Saturday, September 18, 2010

Saturday’s Swagger


It was an early night –

1:00 AM early.

Police passed by,

For the bigger problems,

And the clubs roared

A little louder than usual,

While I danced,

And danced,

The Saturday night stumble –

To the left,

To the right

And twice back

Destination -

Home.

I continued,

To tripped,

Or ripped,

To have a friend,

A little lonely,

But feeling a little famous

All the same

And all the while.

I strode with swagger,

Head held a little higher

Than usual

Made my way home,

Slept,

And started over

Tomorrow,

Or was it the day

After,

Sleep can be such a nimble little

Beast,

When it wants to be.

Good thing a

Cold beer’s

Always

Just around the corner.


Imperialism


I’m drinking their

Beer,

But I don’t feel bad.

I feel –

Patriotic.



I’m greedy,

I’m entitled,

I’m self-indulgent,

I’m an American,

I feel none of the above,

I feel it all,

And I’m numb,

But still

Smiling.



I squeak out some

Laughter,

When I embrace a new

Family

And sweat an

“Ineligible” one

Of sorts

Out.



Oddly enough,

I don’t deserve this –

The beer

And the laughter,

As my countrymen celebrate –

Not with “them,”

But

For the cheap goods they

Provide.



I laugh even harder,

Choking back the tears of

Assumed exploitation,

Correctly assumed

With an added

Inept aggression

Against others.



I cackle to a

Sudden stop

After my eyes spy the

Bride

I go home with.



I take and

Take,

And take her

Home.

I study,

I assimilate

And allow

Assimilation.

“Assimilation,”

Being a Euphemism for

“Conquest.”



Somehow hybrid

And somewhat

Unoriginal,

Where does that leave us

Now?

Torn,

Wholly

Symbiotic,

Or building the world

That deep down

We always dreamt of?



On the other hand,

And there’s always another

“Hand,”

Are we the tyrants that’ll

Strip clothes

And later strip-mine

Souls,

All in the name of

Manifest Destiny

Underneath the flags of

Corporatism,

Fortune

And the Fatherland?

I’m an American after all.



Outside in and Introverted



The bass annoys neighbors,

But occupies

And entertains me,

As I write,

With red wine,

And smoky ink.



My cigarettes,

Now smolder in the carpet.

As the song continues into the

Night

I stop

To spy a pounding,

From my heart,

From the city,

And from my door.



I choose to ignore

It all,

But most importantly

The pounding at the door –

My landlord,

Who demands silence

During the wee hours of the

Night,

A joke

And the rent.



I could provide one,

Of the three –

The joke,

Just by answering the knock,

But choose my safety

Within the noise,

My noise,

And solitude of existence,

My existence.



I snore

While awake,

Bored with the premise,

Of company,

More aptly described as

Lechery

And the loss of honesty

Intrinsic to “people.”

I continue in avoidance of the

Pounding.



I guess

I could try to be happy

Within the annoyance of

Camaraderie.

But the butterflies

Would soon float,

From the mouths

Of the others,

Simple promises into the

Flowers

That are my ears,

Pollinating,

Procreating,

And making something

New,

And something unwanted,

At least for the time being.



When my sentence ended,

And finish line seemed even

Further away,

I was

Sorrowed by the thought,

Of another lost poem,

Lost moment,

And new friend –

Another knock at the door,

A robbery more vicious

Than any dealt by the

Unwelcomed thief.



Call me an

Introvert,

Or call me

Lonely.

I’m only seeking my kind of

Quiet,

If only for a moment.

Let me have this one

Night

To myself,

Alone

With my pen and paper.


Leaves, Ash, Snow and Flowers


“It’s”

A sinking feeling,

A drowning touch

And somehow above the

Cold water’s

Surface.



I’m loosing my taste,

But can still smell hell,

While my eyes show the world,

They show “it,”

Or me,

What?

I’m not quite sure

Yet.



Reluctantly,

My heart sees the truth.

I’m losing,

And I’ve lost,

But why does it feel so good

To be the

Loser?



The sunny days laugh,

Few and far between,

Where the clouds cover,

And even the stars seem gone.



When I sleep,

I’m back…way back,

With what I try to forget,

But need to carry on.



Waking,

Walking,

Talking,

Touching,

Loving,

And dying,

This is my winter,

Where my friends have

Already

Fallen as autumn leaves,

And I’m left to carry the ashes

In our snow.



I’ll keep my eyes open

For the –

Flowers.

I’ll welcome you all

Home,

When I see the first colors

And fresh breath of

Spring,

Please..?



I think his name was Random


I arrive to talk,

And make an attempt to explain –

Time travel,

Physics,

And my latest poem,

Somehow catching

And for a moment

Capturing

Who I was prior to

Pain and Prose.



That was him,

And not me “now,”

The “I” –

That can stand before you,

Albeit swaying,

Ten drinks later,

Pad in hand and

Pen in ear.



It’s him

I try so hard to bring back,

But not for you.

It’s for selfish old

Me,

Who sometimes longs for

Sobriety and

Reason

As compared to this

Chaos and drink.



You later laugh,

½ Relieved and

½ Bewildered

When I mention,

That pissing on ice,

Reminds me of love,

Confetti

And corpses left to the

Sun,

Because random’s –

What I am,

And poetry’s the byproduct.



After two years,

And an off-and-on

You,

I’m no longer allowed to

Remember “him” any more.

I heed your wish,

Placing a pillow over his

Face and for good,

A cold-bodied kind of

Good,

Against my better judgment

Perhaps.



Truth be told –

I cried,

To a certain degree,

When I left him behind.

Destroyed,

But not entirely.

Lucky for me,

Figments surfaced like the

Life-preservers of those

Who could hold on

No longer,

Eternal.



And when I blamed you,

For the almost-total loss of “Me,”

Him,

And not "I,"

Goody-goody me,

My good grades,

And wholesome lifestyle,

I was right to,

Though you remained a

Simple accessory.



All intrusions aside,

Reality became –

Wild nights,

Poetry and the girl

I brought home

Once again.

All illusions aside,

It was me

And never you.



“The man with many names.” (My Biography) -

I was born “Christopher Hanson” in Minnesota; Born in the same hospital as Bob Dylan, not that it matters. I remember very little from this snowbound world having actually grown up in California where I picked up the nick-name, “Cloud,” I don’t know why, simply, “Cloud.” While in good old San Fran, I made nice with some fellows and females of Japanese decent. I picked up a sword, I learned to eat sushi and wander in between the realms of Aikido, Iaido and Zen. They dubbed me “Kazuki.” All aside and all names following me into college, I studied for five years at the University of Wisconsin and graduated with degrees in both Criminal Justice (to bust-up a broken system) and Anthropology – I love people, what can I say? During year five of college, I’d acquire my latest addition, “Yang Yun,” my Chinese name. The name basically translates to, “a tree in the cloud.” This was the name given to me by my wife, the love of my life that I met while studying abroad in China. Since my graduation in 2008, I’ve lived in China for nearly two years as a teacher and within this last year, have finally made it back to the states, wife and all. It’s been a wild ride and something tells me that it’s just begun. As for my “writing” and my “art,” it’s a time-honored tradition and way of life – at least for me.



Thank you for your time and consideration. I truly hope you enjoy.



Best Regards,

Christopher Hanson