Please check out our friends websites on our LINKS page. If you have any comments or questions, please EMAIL US.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
The Beginning and the End
David Blaine
If you went back to someplace like
the beginning
you might find something like the
word.
Not the actual word, but a sprout,
a sound that sounded like a word.
If you went back to someplace like
the beginning
you might discover the first idea
and there would be an inspired tone
associated,
a texture of consonant and vowel
used to convey from lip to ear.
If you went back to someplace like
the beginning
you might learn of the way sound
grew
from noise to noun
and eventually, to verb. The thing,
then the action
and the story they told together.
If you went, you might stand there,
mute as the mud at your feet,
marveling at the efforts, the
countless repetitions
of utterance, the rise and fall of
voices
stressing and un-stressing their
songs
of almost meaning.
And since that beginning
while the words themselves have
grown greater
than those who merely speak them,
as the words have continued to
evolve, light-like,
what have we done with them?
Is this remarkable present day
brighter
or darker for our writings
our speech, or our song?
For tomorrow, we won’t leave
anything
but our bones
and our words, strewn out behind
them
like dry ashes.
David Blaine
If you went back to someplace like
the beginning
you might find something like the
word.
Not the actual word, but a sprout,
a sound that sounded like a word.
If you went back to someplace like
the beginning
you might discover the first idea
and there would be an inspired tone
associated,
a texture of consonant and vowel
used to convey from lip to ear.
If you went back to someplace like
the beginning
you might learn of the way sound
grew
from noise to noun
and eventually, to verb. The thing,
then the action
and the story they told together.
If you went, you might stand there,
mute as the mud at your feet,
marveling at the efforts, the
countless repetitions
of utterance, the rise and fall of
voices
stressing and un-stressing their
songs
of almost meaning.
And since that beginning
while the words themselves have
grown greater
than those who merely speak them,
as the words have continued to
evolve, light-like,
what have we done with them?
Is this remarkable present day
brighter
or darker for our writings
our speech, or our song?
For tomorrow, we won’t leave
anything
but our bones
and our words, strewn out behind
them
like dry ashes.
If You Should Ever Go Blind
David Blaine
When you were born
your vision was effervescent.
Dandelion fluff took wing in your
mind
and songbird angels sang entrance
hymns
as you walked into life’s cathedral
each morning.
Do you recall those walls of red gray
dawn
and ceilings of bluestone buff
in that holy place?
Can you still reach back and lay
your hand
on the bedrock faith you once held,
or on the courage with which you
faced
every unknown thing?
Somewhere
someone has kicked you,
more than twice.
You may not recall exactly when
the sunsets turned to dishwater
or where the moon eclipsed your
sun,
but at some point you started
listening
to naysayers and dark hearts.
You need to give them your back.
You're better off walking alone
than walking with spirits who can’t
see
life quivering in late November corn
stalks
or who can't hear a shepherd’s voice
when the spring breeze whistles
through cottage eves.
You used to march with a song in
your soul
but these days you seem to forget
the words.
If you should ever go blind,
I’ll sing them to you
until we can see things together
again.
David Blaine
When you were born
your vision was effervescent.
Dandelion fluff took wing in your
mind
and songbird angels sang entrance
hymns
as you walked into life’s cathedral
each morning.
Do you recall those walls of red gray
dawn
and ceilings of bluestone buff
in that holy place?
Can you still reach back and lay
your hand
on the bedrock faith you once held,
or on the courage with which you
faced
every unknown thing?
Somewhere
someone has kicked you,
more than twice.
You may not recall exactly when
the sunsets turned to dishwater
or where the moon eclipsed your
sun,
but at some point you started
listening
to naysayers and dark hearts.
You need to give them your back.
You're better off walking alone
than walking with spirits who can’t
see
life quivering in late November corn
stalks
or who can't hear a shepherd’s voice
when the spring breeze whistles
through cottage eves.
You used to march with a song in
your soul
but these days you seem to forget
the words.
If you should ever go blind,
I’ll sing them to you
until we can see things together
again.
DAVID BLAINE
Passing
David Blaine
You ask your wife,
"Why must it always be
about perceptions?"
"Well," she replies, "they say
perception is nine tenths
of the law."
"No," you correct her,
"That's possession.
Possession is nine tenths of the
law."
"You must be right," she sighs.
"You always have to be right. "
Touche
This week you wrote villanelles
so that at tonight's party
you could pass yourself off
as a lyricist.
"A song writer? That explains
the black turtleneck."
chortled your host.
"Thank God, I thought
you might be a poet."
Thats how others think.
But you are lying
on your bed now,
comparing your life
to an obscure French movie,
one where the English comes
only in subtitles.
You resolve to write
an epic narrative
about the whole sordid thing.
Next weekend you will wear
a crew neck, and pass
yourself off as a film critic.
You are always passing;
it's forever about perceptions
David Blaine
You ask your wife,
"Why must it always be
about perceptions?"
"Well," she replies, "they say
perception is nine tenths
of the law."
"No," you correct her,
"That's possession.
Possession is nine tenths of the
law."
"You must be right," she sighs.
"You always have to be right. "
Touche
This week you wrote villanelles
so that at tonight's party
you could pass yourself off
as a lyricist.
"A song writer? That explains
the black turtleneck."
chortled your host.
"Thank God, I thought
you might be a poet."
Thats how others think.
But you are lying
on your bed now,
comparing your life
to an obscure French movie,
one where the English comes
only in subtitles.
You resolve to write
an epic narrative
about the whole sordid thing.
Next weekend you will wear
a crew neck, and pass
yourself off as a film critic.
You are always passing;
it's forever about perceptions
or "A Fine Feathered
Faith"
Faith"
Both contain original poems by
David Blaine.
U.S.$7.00 each - Free shipping
inside the U.S.
Click a photo above to buy now.
David Blaine.
U.S.$7.00 each - Free shipping
inside the U.S.
Click a photo above to buy now.
The Usual Suspects
David B;aine
Because they are the hands that
sign the orders
Because they are the hands that
pull the trigger
Because they are the hands that
wipe our shitty asses
Because they are the hands that
touch our naughty bits
Because they are the hands that
strike our children
Because they, too, are the hands of
Brutus
Because they are the hands that
deal in currency
Because they are the dealer's hands
Because they are the hands that
hold the needle
Because they are the hands that sell
syringes
Because they are the hands that
push the button
Because they are the hands that
pull the switch
Because they are the hands of
Judas, pointing
Because they are the hands that
swing the axe
Because they are the hands that
throw the dirt
Because they are the hands that
build our bombs
Because they are the hands that
show false ways
Because they are the hands that
take and
Because they are the hands that
refuse to give
Because they are all our hands
Because they are the hands of all
Because we are the usual suspects
David B;aine
Because they are the hands that
sign the orders
Because they are the hands that
pull the trigger
Because they are the hands that
wipe our shitty asses
Because they are the hands that
touch our naughty bits
Because they are the hands that
strike our children
Because they, too, are the hands of
Brutus
Because they are the hands that
deal in currency
Because they are the dealer's hands
Because they are the hands that
hold the needle
Because they are the hands that sell
syringes
Because they are the hands that
push the button
Because they are the hands that
pull the switch
Because they are the hands of
Judas, pointing
Because they are the hands that
swing the axe
Because they are the hands that
throw the dirt
Because they are the hands that
build our bombs
Because they are the hands that
show false ways
Because they are the hands that
take and
Because they are the hands that
refuse to give
Because they are all our hands
Because they are the hands of all
Because we are the usual suspects
Proximity
David Blaine
We’re close, you
and I,
intimate.
You can smell coffee on my breath,
and
I can see a poppy seed that got
caught
between your teeth at breakfast.
We often collapse into each other,
not respecting polite boundaries
of personal space.
We’re shameless that way.
Our limbs and minds bounce
into and off one another
as we go about our day.
You lean on me
so I won’t fall. Holding you up
holds me above the everyday din
that drags many men down.
We’ll part for hours now,
but remain of one heart.
Later you’ll ask how it was,
today,
but I won’t want to speak about
those hours at work without you.
We’ll eat some supper, then
I'll read while you watch TV.
At bed time you'll smell the wine on
my breath.
David Blaine
We’re close, you
and I,
intimate.
You can smell coffee on my breath,
and
I can see a poppy seed that got
caught
between your teeth at breakfast.
We often collapse into each other,
not respecting polite boundaries
of personal space.
We’re shameless that way.
Our limbs and minds bounce
into and off one another
as we go about our day.
You lean on me
so I won’t fall. Holding you up
holds me above the everyday din
that drags many men down.
We’ll part for hours now,
but remain of one heart.
Later you’ll ask how it was,
today,
but I won’t want to speak about
those hours at work without you.
We’ll eat some supper, then
I'll read while you watch TV.
At bed time you'll smell the wine on
my breath.
 |  |  |  |
Driving home through the rain
after the bars closed
David Blaine
tires shooshed
slinging a sustained note
below the automobile.
The sky was cloud-blocked
but the wet asphalt gleamed
beneath his headlamps.
As Bird blew be-bop
the wipers slapped
and he cranked some heat
dispelling an autumn chill.
Cigar smoke
mingled with leather
and the night just seemed to loom
out of the glistening blacktop.
The train’s whistle must have
sounded
a lot like a cornet.
after the bars closed
David Blaine
tires shooshed
slinging a sustained note
below the automobile.
The sky was cloud-blocked
but the wet asphalt gleamed
beneath his headlamps.
As Bird blew be-bop
the wipers slapped
and he cranked some heat
dispelling an autumn chill.
Cigar smoke
mingled with leather
and the night just seemed to loom
out of the glistening blacktop.
The train’s whistle must have
sounded
a lot like a cornet.
become internationally famous,
comes a third chapbook,
pseudo-intellectualizing
verbosity too commonly
associated with poetry.
ANTISOCIAL is straightforward
and digestible, yet not against
encouraging a bit of
self-reflection. Plus, it just
might make you laugh.
comes a third chapbook,
pseudo-intellectualizing
verbosity too commonly
associated with poetry.
ANTISOCIAL is straightforward
and digestible, yet not against
encouraging a bit of
self-reflection. Plus, it just
might make you laugh.