yesorotherwise: the scribble pad

Oct 24

http://thenormalbear.tumblr.com/post/11856724919/the-problem-of-love-is-that-it-has-no-edges-and

The problem of Love is that it has no edges
and it’s hard to tell when it starts or ends,
it’s difficult to tell when you became deeply in it
and surprisingly (and numbingly), it’s even harder to tell
when it left.

Love also has its own intentions, it’s very
difficult to force out, it can be a stain
in your eye taunting you and blinding you,
it can be the stickiest of gunk stuck in between
your teeth.
Smile and try to say hello,
everyones going to see it.

People feel that they know Love but really,
that sensation is because Love knows them,
it’s like being watched on a lonely street,
or if you’re lucky, it’s the embrace
of the warm beads of water in the shower.
It warms down your neck
and alerts the little invisible hairs
of its presence.

Love has dangerous heights—and
with the heights, there are painful landings,
this is very tempting for the little risk taker
hiding in all of us but know the fearful ones look on
with jealously, and after the fall, they nod,
as if they knew. But they don’t know.

The problem of Love is that it attempts
to draw us in to places beyond ethics,
wrong is right, right is wrong,
it turns the horrible things to good,
and sometimes, the best of things
into the worst of things.

But it’s okay. The problems of Love remind us,
remind us when we’re standing at the bus stop
wondering, Would she like me better if I was in my car
or should I pretend like I care about the environment,
and just then, that girl does that walk right past you,
the world slows to an amber still
as she turns her head the perfect angle
her sight meets your gaze and her sight
turns into a lock just like yours.

You’ll forget about all the problems of Love and
you’ll say,
You know, I write a lot of poems about the problem of Love,
but Love, I guess I haven’t met you yet.

Sep 29

just another reminder, i’m at thenormalbear - danks new followers.

Sep 24

thenormalbear:

A Song

When I grow old, I’ll be wise,
wrinkled but not small and
I’ll tell about my
adventures in the North,

and I’ll sit with all the children,
they’ll be entranced
when I tell them
about the river that is your hair,

Flowing soft from my soul,
out through my heart
and into
the coldest arctic skies,

The swirls of galaxies,
faint embers in the dark,
the scent of flowers dancing
across the ice,

I’ll mention
how you saved me
from the deadly icy storms,
and how you laid my head
on your warm lap,

Looking down
into my shivering face
was two eyes of the clearest love,
my soul reflected
in the two brightest stars.

Sep 20

thenormalbear:

As Death comes,

I do not see his furious eyes—
instead, a sudden rush of apples and tangerines,
the curl of your hair and the sweat bead following,
the click of our teeth as we try and press our kiss closer,
the fuzz’d ringing of electricity when I glide
my finger down your naked back.

I do not see Death but I see my life after life,
my eternity spent with my nose pressed to the nape
of your neck, my old and belonged, my new and forever.

As Death stands before me, I lick my thumbs
as if postage stamps, sit in Death’s Greyhound bus,
hug myself tightly, and try to hold on to
every little bit of you that I love.

*

(nuclear explosion image source: http://zvis.com/nuclear/detonation/ivymike/ivymike1.shtml)

I’ve been there —> thenormalbear. so stop sending messages here.

*

The snow will come to L.A. this winter
and the pigeons will stand
on great banks of salt
to peck at cigarette butts and gum.
Down the street
at our favorite restaurant,
Mrs. Sandburn will close the shop
and drive out to New Mexico because,
“I’m sure the world will end this time.”

Lightening will fall with the snow,
each thunderburst will scare your breath
to a clench fist silence.
But I will wrap you in blankets so thick—
the end of the world will sound
as soft as a baby’s dreamed whispers.

The stars and the moon will glow
raspberry wine and
the unfrozen drops of candles will float up
and the red night will be dotted
with sky laterns,
escape pods for desperate souls.

The city will blink its last electric night
but there will be music still.
I’ll pull the blankets down from your ears
and I’ll ask you to listen.

I’ve seen your lips move
so you won’t need to say anything.

I’ll reply,
so what if I look at you longingly
though you are here?

The ground will rumble
and the Moon will kiss the Earth.

Aug 30

As much words as could be written,
less people will read them, here?

But if one has heard, the drying of the body
on the shore, what is there but a memory
of the surf?

Who will drag deep the dead
to the land? Who will pull it close
to hug a strange cold bold to embrace?

Aug 21

thenormalbear.tumblr.com

Aug 17

To the slowed, to the bogged, the unwilled willing.

If the day to day does not interest you, think of tomorrows, everyone knows of tomorrows. It is built on the stresses of todays and it rests hoping to be firm on the yesterdays.

So, sleep early, be ready, be eager that the sunrise provides anxieties—it is a sign you worry and worry is care to form to fight.

That is my wish for you, to be driving and not driven into the night. Find your hands and your voice. Use them.

The day to day does not interest you but you care for tomorrow, you think you know of your tomorrows but in that height of thought you will see the vast expanse of your todays’ possibilities.

Aug 7

Anonymous asked: I miss your posts. Where is your new blog?

ask me under your account or email me.

Jul 26

1.

The problem of Love is that it has no edges
and it’s hard to tell when it starts of ends,
it’s difficult to tell when you became deeply in it
and surprisingly (and numbingly), it’s harder to tell
when it left.

Love also has its own intentions, it’s very
difficult to force out, it can be a stain
in your eye taunting you and blinding you,
it can be the stickiest of gunk stuck in between
your teeth.

People feel that they know Love but really,
that sensation is because Love knows them,
it’s like being watched on an empty street,
or if you’re lucky, it’s the embrace
of the warm beads of water in the shower.

Love has dangerous heights—and
with the heights, there are painful landings,
this is very tempting for the little risk taker
hiding in all of us but the fearful ones look on
with jealously, and after the fall, they nod,
as if they knew. They’ll never know.

The problem of love is that it attempts
to draw us in to places beyond ethics,
wrong is right, right is wrong,
it turns the horrible things to good,
and sometimes, the best of things
into the worst of things.

“But Rick, you can’t go. It’s too heavy out there. The air alone will crush you. And the light? The light will burn right through you.”

Rick sat at the edge of the couch running two fingers along the brim of his cap. The television fuzzed old silver images.

“It’s been too many days and I forget what winds like. Why, I can’t even remember what rain felt like. Or even, what it’s like to just look out towards a direction and think that there is no end.”

Rick stood up and walked towards the heavy metal handle of the vault door.

“It’s different out there now Rick. We can’t even be sure if rain is rain or if rain will melt your clothes and your skin off.”

“I want to hear a bird. I want to hear a bird that’s not chicken soup bubbling in that vat. I want to see the leaves sway.”

“We don’t even know if there are any birds left.”

“I want sound! I want sky! I want emptiness and clarity! I want to know I’m breathing in little bits of this world. I want to know there are planets starting right at the top of my head!”

Rick’s right hand grabbed the metal handle and his left pushed on the bar for the lock.

“You’ll die out there Rick.”

“So what if the Sun prickles my skin?”

“It’s not safe out there Rick.”

“So what if the wind gives me a little push?”

“Don’t do it Rick.”

“I’m going out.”

*

Locks drop inside of the door. The room makes a gasp as air from outside enters the room. Swords of light pierce through the fuzzy white glow from the bulbs. And strange vibrations tickle Rick’s ears.

Jul 25

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Hezekiah Jones – Thinking about You (Radiohead cover)

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Dale Earnhardt Jr Jr - God Only Knows (The Beach Boys Cover)

I feel I can write
a million poems
this morning
but none of them
will do,
because none of them
have the right
shape and color
because none of them
are you.

Jul 24

“Why should I hold onto things I can’t use?” said Hitchcock, his eyes wide, still staring into space. “I’m practical. If Earth isn’t here for me to walk on, you want me to walk on a memory? That hurts. Memories, as my father once said, are porcupines. To hell with them! Stay away from them. They make you unhappy. They ruin your work. They make you cry.” No Particular Night or Morning, Bradbury