Are We There Yet

I've spoken and chanted and written prayers.
Whispered and channelled and focused my prayers.
From knees and rooftops, hands folded in prayer...
And all I wanted to know is...

I've shouted and paced almost screaming my prayers.
Cried tears, cut myself as I offered my prayers.
From weakness to strength; in between were my prayers...
And all I wanted to know is...

I've won and I've lost...train of thought in my prayers.
Hands blistered from folding.
Eyes weary from tearing.
Head aching from sleep 'till awaking.
And all I wated to know is...

Am I almost there?

CODA ?

CODA ?

Music is poetry set to a melody.
Your music was the poetry of a world in harmony.
A superconductor to the soundtrack of so many lives.
Though the source is no longer live…
A reverberant hum multiplies.
Real music never dies, so there will always be light in your eyes…

Hey M.J.,
Remember the tme that video premiered on prime time tv?
It stuck in my head for more than a week.
Gave courage to ask a girl for her hand,
And-When dismissed, like you, spun and turned to sand.

Went on to jam. Found all those grainy pieces of myself
And found, or stumbled upon a fond peace within myself.

Whenever something beat me down, I’d beat it back
With an attack that stopped it in its 45 or 8 track.

When I asked why, and caught loves eye
You told me that it was human nature to want to take a bite.
A Bronx Comma Big Apple Boy
I wouldn’t Trade that core at the Center of the World
Were it for a serpents s-s-s-slight.

So many sides of a story, some do, all for naught.
Some don’t avoid the war faught.
Some in the middle still feel the onslaught.
It’s an Earth song.
A battleground planet that hangs in the balance.
A held note, not quite whole.
It asks what about us?
Well? In God we all trust but the answer is that
They don’t really care about us.

Fans of imaginings that felt like full length feature films.
High-pitched voices chilled by the smile on the face of a nightmare thriller- zombie thing.
Smooth criminal, coming only to comfort Annie, not to plunder.
The blood on the dancefloor and the bloodstains on the carpet an inconvenient damning blunder.

I don’t know about you but I’ll be there.
The relentless, hopeful yet hopeless lover.
At least ‘till she’s out of my life and into another.

So M.J.,
As you sit back and retire, rock in recreation as we rock with you.
We’ll take the pressure and still scream for you.
Night or day, black or white whatever form re-creates you…
We can still grasp just a little bit of you
And try and heal the world too.

Inspired by Lisa Francis
Dedicated To Michael Jackson
Written By Damon Francis
July 2010

To...

This is the first "Artistic Suicide"example. I just decided that I want to post the poem first, allow it to be read and then tell the story. I think that there will be a big difference in between a first reading and a possible second reading. Hopefully, it draws enough curiosity for further reading... Without further adieu

To...

A magnet was in my spine, the metal in your veins pulled me in.

Your lap held a skyline which danced and sang in unison, with the strokes drawn within.

My heart beat and bled. I felt your mercury enter my vertebrae. It was just a simple energy.

An irresistable contradiction.
A bitten lip and a smile.
A coy head movement.
A succeptible skeptic.

I felt you watching me. Everyone watched as we danced.

I didn't care, you seemed in disbelief. Why?

You could offer so much more to the world with that - than I could with what I believe

What courses through you should never leave forceably and will never - never be.

So why would you need me?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One day as I was walking to the store with a friend and I walked past a girl. She was sitting on the ground outside of a store. The building recesses a bit further back than the other stores on the street so it's like walking out of a bottle neck. It was, to me, a strange place to be sitting. My friend would have kept walking, and did for a few paces, but I turned, feeling someone there.

I said "hi" to a girl whom I thought was cute. She happened to be very punk rock, piercings, chains, dark clothes and contrasting skin. She smiled a "hi" back as I knelt and questioned what she was doing. We had a short and revealing chat.

She was an art student, who didn't believe in schools, as she sat and drew what looked like the skyline of the surrounding buildings.

We spoke for a few minutes and there was a strange tension. The street was livelier than normal. Vendors were out of there stores, people lingered longer than you would in New York. Apparently, they felt something, the same way I felt this girl sitting in what I thought was an awkward spot.

As we spoke I introduced myself and she did as well. (The ellipses in the title are just for that purpose. I would hate if someone wrote about me and used my name and I didn't even know or give permission).

But as we shook hands I noticed scars...

I excused myself and went to the store just a few feet away allowing everyone to go about there business. "Nothing to see here folks." Then went back and spoke again shorlty. I told her I hoped to run into her again (which I did), and I kept telling her to stay happy. She seemed to enjoy the random guy showing interest and care and tuning in where 'normal' people would have just made her seem invisible. At the same time she seemed taken back by it and that made me feel like the invisible one.

And so...with her name kept privately..."To..."was written.

Here goes nothing!

All our lives, as laypeople, we wonder where the smart, the rich, the successful etc. get their ideas. We ask ourselves "why didn't I think of that?" Sometimes we even say, "that was my idea, I should have done something with it!" I know as a person who has always loved to read and write I wondered what inspired so many of the great works I was fortunate to read.
The funny thing is that many of our heroes and heroines are long gone and cannot tell us. Also, much like a magician explaining his illusion - to disclose the inspiration was / is a taboo. BOOO!!!

There was an explosion of magicians exposing secrets a few years back. David Blaine and the dude with the luchadore mask to name a few. Therefore, I know i'm not the only one that has been curious and I know there are others that have placed their neck on the "chopping block." Thus...Artistic Suicide.

There are some stories behind some of my pieces that I think it will be enlightening, entertaining or just fun to share. Whoever reads them might still not get it. Everyones inspiration takes them to different places, so by me sharing my stories it does not create a mold for anyone else to jump into or a roadmap to follow. We are all individuals.

On the other hand, some of my work will just have to stand alone. These are where, as a reader, I loved to try and really get into the pages and try and meditate on things like intent and state of mind and emotion. This is where you can dig right into the poetry and even dissect the writer's choice of punctuation. Yes, poetry can get that serious.

I'm hoping that by adding some context and background to the work it will draw some readers in. Let's see!!

In advance i'd like to thank any and all accomplices to my ARTISTIC SUICIDE.