If my uphill descent would make any sense I hope you stay up late for the right reasons, I hope you dream so brightly that no one has to understand why you do what you do. Of course, we need Christ, he needs to be the center of our dreams. But what I am up late crafting is the desire to see, to release creativity into the air. For you out there that think you have it underneath your feet. You have a little bit of space to fly yet you wonder why you were created this way and heaven might say that you have permission, remission of sin, to fly and fly as high as you can go.

If you hear the Ruckus in this economic crisis. Its not money that we need but messengers, harbingers of the disasters soon to sweep through this earth. So calling on all those that have lips to speak and songs to sing, start now, let it flow, trust; let go.

That’s all for now.

Hopefully the lyrics I search for can follow me wherever I drive to,

Whatever band stand I set up on the stage, mapping out all the days

You used to bask in the backseat and repeat the words of this song,

Did it ever hit you that you were in control of the decibel level,

That you could go reversible in verse and make the music sound

Every which way that you wanted to give away–your change of rhythm,

Your own anthem, every syn0nym verse antonym, it was the music and

Verbs that changed the words we used to the cacophony of our naive minds

To embolden our beliefs that mosh pits would beat  us into submisson that

This cold wind would blow past itunes blaring like sirens responding to the

Childhood emergencies when we heard it best expressed in emo, or guitar solo,

Or Yellowcard violins and hard rock wins weren’t we the champions of hockey and

Misery sometimes fed our company, we took back Sunday, we abused ourselves to

Sleep, it was one eighty by summer would we ever unplug our ears, would we

Ever need a reason to change our rhythm or would life just go on through disasters

And car damages. Me and my friends we tuned out what made us understood, we

Basked in the moments of gentle bitterness that would dismiss the Dashboard Confessionals

And the past remains and the sewing seams of hands clean at every winter camp, retreat and

Burn these CD’s, take all of our blaring rhythms and change the station, no more tuning the world

Out, we have to have the crash this song talks about, we have to change the rhythm, we have to see Him and

In beats I see You, in the streets I meet you. And if its good for me, then maybe not for you. But I am still

Here and so are you. Lets change the rhythm, lets meet Him.