Tuesday, November 2, 2010

I do trust

"I do trust" -- by Stephen F. Sunday

I do trust the locations of the keys on the keyboard
I always know where my fingers will fall

I do trust
that the frets on that silver guitar will remain static
until I start pulling ghosts and spirits from
nickel and alloy
my allies
the secrets i keep to myself

I do trust
that you will ask me
and I trust more
that I will answer

but I will never slide into your heart with a silver blade
Cold iron, cold silver
I cannot promise that I will not
these cables and wires and strings around
your beautiful heart

will never be my intent
i am a moron juggernaut
changing worlds in every tiny step
every motion

the slightest flick of your wrist
will draw an apple from my tree
the slightest flash of your eyes
will draw the venom from my soul

and we will drink that vintage together
on the edge of the world
that no one ever knew was right here
in the fucking heart of it all

when i wake up tomorrow,
i want to know that days without sin are
that the choices we make
are not necessarily permanent
but always worthwhile

here i reside
wrapped in gravity
in Newton We Trust
and i want to see the moonlight
as it rises from your bones

ghosts of tomorrow
gather round
hold tight
take me into your world
and never let me go

because right now is the only thing that matters
in science i trust
and faith
and i won't sleep until i taste you

--Stephen Sunday

Friday, October 8, 2010

Untitled, because I Can.

here's your



I am going to die
just like anyone else

i can taste it between the bile and the blood
the ashes in the mouth
like a pill chewed upon

i falter between seconds
white noise, red noise
a television busted
the cable is out

(Time? Warn Her)

but it wasn't the storm
i've been stealing programming from the skies since i moved here

technology like the colors after the fist strikes my face

you know very little about the cost of piracy and privacy

i take what i want and i never have enough
i hate that about myself

all of this was a measure to stop the bleeding
fourteenth or fifteenth aid
i am made of bones
an ossuary of ghosts
good night to you
and to all you stand for
don't wait up for me

unless you fancy looking under the bed
i won't be the monster
i'll be the whisper you hear that makes you seek the bogeyman

when you remember me
do it without flowers
because fuck that shit

i am worth initials in a tree, at the very fucking least

find an acorn
wrap in ribbons
with your hair and mine
the right color of smoke
and just a dollop of the substance
of your own being

buried with a silver trowel at the dark of the moon
i will see you in


Don't be so foolish as to think this has anything to do with you.

--Stephen Sunday

Monday, August 16, 2010

join hands

join hands"

gather tonight
beside this fragile place with its fractured skies

do we see the skies, or only the cracks in the ceiling?

i will take your hands and i will stare into the place
where molecules combine, never quite touching
never quite touching

for a moment
an hour
trance sister
we were children

will you wonder if i shed some tears
of joy
because i found myself reborn?

the rain never seems to stop
it is caprice itself
it waits for me to walk out the door
before it begins

i never think of my umbrella
i never believed in it anyway

the air is hot and overbearing
and every drop of rain is a god-bullet
penetrating my soul

if you open the unseen eye,
you can see the chalk outline on the pavement
of where i fell

was it here, or was it there?
the couch, the sidewalk, the parking lot,
the bathroom
my bed?

cast not the cold forensic eye
this is not a mystery, but a Mystery
that which endures
that which empowers
encourages discourse
we can talk of science and nature and fiction
but our eyes observe a truth that cannot be detailed
a shared vision, if only moments at a time
kinship in this bright and beautiful place

i can see the sky
and it is
and yet so

this is where i remember why i believed in me
because no one else will
and no one else should
i don't have the rules of this place
i don't know the laws
i am savage, if barely noble

will you touch my hand again?
it's cold in here

--Stephen Sunday, August 2010.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

ineffectual anesthesia

Do you really think
that this is not going
to hurt?
To Hurt
like Plato and Emerson
at their pompous, masturbatory



I assure you
with my hand on your cheek
that I mean you no harm
but we are already planning
the complex calculus
the artifice of art and architecture

for the sake of making life just a bit more interesting

If you had no idea, I would feel some guilt
but I know that there is harm in every barb
despite the softness of skin and lips

when you dance with the devil
your dress will always smell of brimstone

I want to see you barefoot and flying
your hair like a paintbrush fresh from water
pulling colors across the canvas
in the backstage of the universe
with a smile on your face that is as hungry
as my reflection in your eyes

I want to look up and see you
and not to remember
that people never communicate without games
and that when we say we speak without games
that we are playing another round of the games

because fucking hell! what is life without games?

I want for you to know me
but only enough that you are
of every reason you could have to hate me

I can't promise anything beyond what I believe in right now
and what do I believe RIGHT NOW?


I will tell you this:

I would rather hurt myself than hurt you
I would rather swallow the greater sorrow to spare you the lesser
I will keep your secrets and listen to your dreams
I won't tell you the really crazy shit that fills up my skull
I won't let the lasers and razors of my passion destroy you

but remember:

the biggest lie that anyone ever tells is this one:

"I'm sorry."

please don't hate me if I apologize in advance
for the mystery that is love
or the tragedy that is growing up

I didn't make this world
but by God
I am going to live here

Thursday, December 3, 2009

You might imagine, or Saint Anthony's Fire

You think it's easy to wear a tie? Loafers?
Fuck you.
I've got thousands of years of history behind me
every piece of which that tells me to
paint my face
(or maybe lace my boots)
face the ergots and pillage the ingots
swing my fucking fist
history and chemistry and biology
(if you're in a laughing mood we can even add
psychology and sociology)

whatever it is, it's there
and it comes right through in the blood
like half-forgotten, heavily cherished music from another room

you never want to admit
that "Appetite for Destruction" was your "Ave Maria" or your "Let it Be"
but we all know the truth
there's a couple generations that feel the same way
there's a few million of us that don't fear the devil
who won't hesitate to break a face with a face

but i would much rather bleed on my own
thank you kindly

if the best i can do
is drink you under the table
then bet your ass i will
I don't need your fire/water
I've got plenty of my own
I've got elements your
ancestors never conceived

better that they did not
I'm a-building, I'm a-haunting

i won't take off my tie without envisioning a noose
(and knowing mine were the hands to tie that half-windsor)
i won't lay down my man-purse
without pretending to be a shaman
(with a six-demon bag)
i won't light a candle
without whispering the right words
unless i have you waiting for me

(right where i need you most)

in the end, are we anything more than animals
who happen to be smart enough
to know what parts of the body to shave?

noble? savage?
does it really make a difference?
not to walk on all-fours
not to eat flesh
not to shed blood

we're all just doing the best that we can
i just wish you though to understand
if i told you to come back to nature
to give ourselves to wine and madness
and prophecy, always
and that i need your Walden Pond about as much as I need
a badge with my face that hangs from my belt
that opens a door
like magic
to a place I'd rather die than visit again
but it's magic, how that door opens
just for me

if I were alive just a few hundred years back
or even the right number of decades
You'd burn me at the stake

or you'd look at these scars
and name me a patron, name me a saint
as if mere survival were supposed to be something to be proud of

the patron saints
of getting out of bed
of vomiting blood without taking the day off
of forearms scrawled in secret alphabets
of mascara or stitches
of excessive patriotism or sexual disaster
of never, ever again telling a loved one they need to apologize
of ribs and feathers and needles and pins
of faking your way to the weekend again

as if mere survival were something worthy of reverence

i saw a three-legged dog
where's his halo?
i saw a veteran in a wheelchair
where's his day of obligation?
i saw a single mother (MANY OF THEM) understanding deprivation
not on your calendar, though,
anymore than that other soul who just wants to love
without being told whom it is appropriate to love
you will never sing that hymn, though

i saw a man in a tie
wearing shiny loafers
and a shit-eating grin
stained with bad debts and worse prospects
and that tell-tale stench
i saw him
i tell you three times
but i won't light a candle

fuck that guy
there's nothing to be proud of here

--Stephen Sunday, 2009

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Spider-Man saves a child... really.


I read this story tonight, and I had to share it. It's just great.

So, a fireman in Thailand dressed up as Spider-Man to save an autistic kid who was stuck on a window ledge 8 stories up.

Made me smile.

Monday, February 16, 2009

The Legend of the Maine Coon, or Why You Shouldn't Smoke Weed Every Day

Retelling a tale told twice before, for the purposes of the blog.

Where I live, during the previous summer and fall, the apartment complex had been plagued by a variety of wild animals. An individual residing herein had asked me, due to my "country" upbringing, to identify some footprints and spoor, which were hardly necessary as there were more than enough sightings to determine that the twin menaces to the sanctity of our garbage cans were a rather angry and unfriendly stray cat, and a rather surprisingly active young raccoon.

My inquisitive friend, whose consumption of marijuana defies description, had discussed with me various options for the removal of said wild animals, most of which were ludicrous but not memorable. During a particularly interesting exchange, where I helped him to remember the defining characteristics of raccoon tracks, I made a joke about the alleged folktale origins of the Maine Coon, a breed of house cat known for its impressive size. For those of you who are averse to clicking links, there's an old folk belief that this particular cat breed had developed when feral cats had bred with raccoons in the New England states, during the early days of our great nation.

My drug-addled and determined friend was uninformed on this particular point, so my joke about the necessity of separating the cat from the raccoon (so as to prevent the breeding of a "super cat") was taken completely literally, and treated as the authoritative gospel truth, which I later was to discover. My off-hand comment paid dividends in the world of comedic raconteur gold.

A day or so later, I'd been approached, as many times before, by the friend to whom I'd shared the legend (in jest) previously. During the course of the intervening days, he had apparently done a great deal of research on the matter, bypassing all the obvious impossibilities that prevented the verity of the legend itself. The exchange went (roughly) as follows:

"Stephen, have you seen that fucking cat around any more? Or that raccoon? I think I'm going to do something about it. You know anyone who wants a cat?"
"No, sorry man. I'll let you know, though, and--"
"Dude, do you know what happens when a cat fucks a raccoon? Do you know what you get?"
(at this point, I'm assuming he's joking, as he heard about this obviously ridiculous tale FROM me just a day or two prior)

"No," I replied... "what do you get?"
"BIG fucking cats, dude. like huge and shit. You ever heard of the Maine Coon?"

At this point I feigned ignorance exactly long enough to get into my car and drive off to work, stifling a laugh until it became appropriate.

So what's the lesson here? That cats can't really breed with raccoons? Or that weed really does affect your brain?

I leave it to my beloved reader to decide.