Old Poems... dated between 3/27/09 and 4/16/09

When I found myself atop the podium,
my withered and weak voice rang, yet quivered;
struck a few notes, that are best left unscathed.

As I stumbled away in a whirlwind of doubt,
I assured myself recognition of my efforts,
would surely be left up in a vapor amongst the clouds.
Above our heads, I find myself there frequently.

So as my feet guide its way back to the surface.
I'll be as a real as your pal, Jesus Christ.
Returning from the sky, miraculously...
My second stint, with my feet on Earth,
my head will remain out of orbit,
and within reach of my arms, but not quite,
on my shoulders.

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I tip toe around the cracks in the sidewalk.
Ants, careful and robotic by nature, circumnavigate the entire obstruction.
My toes won't get stuck, no twisted phalanges for me.
My eyes are on it like a hawk, but won't tell my brain how to act.
I trip and fall, the guidance was not adequate.


When i saw that old rusty bicycle
as familiar as they are,
i forgot the standard operation.
As I fell straight on my face
even the ants, minute and irrelevant
arrived in herds to assess the damage,
I heard a child cry as I scraped my knee.
he felt my pain, and knew I withheld.
Valuable information, clues of my existence.
Where did I go when I forgot my means.
I thought I left it right under the door mat.


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my ever revolving thoughts fade in and out of focus.
the skies were clear and perhaps the unhindered rays singed my flesh a bit. today, i and the birds will retreat.
how do the neurons jumble themselves, intertwined, thus
inoperative. receptors not receiving and no ones even giving out a clue.

So I just got fired from yet another miserable waiting job. I told the boss what's on my mind. She didn't appreciate the disobediance. Apparently that 35 year-old skank, given her power, had me dangling by strings. She controlled my daily routine and income. Well, let the record show, I merely let her know what's up.

...plus, I was sick of her face.

I got all this free time on my hands...

Dear Dig,

So my name's Max and I live in Allston. After getting discharged from the Navy, (Guess I told them what was up) I started waiting tables back in CT, based from the folks' house. This, as you could imagine, got very old. Now I'm here. Whaddaya know.

Here, my buddy throws house shows in our basement a couple times a month, with great turnout. Who knew kids around here like free music?

I believe some of your crew has been here to cover a show. When our apartment turns make-shift venue, it is called the S.H.O.P. (...or the pancake house, to many).

I write to inform the masses.


-Max

Wow, I've been meaning to do that for a while... write to the dig...

I was inspired by my teacher at community college and honestly, I was attending one class just to keep me occupied during the winter. She always told me, "Fuck it, just try your luck...".

Well, over the years I've accumulated a few things...

...done lots of poetry, but I'm just about a year sober, it can be a dirty habit.

I've got some new shit, slightly more potent.

Well, here's a blog...

www.maxhrosenfeld.blogspot.com

It's mostly unedited bullshit from a while ago, but easy to type out a link in an e-mail... that picture was taken by a real-life rollingstone photographer. (I found it online while reading the review of the concert I was at. Neat, huh?)

I, assuming there is a living breathing soul on the other side of this particular chunk of cyberspace, could send you copies of the articles I wrote for bunker hill this year... I recently have found that I prefer to write with deadlines.

...Or better yet! Why not write back with a fiery inquiry. I, however, will forewarn that I do most of my research in the depths of my own bowels.



... and may heavenly mothers bless your holy souls.