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
