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Three Poems by Colin Dieden August 18, 2010

Posted by vscorpiozine in New Poets.
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Poems by Colin Dieden

‘3:18pm’

There are low days.
There are high days.
There are days for getting high,
There are days for drinking early,
throwing shut the blinds, and
pacing endlessly around the apartment,
pausing only to fling some paint wildly against the wall.
Today I sit quietly, sipping a bottle of red wine and realizing
That there are days
for shouting like a mad man at the rustling of the trees,
Days for staying beneath covers
and making love in time with the slowly setting sun,
There are days for discussing frenzied
plans of escaping to San Francisco.
Today I sit quietly, sipping a bottle of red wine and realizing
There are days for whisky slurs.
There are days for navigating
the golden trails of Runyon,
There are days for THE BATTLE, THE WORD, THE VERSE.
There are days for jostling jesters wielding
double-headed serpents on the front steps of the Vatican.
Today I sit quietly, contemplating the tip of my pen and realizing
There are days for experiencing concentrated sadness
There are days for feeling like
the people you call friends don’t really care about you
There are days where that feeling is multiplied
But wait, listen
There will come a day when you discover yourself
On top of a mountain
Overlooking a beautiful reservoir
Or
Paddling down a remote stream and you will DISSOLVE
Into an understanding of insignificance
It will become your new best friend
But on this day, I will pursue dialogue with the tip of this pen
and realize
There are days for drinking red wine
and shouting like a mad man at the rustling of the trees.


‘I am all but Universal’


Haven’t thought about the liver in months.
the doctor says I have done quite a number on her,
Still I refuse the prescription.
“I will not become your pharmaceutical zombie”
lied signed co-pay 10 dollars
find
my way down stairs of slated marble
marlboro already between lips anticipating inevitable exit
followed incessantly through Beverly Hills streets
diagnosis to paper statistic to office hard drive, South Carolina
lips to lips to lips to lips to lips to lips inherent and forever
soft
I am all but Universal
as i. eyes down. pass the bleak. a swarm of bees.
rebuilt rebuilding reconstructing reconstruction refinancing on
every street i need to take home. fuck.
always.
that doctor had wolf eyes
he saw only in shades of red and green
I guess I don’t feel bad anymore
Memory is inexplicably yours to file through
at your own convenience and discretion

I am all but Universal
tangible connections a conduit of seeming non-sequiturs
push pens past paper to mark the earth

You might be a rock,
But baby. You’re no fucking island.


‘It makes me sad when people grow up’

It makes me sad to think about how little time we are given, and we spend it spray painting box cars and the walls of dialysis centers.
It makes me sad to watch the Hispanic family staring past their reflections, in to the window of the always shimmering designer furniture shop on Beverly, only to return home to their one bedroom in East L.A. where the children will sit quietly on milk crates, waiting.
It makes me sad to think about the amount of time we spend in transit.
It makes me sad to see the men file in to the strip clubs at night, endlessly pursuing, not sex, but flesh as an idea. Like bloodhounds hot on the trail they gallop towards the seats by the pole, violently tearing small bills from the lining of their pockets.
It makes me sad to watch the affluent women draped only in fashions’ most current, talking loudly into telephones, as the caregiver follows silently, pushing a basket full of unnamed babies.
It makes me sad to see the paint peeling from wrought-iron gates surrounding day-cares, mini-malls, and pet-hotels.
It makes me sad to see myself in the glass hunched over my coffee, my notebook that is so rapidly running out of empty pages, and my cigarette, burning idly in the ashtray, its breath sucked into spirals by the wind to dance with the dark of night.
It makes me sad to hear the old jazz, spilling out of some distant, not yet located speaker.
It makes me sad to think of the Twentieth Century as something tangible. If we had only cut a third out of it and spent that time practicing consciousness and unconditional love, we would have a world that all mothers would feel ecstatic about bringing their children in to.
It makes me sad to breathe the summer air.
It makes me sad to see the screen writers scurry like insects, in and out of boutique coffee shops, incessantly hunting muse.
It makes me sad when I can’t taste the energy of the street.
It makes me sad when the man on the corner screams his god’s name through a megaphone at the passing luxury cars, red-faced and wild-eyes.
It made me smile when the man leapt from the thirty foot tall crucifix and died upon impact. Not because I felt he deserved it, I’m sure his beauty was endless.

But because it happened. It implied movement. And it happened.

-Colin Dieden

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Comments»

1. Lisa Fulbright - August 29, 2010

Finally…poems that say what is hard for most to admit. Thanks, Colin. ❤


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