Coal Train Charles

Drifter.

new rule

If I can not respect a woman and remember when in bed with her that she is a goddess. I will not go to bed with her.

romance and reality (not to be poetic)

I went to ingenuity fest in cleveland Oh.
I met a man standing before a display.
He had a project he was working on about writing and poetry.
There were abstract items glued to books like sponges and other random objects.
When I asked what it was that he was demonstrating
He told me that poetry
Is defined by two charectoristics
Beauty and truth.
I found this poetic in and of itself.
After talking for a while, shaking hands and parting ways I pondered this theory
Vexed by the idea because
From my own personal experience
You can find beauty in almost anything, I thought. infact, u may find beauty in truth, but truth is much more rare to behold let alone attain and beauty, at least in our society, Is seldom true.
But things like a sponge… Does it hold beautiful properties or truth?
When u see it, is it transportive. Does it raise feelings of exuberance? Vibrant energy? Angelic qualities?
No.. In its self it is, unless beautified, a sponge. But does that mean it is true?
Maybe so, but While it simply exists it may be literally true, but it does not possess a poetic truth until we attach it to the context of our reality. A sponge may represent, work, cleaning, a necessary duty in our everyday lives. Labor, income, responsibility, self worth. All of which we experience as our realities which is a response to truth. We work to provide food because we need food to live. This holds both literal and poetic truth. With out this sponge our flesh and bones will parish. We attach our own ideas behind this which is poetic truth. Otherwise a sponge is a sponge, just as a rose is a rose… Neither of them make a noise if they fall in the forest and no one is around. Everything is true by its self. No object is beautiful until percieved.
So,perhaps he meant truth in another manor. say in a poem a woman is crying in the rain…
While this may be perceived as almost text book poetic, why is it? And if it is poetic, is it beautiful or true, or both?
Again, these things, the woman and the rain have representive qualities. The woman or even a man could in this situation represent beauty depending on how they’re presented. The rain almost immediately identifies with a negative connotation. But with no background of the situation could one say this is either beautiful or true?
How about a poem where a woman describes being helplessly in love with a married man. Is this not both truth and beauty? Is this not a paradox? The truth of inevitable human drama that all can relate to in some measure and the beauty of human emotion.
So how about a woman smiling in the rain. What qualities does it possess?
And lastly what about a poem about a woman who is madly in love with her husband of 30 years. Is it still beautiful as well true with out tragedy or drama? Is love true? Can we relate through human experience? Is love beautiful?
In poetic context,truth is something concrete while beauty is something aestheticly pleasing. A sponge may not be pleasing but it breeds feelings of community through which we can relate from everyday experience. A rose is beauty because we find it pleasing on an imaginative, romantic level.
So what I would make of a poem is it is either transportive in its sense that it takes one to a higher or different state of consciousness or it connects people through some sort of situational human experience.
So, next time you read a poem and you like it, ask yourself if you find it pleasing for its imaginative, figurative or metaphorical romantic imagery and or qualities or if its because on some level you feel a connection and that on some emotional or situational level you can relate. Or if you like it for some complete other reason let me know and I will be confused as to why you actually took the time to read this.

witness

I’ve learned to watch for passing thoughts like traffic.
Look both ways
And watch the speeding cars
Recklessly collide
As they endlessly come from every direction
Do not identify with these accidents
You are still standing there
Safe and sound at the intersection

freedom (the space between)

Screaming is free
Singing is free
Thinking is free
Writing is free
Laughing is free
Running is free
Listening is free
Smiling is free
Crying is free
Breathing is free
Release the need to be free
Embrace the things that are

regret

Tucked away like the silloughete of a secret
Keep me in your pocket
Unamed but not forgotten
Sing me out in the shower
Let me hold your pretty head
Atop your pillow in silky beds
In the corner of the garden
Plant me in your heart of hearts
Water with your tears of sorrow
I’ll be with you for years to come
I’ll kiss you good night
And good morning tomorrow

lucy

So gigantic
Good god these ghosts that pry
Lucy is in the sky
And I am on a southbound train
There is rhythm in these vains
Keeping time with every step
That I’ve been out of step
With the pace of the human race
In tune with the droning trees
In time with this kick drum
It skips some but none the less
It palpatates with the best of em
And I cast no stones because
This view is beautiful
From every delapatated dream
To every humble mountain top
I let the current take me
Cuz I don’t run no where
I save the energy for when I find my
Lucy

NDE

Enter the mind
Leave the body behind
Trade the dead leaves n the dust
The smog and the musk
For a ticket
To drift into the distant
Rumble of the rising sun
Atomize and divide
Sever the vessel
That makes you one
Leap into ethereal arms
Every thing or nothing
You can have it all
Or rather
It can have you
Just let go

What to do with the open air
But fall deep into the breeze
And eat exileration
Feed my imagination
As I fall farther from the tree

Absence

Admitting in this transmission
My feelings
These morbid, curdled, festering, swollen emotions
That I rattle off like bullets into the night sky
My stomach is empty
Void of fulfillment
Of sustanence
Of meaning
And I am in limbo
Patiently awaiting my turn in rotation
Calmly collected
In traffic
In basements
In convenient stores
In company of hungry strangers
All searching for something
Equally unattainable
This is not about sex
This is not about revenge
This is not revolt
Or a cure for boredom
This is a about a loss
Or perhaps more accurately an absence
Or maybe more optimistically, vacancy
In this inner space is an endless vacuum
And eagerly, and impatiently, i am waiting
For it to suck me in
Like a black hole
So I can indulge
In the presence of absence
And with out law or logic experience heaven

touching thoughts

I went looking for porn
And I found poetry
My mind was fucked
With information
In search of fornication
I hope one day
My words can touch some one
And bring them to utter extacy
The way mine was tonight