Blame Jeffrey

so i'm not as much of... how do i say... an "open book" as the young Taylor, but i must admit that reading his stuff, listening to Lupe, Clipse, and others, and the fact that i live by myself (translation: too much time spent thinking) have all amalgamated to end what had been a pretty extended writer's bloc. it's not like i had been tryna write that much, but i was more or less uninspired and unable to produce anything worth looking at for at least a year.

Well, the levees have broken and with them have come all the internal conflicts that breed the stuff I don't call prose. will u understand it? maybe. maybe not. could i make it more understandable and less guarded? yeah, probably. but i'd rather confuse u and leave u conflicted. is that a good thing? prolly not. iunno.

*note*: above is an example of me thinking too much. i digress.

so anyways, i've been writing more over the past 3 or 4 months and blame it on JV Taylor that i decided to put some up here. what can i say, i need an outlet. but i will not give dashiki-and-incense-laden introductions like the aforementioned individual has been known to do. all things are open to criticism (good and bad) and questions and interpretations (but if ur off, i'll let u know).

This one is a lot rougher than the first 2, but i'm bored. wrote it mid-november.

Tilden Dreams

I wonder—with the future before me,
at a desk here, walking there, never silent—
what happened to my dreams?

Wrapped in cellophane or spoiled
(because everything has a “sell by” date,
a shelf life)? There were always many
lofty, as they dreams must be, like an attic
in an old house, or this building where
I stand in front of dreamers who have no idea
they’re sleeping.

It makes sense
that the top floor is off limits. We’re one beneath it.
Besides, it’s filled with feathers
and perhaps the remains of a pigeon or two.
But I will remind myself and my dreams:
even birds have limits, wings can be burdensome,
and that star I wish upon may be filled
with souls that wish upon my own planet from a distance.

So I wonder—with the future before me,
at a desk here, walking there, never silent—
what happened to my dreams?

Like long lines in the cold, breath collecting
before my face to warm the tip of my nose
for a jackpot or an elusive ticket to a candy factory,
were some of them lost
before I had ever discovered them?

With so many black plastic bags tangled in tree branches, I can tell
they never take the time to notice packaging,
and the bags crackle in the wind like blown speakers, like static
from TV. Looking down from my window, I mistake them
for a flock of crows, as I’m sure
they would mistake a crow for a plastic bag in a tree.
It makes sense.

The desks are empty, I cannot hear them anywhere
but in my head. Still, I know that they are speaking
of the past, as the future always does, in spite of itself.

I wonder how long it will take
to sweep up feathers and excrement: the future
is as impatient as a dream.