the jeffreedum exhibit

00jeffree · June 2005

m t

i'm not afraid to learn,
why i'm empty inside.
i only fear if i trust you,
then you will only lie.
all the life that money can buy,
and my heart beats only to cry.
i need to feel something, anything.
just talk to me.
i am empty, i don't feel it, i just am it.
the problem with questions is
you'll get answers.
the problem with answers is
you'll have questions.
and i could believe
for i do want to cry
but i don't know why
you say you're honest
you say i am not a lie
if the truth hurts,
then why don't i?

jeffree

cartoonnightmare · June 2005

really interesting...feel a lot of sadness..i'm sorry you feel bad -- good poem

Ali · June 2005

I like it too;)
Sometimes I feel so empty,as descibed.
They say pick up a pill and it'll all go away.

pearlmutt · June 2005

"the problem with questions is
you'll get answers.
the problem with answers is
you'll have questions."

Yep!

I think I'd rather have a solution than an answer. I should have become a scientist.

00jeffree · June 2005

for the majority of my life, my parents consistantly lied to me and my brothers, about everything. i don't know if they were lied to or if they were just liars. but they were never held accountable for it and they never explained any of it. now that they are both no longer in my life, there is a deep scar about the memory of the relationships i had with them. it all seems like wasted time, as if my existance, the truth of it, wasn't a good enough story. well, it's my fucking story. and now i have to start with a fiction novel and work backwards. i will never know the truth, but at least i can try and tell the truth.

00jeffree · June 2005

an american dreamer

as looking at the heavens,
clear night, summer breeze
symphony of nature's nocturne,
a single star falls, light trails
i wish that not every man
should know true love
most see not what beauty
and truth are, dear star
such wonders wasted on they
who use only five senses,
and one language, to exist
instead let the love be
the currency of the artistic,
for as creators we are all equal,
the poets and musicians
the painters and writers,
these troubled souls who ponder all,
let the civilized be the ones who fall.

jeffree

eden · June 2005

00jeffree wrote:

an american dreamer

these troubled souls who ponder all,
let the civilized be the ones who fall.

jeffree

Simply beautiful.
Very WBYeats-esque.

FinsburyParkCarrots · June 2005

Good call, eden! It reminds me of "Under Ben Bulben" in its diction, a little.

00jeffree · June 2005

thanks for all the positive support. i will admit i haven't studied anything relative to literature or poetry. i am just freestyling here. i just wanted to contribute to the board. poetry isn't my strong suit. my best work, in my opinion, is writing short one page narratives, and maybe i will post some of those someday. thanks again.

00jeffree · June 2005

no monkey

a man of science
sat alone watching the apes
he kept notes
and took pictures
wrote books
and made tapes

i approached, half curious, half bored
and inquired on his present chore
but instead of conversing, he only roared,
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! . . . .

how sad, thought i
to desire, from one's insecurity,
to be a monkey with a purpose,
rather than a man with a destiny.

i am no monkey.

jeffree

Being Enlightened · June 2005

"most see not what beauty
and truth are, dear star
such wonders wasted on they
who use only five senses,
and one language, to exist
instead let the love be
the currency of the artistic,
for as creators we are all equal"

EXCELLENT, jeffree! Very insightful and right on!

And your "no monkey" poem kinda reminds me of the idea of the monkey studying the humans theme on Roger Waters, "Amused To Death" album. Keep it up!

00jeffree · June 2005

slow children at play

took a walk with my inner child today
in this lifetime, i had never felt so gay
hopping and singing, alone and oblivious
playing and discovering, so mischievous
innocence and wisdom, best of both worlds
we ran and fell, looked and giggled at girls
this shared naivetes, gift of youth
it is being old for which there is no use
with each tool the adults have provided
a loss of independence, by what guided
i only want to play and be outside
to enjoy nature and others, no time for pride
do not care who sees, what i look like
want to feel, to be alive, not just a-life
they put a number on me and call my name
i color over the scar, tickles all the same
the medias tell me what i should do and say
i do what i need and say what i think
they didn't count on that, a miscalculation
they get screwed, i settle for masturbation.

jeffree

pearlmutt · June 2005

"for the majority of my life, my parents consistantly lied to me and my brothers, about everything. i don't know if they were lied to or if they were just liars. . . it all seems like wasted time, as if my existance, the truth of it, wasn't a good enough story. well, it's my fucking story. and now i have to start with a fiction novel and work backwards. i will never know the truth, but at least i can try and tell the truth."

I was going to tell you to read still life with woodpecker. i think that's where some character says, "it's never too late to have a happy childhood" -- you know a writer wrote that, so . . .

BUT, you went and amazed me, jeffree, (and what a cool name!) because, low and behold:

"took a walk with my inner child today
in this lifetime, i had never felt so gay
hopping and singing, alone and oblivious
playing and discovering, so mischievous
innocence and wisdom, best of both worlds
we ran and fell, looked and giggled at girls
this shared naivetes, gift of youth"

it's right there!

i can't wait to see the narratives.

(and on a side note, this is the best place in the world for readers; it's like walking into the biggest public library on earth, sort of)

00jeffree · July 2005

for a friend

wrong, it cannot be undone
the past, is to be learned from
a mistake . . a miscalculation
a decision . . a solution
a regret . . a mistake made over
a charm . . a four leaf clover
you need not live in the past
this blissfulness can not last
find yourself, and someone like you
love yourself, and those who like you
inside you is all that is
right and wrong . . . . a kid
play with yourself, and enjoy you
quit making me tell you what to do
once in a lifetime, this is your life
your own forgiveness is the knife
it can cut you loose, or cut you through
i know you, and what you will do
if one is the loneliest, than make it two
and i will always be here for you, too.

jeffree

pearlmutt · July 2005

"your own forgiveness is the knife
it can cut you loose. . ."

spoken like an old soul.

00jeffree · July 2005

i wonder why they don't pave this fucking street. main street. this main street.
my car hits one pothole, then another.
my head goes one way, then the other.
i swerve to miss a weak section of this glorified version of a gravel road and i hit yet another pothole.
i slow down, and it's worse.
i speed up, and it's worse.
i turn up the radio to drown out the violence from between my car and the terrain.
i pretend my suspension was engineered maticulously for this exact scenario.
my car will be fine. the car is fine, i tell myself.
but i am an engineer so i know that main street was not a variable in any car maker's formula.
not ford, not chevy, not japan.
this main street, this section of the lincoln highway,this brick washboard, is an exception to the rule.
the first rule of civilization.
we drive cars because we can. now pave the fucking planet so we can zoom, zoom, zoom.
the street, the town, my car, it's all falling apart.
the state highway running northeast and southwest goes around this town.
every thing in the man made natural world goes around.
a few people stop, but most don't.
should a person decide to come into town, for whatever reason, leaving here is difficult.
more difficult than choosing between bush and kerry. choose and loose.
but i never had a choice. i was a child. in truth, a teenager with an arrested development.
like trying to find a way around main street, you can't.
to get from the inside world to the outside world, you have to drive it.
to get groceries. to get gas. to get anywhere, you have to travel the nowhere that is this street.
and every time i come back to this biggest little town in america, i get trapped.
the lack of choices, the control, the wear and tear on my car reminds me of then.
those years spent trying to get out of here.
and now i drive back through town, attempting to wave, to everyone.
because they wave to you, almost like they have a question, or as if they are surrendering.
but the ride forces my arm and hand to jerk up and down.
it looks like i am flipping everyone off. you know, giving them the bird.
that would be more easier. and more honest. and more sincere.
the catchy digitally masters and atuo tuned pop song ends and a man who starts talking.
a man who knows nothing starts talking about everything.
it's either pop or conutry up here in no man's land, just off U.S. I-30.
ironic that everything i loathe about my culture has the highest and best frequency.
and the elements i love fade in and out.
i have had my mental antenna up for some time, since i was young and obsessed with "WHY?"
redefining entertainment, friendship, family, and love . . . . this is my mount everest.
and this small town, for lack of funding and/or ambition, is my nepal.
but geography isn't the lesson of mother culture today.
the radio man says the end is near. the sky is falling. the apocolypse.
he says it is 2005. this i know, i tell him, as my car sinks into what looks like a crater.
the scrapping sounds are not reassuring.
with the recent events in the middle east, he continues, the world tension is at peak level.
so now we know what the peak level is.
don't listen to this message. turn the station. save yourself now.
the radio dude, he is using reverse pshychology.
and i would turn it off . . . . if this road was paved. honestly, i would.
or if i had gotten that cd player installed like the salesperson offered when i bought this car.
but i can't. see also: lack of choices. see also: lack of control. see also: dead end.
so once the radio guy knows he has my attention, he unviels the details of the end of the world.
i attended sunday school, so i know the story. it's called revelations.
and i am at the end of this road and turning up a perpendicular street to my old home.
the ride is smoother now.
the streets of this town are paved, just not main street.
i turn the radio off and roll down the window to get some fresh air and listen for damage to my car.
with no new noises immediately detectable and the doomsday prohpet of 98.5 FM put to rest, i reminisce.
the nostalgia is life threatening.

00jeffree · July 2005

i lie alone and naked, motionless on a hardwood floor.
the polished oak slats tell me the temperature of the outside world.
my physical composition is curled up silent in the fetal position.
the spaces in between the slats expand and contract as i breathe, but they don't crack.
i tell myself i am not going to crack.
i am gently rocking on my shoulder and hip bone.
every labored breath creates a fog as it hits the chilled air of the room.
my each and every thought creates a fog in my memory of my existance.
a minature cloud of fantasy, then it dissappears into reality.
the eerie rythm of life. an ice cold, pathetic ebb and flow we all have to live by.
i try to make myself as small, as invisible, as i possibly can.
and i find it hard to keep breathing . . . . so i close my eyes, hard, tight.
i imagine this is how it all began. thirty years ago.
i wanted to live then. but now here i am lying here, freezing, wanting to disappear.
it all has something to do with her.
i don't know what her name was. i never saw her face. i don't even know if i killed her.
but i have to assume i did. i must have done it. i was the last one to see her alive.
no details, no evidence, and i can't even begin to comprehend any possible motive.
i have concluded that it was self defense. life of death. fight of flight.
i was the only survivor of a twin ceasarian. i am a gemini. and i killed my twin.
the mental confession cramps my stomach and my only response is to vomit uncontrollably.
but i haven't eaten in days. not since i learned the truth.
so all i produce is spit, and bile, and blood. and the blood is the only warmth in the room.
and the room is furnished with a chair, and there's some rope in a bundle opposite that.
and i lay bleeding and bruised opposite that. the chair, the rope, and me, we make a triangle.
the trinity of my attempt at taking responsibility.
the police will say the noose was tied incorrectly. that the rope broke shortly after i jumped.
off the chair. swingly freely from the solid wooden beams of this abandoned cabin.
what they won't know is the rope took alot longer to break than they would think.
they won't know that i swung there for fifteen minutes gasping for air.
trying to abort my self destruct mission. man versus himself.
they won't know that i passed out from the effort and dangled motionless.
and then the twine snapped. the umbilical cord of my rebirth was cut.
i fell dropped three feet to the floor and hit my head on the fucking chair.
thanks to the guy at the hardward store, i bought the cheaper rope.
"yes, i believe you could string up a grown man with this rope", he said.
why i was trying to save two bucks i do not know.
so now i am naked. and injured. and pissed off.
my clothes are outside in my car, empty except for a wallet, gum, and two dollars in change.
the car's motor is still running. i was in that much of a hurry.
and the used copy of the army field survival guide is laying face down, spread open.
page 31. how to tie knots.
the driver's door is flung open and the ding,ding,ding begs me to shut it.
the headlights are glaring out into the wilderness making woodland creatures uneasy.
light from the interior dome lamp, is reflected in through a window in the cabin front.
it's glow highlights the edge of the chair, the rope, and my pool of blood.
all i can see is what i had almost done.
i smile insanely at my circumstance and apply pressure to the gash in my forehead.
it is december, it is winter, and my naked penis has lost all it's length.
it's only instinctive survival tactic. at least one of us is thinking.
and my phallus-less mound of pubic hair reminds me of her. reminds me of why i am here.
something about having no clothes, an attempt at suicide, and the freezing midwest night.
something makes me very rational. maybe i didn't kill her.
whoever she was. whatever she could have been. it was true, is true, i did want to live.
i do want to live. maybe she didn't want to. maybe she killed herself.
it was definitely an option. i can't take resonsibilty for myself, much less another person.
like the slit in my flesh, the hole in my heart won't close up. and the pain is empty.
i guess i always knew i wanted to live. and maybe whe knew it too.
she killed herself so that i could live. i don't know. i will never know.
but i have always had a place in my heart for the girl i never even knew.
even before i knew anything about what happened. what one feels is what is real.
and when my mother told me, i was twenty five, and she told me i am, was, a twin.
i spent a quarter of a century trying to fill a hole i never knew the origin of.
i have dedicated my life to trying to erase scars i never witnessed the violence of.
and i know the difference between good rope and bad rope.
and i know i am never going to go to therapy again.
i put my clothes back on and bask in the warmth of my car's heater.
i realize that two bucks will get me an ice cream cone. a double scoop. for the ride home.
i don't know what her name was going to be, but here, there, in my heart, she is angel.

00jeffree · July 2005

i'm sorry.
thank you.
and i love you.
these are the things i would tell my mother if she was here. over and over.
until she believed me . . . . or until i believed myself.
until i was no longer a living contradiction.
until i was a whole person again.
until i was honest and sincere.
and until i was sore at the throat and all i could do is write the words, or think them.
or until i felt better about letting her down.
(to be continued)

00jeffree · July 2005

is this stuff crap or what?

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2005

00jeffree wrote:

is this stuff crap or what?

No. It's a curse of 95% of Internet poetry message forums that a lot of people don't read poems of over a certain length. The fault is not with you but with the fast-food nature of the Web. Homer would never have made it in the digital age.

00jeffree · July 2005

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

No. It's a curse of 95% of Internet poetry message forums that a lot of people don't read poems of over a certain length. The fault is not with you but with the fast-food nature of the Web. Homer would never have made it in the digital age.

i see. well i shall find another outlet for my ramblings. take care, sweet souls.

i was having a good time coming up with a topic in my head and just improving these things. some editing would help, but if no one reads them . . . .

the jeffreedum exhibit

Comments

Categories