xmas

love and joy and peace on earth
celebrating someones birth
forget the boxes and the bows
everyday please give me those

the poem tonight
may be the last i write
with no tomorrow
comes no more sorrow

today

some tears come slower than others
some take a lifetime to drop
some lights shine brighter than lovers
sometimes its just time to stop

my eyes dont hurt
my throats not sore
but my life is short
and my souls a whore

gimme sleep, gimme dreams
not the bite of benzadrines
gimme peace and total rest
tomor ill do my very best

12-12-12

now i lay be down to die
you may stop and wonder why
you may go your merry way
i may die another day

my rose period

now i lay my head on clouds
of fluffy pink and cotton candy
cuddle in the land of dreams
where girls are mute and boys are dandy

time for bed, time for sleep
time for dreaming sweet and deep
time to put the day away
time for dreaming sweet and gay

nitey night my little eggs
im off to bed, get off my legs
i travel fore the night is dead
tommor i sleep in my own bed

now i lay me down to rest
did i give my very best
did i use my lovely day
soon it will all go away

keys

 

 

the keys

when confessing a lie, subtract from the truth~

the key to forgiveness is being forgivable.
 

when confessing the truth, add a lie~

the key to acceptance is being acceptable.
 

bread and butter.

when writing a confessional, subtract and add~

the key to writing is being readable.

slice bread or sliced bread?

there may be more truth in untruth than truth.

there may be more truth in untruth than untruth.

there may be more untruth in truth than untruth.

there may be more untruth in truth than truth.

there may be more forgiveness in unforgiveness than forgiveness.

there may be more forgiveness in unforgiveness than unforgiveness.

there may be more unforgiveness in forgiveness than unforgiveness.

there may be more unforgiveness in forgiveness than forgiveness.

there may be more acceptance in unacceptance than acceptance.

there may be more acceptance in unacceptance than unacceptance.

there may be more unacceptance in acceptance than unacceptance.

there may be more unacceptance in acceptance than acceptance.

butter with butter.

there may be more writing in reading than writing.

there may be more writing in reading than reading.

there may be more reading in writing than reading.

there may be more reading in writing than writing.

bread and butter is better.

the key to a better truth is forgiveness.

the key to a better forgiveness is acceptance.

better butter, better bread.

the key to better writing is reading.

the key to better writing is writing.

the key to better reading is writing.

the key to better reading is reading.

the key to better reading is acceptance.

the key to better writing is forgiveness.

nothing better than bread and butter.

and the key to a better sandwich is toasting the bread.

 

locked

 

when i was in the second grade, i lost my house key.

my mother decided if things were allowed to continue in this manner, everyone in los angeles would have a key to our house.  and it would be useless to lock it.  so i was not given another:  i had to use the spare key.  which was originally kept in the garage.

since the garage was usually locked when the house was locked, i had to climb over the back fence from the neighbor’s driveway and enter the garage through its back door.  where there is no light switch.  cross a floor riddled with obstacles.  and reach up onto a dirty, cob-webby, who-knows-what-kind-of-terrible-monster-bug-could-be-living-there ledge for the spare key.

i soon moved it to the planter by the side door.

where it remained for twelve years.

until the day my mother decided it was unsafe there.  anyone could find the spare key and enter our house.  and do unspeakable deeds.

so she moved it.

without telling me.  an unspeakable deed.  and i was locked out.

that night, i put the spare key on my key ring.

later, when i was on break from college, i went on vacation with my grandma.  i put the ring of my keys in a clean ashtray on the picnic table in her sun porch.  so my dad could find them.  and drive my car home.  instead of leaving it in the alley behind grandma’s house.  where who-knows-who could get at it.  and do unspeakable deeds.

when i returned from vacation, my car was in front of our house.  but the keys were nowhere to be found.

i kept a spare key for the car in a drawer by the telephone.  but a spare spare-house-key?

my mother said, “i told you this would happen.”

 

 

i will leave a key for you

hidden by the door

do not let the locks delay you

they are paper and string

and not even sealed

there is just one key

to open the door

and it sings

so you will find it easily

if you listen

it sings in key

of course

it sings in harmony

and you will be humming

as you enter

 

in one house

i remove my shoes

in another

i remove my hat

but in the house of my heart

i remove the clothing of life

and wrap my self

in the fabric of your love

 

lost and found (i)

every key is a relationship:

there is you.  there is that that you lock or lock away.  there is the lock.  and there is the key that opens and closes the lock.

you may have with the key a closer relationship than you have with that that is locked or locked away:

you may spend more time with the key (you may spend more time looking for the key) than you spend with that that is locked or locked away;  you may spend more time thinking about the key (where did i put the key/where do i put the key?) than thinking about that that is locked or locked away;  you may touch the key more than you touch that that is locked or locked away…

and yet, it is that locked or locked away thing that is considered important, precious…

and the key as minor.

all across america, there are corners of kitchen drawers, shallow dishes, cigar boxes, canning jars filled with keys whose locks are forgotten;  whose locked or locked away things are gone, forgotten.

each key had a relationship:  a person, a lock, a precious thing…

an aura of importance clings to these keys  ~not for the keys themselves but for the idea of the forgotten thing, once precious, once locked away…

we do not dispose of these keys though they are useless  ~no lock, no thing to lock or lock away…  they are like memories we cannot conjure but refuse to release...

when you find an unrecognized key, ask yourself:  what precious part of life, of self, is gone, forgotten?

try to remember:

when did you first borrow keys to a car?

when did you first give someone keys to your home?

what does it really mean:  the key to your heart?

 

 

i dream

of inserting my key

into your lock

and rotating it

until your inner parts move

with a shudder

that releases the stops

and you open

like a treasure box

like a mystery

like a door onto the night

 

y 150

yes (why not) has variable effect

my endearment

what makes you a man

a club and a vagina

trivia

where three roads meet

this is where you came from

a photograph of a flower

 

unlocking

a key may open a lock to a large building or a small building or a room within a building or a closet within a room or a closet outside a room in an entryway or a hallway or a closet outside a building such as one for storage though all closets are for storage except the water closet

a key may open a safe as  large as a building or a safe as large as a room or a safe as large as a closet or smaller

or a key may open a locker within a room or outside a building or a safety deposit box within a safe or a post box inside the post office or outside your own or someones home

or a key may open the lock to a lockbox or a briefcase which could be anywhere it could be traveling

keys travel more than locks but some locks travel some locked things travel

you may be carrying a lockbox with you now you may not realize you are carrying it you may not realize what is locked in the lockbox or you may

a key may open and or start a car or other vehicle of transport a key may be your way to escape other locks the highway an illusion of freedom the wind in your hair both a key and its own kind of lock

a key may unlock a secret a key may unlock a secret code a key may unlock a code that is not a secret a key may unlock a secret that is not a secret a key may unlock a code that is not a code a door that is not a door a lock that is not a lock at first every key unlocks a surprise

a church key opens a bottle of beer but not a bottle of wine and not a church but it does release spirits

a skeleton key does not open a skeleton but it takes some muscle to use and the lockbox in your heart will be opened if the skeleton key is used with a church key unlocking the spirit unlocks everything

a master key is like a skeleton key but evolved the skeleton showing the process of evolution and mastery

a greek key will not open a greek but if you take some time to meander it will open your whole life a greek key fits the key(w)hole of life

a keystone is not a key of stone but a stone of stone and key if you stand stoned with a key under an arch

there are keys that are stone  no matter how you spell them they are islands and jetties and what is open there and opened will surprise you at first at first every key opens a surprise

the key to music is the right key that is key in jericho and elsewhere yes key is major

a telegraph has a key but it does not unlock the code and a typewriter has many keys but the code to writing is still a mystery a secret code with many keys and few masters

i have written this with a board full of keys a keyboard and i am still locked

 

 

in one room

i do one thing

this thing

in another room

i do another thing

that thing

but in the room without walls

in the room without things

i do nothing

i do everything

 

 

 

 

in a drawer

in a house of  white doors

i found a key

marked

green door?

it had a twin

attached at the hole

by a wire ring

maybe the green door

of my heart

has a key

forgotten in the drawer

of an empty house

it does not matter

how many copies were made

if no one remembers

to bring one home

 

lost and found (ii)

every key is a story of separation, of isolation;  every key is a story of loneliness:

there is you.  and there is that that is locked or locked away from you.  the key exists between the two.  the key exists more so than the lock…

it remains with you, this key.  but you do not use it.  the story also remains.  you carry them in your pocket,  in your purse, in your mind, in your heart…

or you hide them in a drawer, under the floor, in a pot by the door…  sometimes you try to bury them…

or you wear them on your sleeve…

but you do not discard the story;  nor do you use nor discard the key.

(there is no lost and found for these.  they will not be lost;  they will not be found.)

maybe you try to fit the key into a lock;  maybe it is the wrong lock or the right lock but you cannot make the key fit;  maybe you feel the key will never fit a lock, any lock.

maybe you tell the story;  maybe someone listens to the story or not but the story has no resolution;  maybe you feel the story will never have resolution.

when did the story really begin?

you have in your hand a key.  you have in your heart a lock.  you have in your soul a story of separation, of isolation;  this is the first moment:

one day, you look at the key and begin to cry.  yes, you have in your life a story of loneliness. 

in the story, there is you.  and there is that that is locked or locked away from you.

when did you first learn the key in your hand will not open the lock in your heart?

when did you first learn the story in your mind is not the story of your life?

what does it really mean:  the key to your happiness?

 

s 7

strangeness (ellipsis)

the symbol for strangeness

outside of time

avoid obstacles

more than one

small

and possessive

hissing through the teeth

a snake in the grass

 

 

 

 

 

there are people here and there

but i love only you

their hearts have darkened

or is it my heart that has darkened in its view

for i love only you

the words and deeds of men

have travelled down a darkened path

did i follow or did i lead and where

there is a shadow on my heart

that makes it bleed

when gentle sunlight warms my face

and frees my pen

the threshold of my life has darkened

the candle in the window of my soul

has reached its end

behind the curtain of black lace

and this weary traveler

will not leave his home and hole

the key is set in place and never turned anew

there are people here and there

but i love only you

 

latch key liberation

since i had opened every box, released every monster that college had to offer, i dropped out of school in long beach california.

and flew like a banshee to europe to live.  i set down my luggage in london for a year ~clothes and books and papers neatly arranged in boxes and bins.  but took month-long trips to madrid, milan, berlin, and simple tours of morocco and scotland.  the magic of each place finding me in its own quiet evening or fresh morning.  between trips, i stayed in the bosom of london or the navel of london or the anus of london;  i flat-sat for a friend or a friend-of-a-friend or bunked with a friend or a friend-of-a-friend, learning the city and the culture as i moved from one section of town to another.

and i learned:

instead of mayonnaise, the british butter the bread for sandwiches.  with butter.  better butter but butter nonetheless.

the british line up for everything.  if two people are waiting for a bus, they stand in a queue.  they queue up to queue.

and, most importantly:

the thing that is consistent about flats in london ~no matter which side of the town, which side of the tracks~  when a door closes, it locks.  the front door of every flat is unforgiving.

every flat door is hinged with a spring that pulls the door closed;

every flat door is fitted with a latch that automatically locks when closed;

every flat door has been cursed by somebody walking out without a key…

and, according to jesse jackson, i am somebody.

i was not long in london before i decided to wear whichever flat key i needed that week around my neck like a pendant on a necklace.

this, of course, had its own learning curve.  and i had been in school long enough to know every learning curve has tour stops at error, forgiveness, acceptance, and truth.

i returned from a week in paris, traveling in a storm, an old french lady on the train to the coast giving me a slice of peasant bread with butter and salt.  i got the flat key from a neighbor and settled late into the little box without any other food.  i myself was flat.  the next morning, with everything needed for banking and shopping ~passport, cash from different countries, transport pass, tube map, writing paper and pens, book, sweater, and the latch key~  i set out into the weak sunlight for breakfast and errands.

the chain i wore around my neck was a gift from my grandma and, short to the collar bone, would not slip over my head.  the key dangling from the chain made a smart accessory…

smarter than myself, it seems (as i am not a master key-er):

i vowed not to be locked out of this flat so i slipped the chain through the ring attached to the key.  while waiting for poorly cooked eggs and barely toasted whitebread toast.  which would arrive at room temperature if the room were cold and cold if the room were warm.  the key to breakfast in london was (one) the temperature of the room and (two) not comparing it to america.  the key to a good breakfast in london was leaving london.

on that first day of wearing my functional jewelry, several people commented kindly.  the british were familiar with americans standing on the sidewalk, locked out of flats and looking confused.

but, in the evening, attempting to unlock the front door, my error became blatant:

even with my cheek pressed against the wood of the door and my ear penetrated by the cold handle, the key would not reach to the heart of the labyrinth of the lock.  while hanging around my neck.  not many keys reach to the heart of the labyrinth, it seems.  nor to the labyrinth of the heart.  be grateful if yours has…

i slipped the bag of provisions to the ground, groceries and staples spilling onto the sidewalk.

in the twilight, i tried to unclasp the fine clasp of the rarely-removed chain.

it was as locked as the door.

i rotated the chain clasp to the front of me.  to my throat.  as if i needed to unlock my voice.  but that was not helpful.  you cannot see the lock on a short chain.  there are many locks you cannot see, a short chain being the worst.

but i did manage to open the clasp

and drop the key into the darkness.

a constable on patrol, a keystone copper, a latch-key lover himself, inquired about my activities in the bushes…

i found in the flat a long strand of kite string.  to hang the flat key of the moment around my neck.  if it were good enough for ben franklin, it would be good enough for me…

and one morning soon after, as i stepped out onto the sidewalk in boxers and mis-matched socks.  to pick up the daily paper from a kiosk.  i was struck ~like a tree in a field by lightning~ that i had unlocked the secret to british culture: managing the latch key.  if you could control your coming and going with ease, you could control your life with ease.  it was the death of an era of innocence and the birth of an era of responsibility.  that continues to this day.  solving the problem of these little boxes, i knew i could solve the problem of the boxes they wanted to put me in at school… and london itself became a graduation ceremony.

sometimes, one key holds the answer to everything.  especially when a door closes.

 

 

when i read your poem

i wanted to write

i wanted to never write again

when i read your poem

i wanted to live

i wanted to never live again

as i have been living

i wanted to die

and begin again

when i read your poem

i wanted to be a better man

i wanted to be a scholar

a poet

a painter

i wanted to make a mark

worth making

on the history of man

it is not that i had been asleep

not the way you sleep in a bed

but when i read your poem

i awakened

a part of me

long frozen in the dark

awakened

as if a light

were suddenly lit

in a forgotten room

of my soul

as if the key

maybe for the first time

found the lock

to my secret door

and the light

of a thousand suns

rushed in

 

k 1000

kinetic

put it right here (ok)

god of the earth

balance (constant equilibrium)

gravity

your body made of light

an open hand

an open book

a magic flute

 

in one room

i write words on paper

in another

i paint colors on canvas

but in the room of my soul

i lose the artifice of art

and create a work

for you

of candid materials

of meeting in the garden of figs

of sharing the last sip of wine

of lightning flashes on a summer evening

 

e 250

ecstasy (highest frequency)

transcendent constant

there exists one oneness

a river running

such music

the god of wisdom

energy equals a window onto relativity

the sun on the horizon

a jubilant man

hands to the sky

 

now i lay me down in bed
hope to sleep as if im dead
if i should wake just to pee
let me shake then sleepy be

house full of people
house full of dirt
mind full of business
heart full of hurt

rough draft today

there are people here and there

but i love only you

their hearts have darkened

or is it my heart that has darkened in its view

for i love only you

the words and deeds of men

have travelled down a darkened path

did i follow or did i lead and where

there is a shadow on my heart

that makes it bleed

when gentle sunlight warms my face

and frees my pen

the threshold of my life has darkened

the candle in the window of my soul

has reached its end

behind the curtain of black lace

and this weary traveler

will not leave his home and hole

the key is set in place and never turned anew

there are people here and there

but i love only you

RoyAnthonyShabla.com

quiet quiet theres a storm
blowing function from the form
leave me lifeless on the bed
much more useful when im dead

ditties

today:

today today is a new new day
maybe the monster will go away...



last week:

now i lay me down to weep
i pray the devil comes to reap
if i should wake before i die
let me wake to chocolate pie


RoyAnthonyShabla.com

notes from the mount sac writers conference 27 april 12



love is a pistol loaded with three bullets
hate is a pistol loaded with six bullets
(indifference is a pistol loaded with wet bullets)
and each pistol is pointed at yourself
this is why the wise support control of guns


at dawn, we lie back to back
it is thirty paces to the next point in our relationship
and then we turn
it seems there is always turning
but this turn and this point define ourselves
the barrel turns too


face to face and eye to eye
my aim is true, yes, my aim is  true


cupid had a deringer loaded with poison darts
annie had a shotgun loaded with liberation


i also have a gun
i pull it out at the appropriate moment
(sometimes too at the inappropriate moment)
i may show it to you, let you stroke its shaft
but that is how i get into trouble
gun laws being what they are
the kick of the shot kicking the shooter


i am afraid of your gun
of the russian roulette of our meeting
of the paces i am put through for a blast
this is why i oppose the militia of love
this is why i am a pacifist


* * *


i have five words for you
and none of them is kind


you have no words for me
unless they are formed
by painted eyebrows
or the corners of your mouth


we have no problem communicating
we understand each other perfectly


* * *

you are a perfect storm
you are a tidal wave of misunderstanding
and i am looking for a tree
with which to lash my sanity


* * *


if you share your drugs with me
i may understand
your need for wearing socks to bed
and you may understand
my need to sleep alone


* * *


it doesnt add up
you and me
we are an equation that cannot be proved
a problem that cannot be solved
we each draw a different geometry
in our daily lives
and some variable among us needs to be subtracted


* * *


i am tired of thinking higher thoughts
and just want to sit on the bottom stair
and watch the lower world

on writing

i do not write
like you

i do not write
like me

i write
like i write

and i like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well

and you like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well
too

if you wrote
like i write
when i write
like i write
well
i would like
what you wrote
too

but you write
like you write

and well

well i like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well

and i like
that you like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well

and i like
that i write
like i write

and i do not write
like you

...

i do not write

about you

i do not write

about me

i write

what i write

and i read

what i write

and i write

what i read

and i do not read

about you

no i do not read

about you

…

everyone reads

himself

into the story

or herself

into the story

or itself

everyone reads

himself

into the story

and reads

the story into

himself

or herself

or itself

everyone reads

himself

into the story

everyone reads

the story into

himself

and i read

what i write

and i write

what i read

and the story

read

is me

…

the story

writes the story

the story

reads the story

the story

is not me

i do not write

the story

the story

writes the story

i do not read

the story

the story

reads the story

i do not live

the story

the story

lives me

…

i do not live

like you

i do not live

like me

i live

like i live

i like

that i live

and i like

how i live

when i live

how i like

yes i like

how i live

when i live

like i like

and i like

that i live

how i live

and do not live

like you

yes i like

that i live

like i like

and do not live

like you

…

if i write

like i like

when i write

and i like

what i read

when i read

i am happy

to write and read

i am happy

to read and write

if i like what i write

when i write

like i write

and i like what i read

when i read

what i write

i am happy

to write and read

all day

i am happy

to write

and write

all night

…

i live

like i write

i write

like i live

i live

like i like

and i write

like i like

yes i like

how I write

and i like

how i live

and i like

what i write

and i like

what i live

and i like

what i like

and i like

what i like

and i like

that i write

and i like

that i live

i write

what i live

when i write

like i write

and i live

what i write

when i live

like i live

and i read

who i am

when i read

what i write

o i am

who i am

when i read

what i write

yes i am

who i am

when i write

what i write

…

i write the story

that writes who i am

i write the story

that lives who i am

i write the story

that is who i am

…

i am a writer

who writes

i am a writer

who does not write

stories

i am a writer

who lives

i am a writer

who does not live

stories

i am a writer

who writes

lives

life

life like

i am a writer

who likes

life

if life

is writing

like i write

if life

is writing

like i like

if life

is reading

what i write

…

i write

the words

you read

the story

i write the words

i need

you read the story

you need

i write the words

i need

to live

you read the story

you need

to live

i write

myself into

the words

i need

to live

you read

yourself into

the story

you need

to live

i write

myself into

the words

to live

you read

yourself into

the story

to live

i write

myself into

life

you read

yourself into

me

…

i write

what i write

to live

what i live

and i write

like i write

to live

like i live

o i write

and i write

so i live

and i live

…

i like

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

and i like

that you like

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

i like

what i read

when i read

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

and i like

that you like

what you read

when you read

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

i like

what i live

when i live

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

and i like

you