Sound advice if you never want to get anything done. This is how.
Take Forever To Live Your Life
Take your ambition, your dreams, desires, and all those felt feelings that were inexplicably too intense. Fashion them into a bullet and drive it through what is left of your heart.
Take a quarter century to begin to do anything. Take each moment for granted. Take a long time to begin and take even longer to build. Take eternity to finish. Take forever to live your life.
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The River And The Map
Journey. To whatever destination, by whatever means.
The River And The Map
I have heard rumours of a river
Where I may kneel on small rocks
And drink the blood of gods
Or baptize my life in water
The maps to this river were burned
By men drinking whiskey
And men who no longer drink whiskey
Labor without rest
To redraw the map from memory
I enjoy sitting long hours with
The men who burned the map
But I fear my age, new beard, and
An ancient lack of progress
May mean it is time, once again,
To walk with the disciples of lost memory
And struggle, with page and pen
To forget what can’t be forgotten
And remember what I never knew
It could be the time now
To labor at an unclear and
Indefinite task
Hoping to stumble upon a purpose
The purpose, my purpose
Or a reward, a restful period
Or a direction
The way to the rumoured river
The map may draw itself
Upon my page
The lines trapped in my pen
For my hand to free them
Then when the map is redrawn
I can leave the wandering and happy souls
And take the map to men with whiskey
I will trade it for idle peace
And drink their whiskey
While they burn my map
I can do all this, or stay here, now
The journey itself could be welcome change
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
The River And The Map
I have heard rumours of a river
Where I may kneel on small rocks
And drink the blood of gods
Or baptize my life in water
The maps to this river were burned
By men drinking whiskey
And men who no longer drink whiskey
Labor without rest
To redraw the map from memory
I enjoy sitting long hours with
The men who burned the map
But I fear my age, new beard, and
An ancient lack of progress
May mean it is time, once again,
To walk with the disciples of lost memory
And struggle, with page and pen
To forget what can’t be forgotten
And remember what I never knew
It could be the time now
To labor at an unclear and
Indefinite task
Hoping to stumble upon a purpose
The purpose, my purpose
Or a reward, a restful period
Or a direction
The way to the rumoured river
The map may draw itself
Upon my page
The lines trapped in my pen
For my hand to free them
Then when the map is redrawn
I can leave the wandering and happy souls
And take the map to men with whiskey
I will trade it for idle peace
And drink their whiskey
While they burn my map
I can do all this, or stay here, now
The journey itself could be welcome change
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
This Was A Secret Before Now
This Was A Secret Before Now
Bless your heart
For forgetting
When you did
You made nothing matter
And in so doing
Freed me from all
That tied me to you
I am everybody’s best friend
And enemy
I’m everything you never
Knew you loved
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
Bless your heart
For forgetting
When you did
You made nothing matter
And in so doing
Freed me from all
That tied me to you
I am everybody’s best friend
And enemy
I’m everything you never
Knew you loved
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
Good Word
Good Word
I put away
My bastard 101 textbook
Bukowski reader
Grew warm
And soft in Jesus
Became a bleeder
Heart bleeds from pain
Tongue bleeds from too many nonsense words
Spoken as directed
By my misdirected brain
Now, here I am
Damned
Damned for all the “do’s” and “doesn’ts”
I never did anyway
Traded street poets
For Old Testament prophets
Cigarettes and sipping dregs
For sacramental wine and plagues
Scribbling every dirty thought
For who begat whom and whose only begotten
Self-inflicted wounds and addiction needs
For the blood and body and rosary beads
Whosoever is writing
And whatever mouth speaks
It’s all scripture to me
Falling off your barstool
Like sacrificial lambs
The slaughter may be slower
But it’s the same kind of damned
Offering whiskey advice
Off a slow-numb tongue
Does about as much good
As offering up your first born son
When all you had to do
Was paint with a little blood
Cohen isn’t Christ
But he speaks just as nice
Between a line and a verse
A psalm and a proverb
What’s the last good book you read
Or the last good word you heard?
Poets and prophets
Get a disciples’ funeral
Salvation in God
Spares from death eternal
And a million in print
Can make you immortal
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
I put away
My bastard 101 textbook
Bukowski reader
Grew warm
And soft in Jesus
Became a bleeder
Heart bleeds from pain
Tongue bleeds from too many nonsense words
Spoken as directed
By my misdirected brain
Now, here I am
Damned
Damned for all the “do’s” and “doesn’ts”
I never did anyway
Traded street poets
For Old Testament prophets
Cigarettes and sipping dregs
For sacramental wine and plagues
Scribbling every dirty thought
For who begat whom and whose only begotten
Self-inflicted wounds and addiction needs
For the blood and body and rosary beads
Whosoever is writing
And whatever mouth speaks
It’s all scripture to me
Falling off your barstool
Like sacrificial lambs
The slaughter may be slower
But it’s the same kind of damned
Offering whiskey advice
Off a slow-numb tongue
Does about as much good
As offering up your first born son
When all you had to do
Was paint with a little blood
Cohen isn’t Christ
But he speaks just as nice
Between a line and a verse
A psalm and a proverb
What’s the last good book you read
Or the last good word you heard?
Poets and prophets
Get a disciples’ funeral
Salvation in God
Spares from death eternal
And a million in print
Can make you immortal
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
I Am The Bugs
To live with yourself. No one else will.
I Am The Bugs
I feel like a sinner, whenever
I’m awake or it’s day
I’m like a flea drawn to blood
A spider binding victims
An ant that has lost the trail,
While burying the dead
I feel like a sinner all day,
But at night
I am an insect
I am that six-foot cockroach
With an apple phobia and patricide dreams
I am a balled up pill-bug
Stuck shut and on an incline
I am a silverfish in a bug spray ocean
I am a sinner all my life
But in my dreams
I die the deaths of insects
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
I Am The Bugs
I feel like a sinner, whenever
I’m awake or it’s day
I’m like a flea drawn to blood
A spider binding victims
An ant that has lost the trail,
While burying the dead
I feel like a sinner all day,
But at night
I am an insect
I am that six-foot cockroach
With an apple phobia and patricide dreams
I am a balled up pill-bug
Stuck shut and on an incline
I am a silverfish in a bug spray ocean
I am a sinner all my life
But in my dreams
I die the deaths of insects
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
A Bird In A Tree Shit On My Heart
One of my first attempts at something real. With jokes. I enjoy the telling of bitter-sweet tales.
A Bird In A Tree Shit On My Heart
The prettiest bird
I’ll ever see
Landed on a nearby limb
It took me for
A pitiable man
And thought, “I’ll chirp love into him.”
It calmed my soul
With the first golden song
The melody shall haunt me, all my life-long
I fed the bird
A piece of bread
From the freshest loaf I had
Slowly enough
It picked at the crumbs
But my manna had gone bad
I petted the head
Offered water, and bath
But I’d sickened the thing, I’d suffer the wrath
It’d given me love with wings
My love’d made it sick
I spoke in lilting tones to sooth it
The bird was made ill
That was nauseous at the start
A bird in a tree shit on my heart
I gave it a worm
To stay in her grace
To earn the song which shines on my grateful, dirty face
But it had been startled
And guessed me as a foe
The error stained on my heart, for all the world to know
I tried to pet the feathers
And felt my own heart swell
At touching the perfection of the only bird who sings so well
No nightingale, or robin
No blue jay, or meadowlark
Will ever sing a melody as gorgeous as the bird who owns my heart
I gave it each worm
I could dig up
The writhing trinkets only mean so much
I tried to bake my heart
Into fresh, new loaves of bread
The little bird may never eat my meager crumbs again
Outstretched towards her branch
Is my heart in my hand
Dripping with shit from my own moldy bread
The bird sings much softer
And I strain my ears
To that perfect, golden song, the only sound I long to hear
The bird has not
Yet flown away
If she’d did, I’d go and get her
Though it was my food
That poisoned us
I will learn to feed her better
The fault is my own
The bird is not all mine
I will sit beside her in that tree, until it is no longer my time
Precious still, is every note
Voice is weak in straining throat
Yet a song as sweet as angels could’ve wrote
I fear to stroke the feathers
And bring water to the beak
The song-bird is a wonder, and I, the flawed and meek
The little bird
That once was ready
To perch upon my finger
Has given me
My favorite song
Every note, forever lingers
For the return to
That glorious place
All the love on Earth I’ll bring her
The beautiful wings and tiny feet
Briefly held inside my hand
The plans of mice and men are even less, next to those of a bird and a man
To hear her singing
Loud again
The only purpose for which I have fervour
To the bird I am a hunter now
Though I’ll always hold her dear
She and I are nervous now, though we sit so near
She will sing again for me
Until it is so, I’ll never rest
For what use are my ears, if not to hear the song I love the best
The song she sings is softer now
I strain my heart, my soul, my ears
To listen to the only perfect bird, sing the last golden song I’ll ever hear
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
A Bird In A Tree Shit On My Heart
The prettiest bird
I’ll ever see
Landed on a nearby limb
It took me for
A pitiable man
And thought, “I’ll chirp love into him.”
It calmed my soul
With the first golden song
The melody shall haunt me, all my life-long
I fed the bird
A piece of bread
From the freshest loaf I had
Slowly enough
It picked at the crumbs
But my manna had gone bad
I petted the head
Offered water, and bath
But I’d sickened the thing, I’d suffer the wrath
It’d given me love with wings
My love’d made it sick
I spoke in lilting tones to sooth it
The bird was made ill
That was nauseous at the start
A bird in a tree shit on my heart
I gave it a worm
To stay in her grace
To earn the song which shines on my grateful, dirty face
But it had been startled
And guessed me as a foe
The error stained on my heart, for all the world to know
I tried to pet the feathers
And felt my own heart swell
At touching the perfection of the only bird who sings so well
No nightingale, or robin
No blue jay, or meadowlark
Will ever sing a melody as gorgeous as the bird who owns my heart
I gave it each worm
I could dig up
The writhing trinkets only mean so much
I tried to bake my heart
Into fresh, new loaves of bread
The little bird may never eat my meager crumbs again
Outstretched towards her branch
Is my heart in my hand
Dripping with shit from my own moldy bread
The bird sings much softer
And I strain my ears
To that perfect, golden song, the only sound I long to hear
The bird has not
Yet flown away
If she’d did, I’d go and get her
Though it was my food
That poisoned us
I will learn to feed her better
The fault is my own
The bird is not all mine
I will sit beside her in that tree, until it is no longer my time
Precious still, is every note
Voice is weak in straining throat
Yet a song as sweet as angels could’ve wrote
I fear to stroke the feathers
And bring water to the beak
The song-bird is a wonder, and I, the flawed and meek
The little bird
That once was ready
To perch upon my finger
Has given me
My favorite song
Every note, forever lingers
For the return to
That glorious place
All the love on Earth I’ll bring her
The beautiful wings and tiny feet
Briefly held inside my hand
The plans of mice and men are even less, next to those of a bird and a man
To hear her singing
Loud again
The only purpose for which I have fervour
To the bird I am a hunter now
Though I’ll always hold her dear
She and I are nervous now, though we sit so near
She will sing again for me
Until it is so, I’ll never rest
For what use are my ears, if not to hear the song I love the best
The song she sings is softer now
I strain my heart, my soul, my ears
To listen to the only perfect bird, sing the last golden song I’ll ever hear
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
In Service
Desire is my master. And she has twisted me.
In Service
(In My Own Majesty’s Secret Service)
I came to report for duty
But my Country would not have me
So I found several strong desires
That I could serve instead
First it was to Ink and Page
Whom, to this very day, I remain a slave
Then I gave my love to Amber Fluids
Which my liver quickly sent away
To the Cinema, I surrendered my entire heart
It only loves me back between the film’s end and it’s start
I offered the whole of my mind to Literature
With it’s sweet, empty promise to take me from here
I sacrificed my blessed soul to Song
Who lied, and said they’d been singing about me all along
I left all my pain with my family
They put their pain in a duffel bag and shouldered it on me
I pledged to spend every single night with Fear
But it seeped out into my days, now it’s always near
By a Woman I became employed to work at my loyalty
Before my work is done, I am dismissed, then hired by another agency
In secret service to these masters
Has always served me well
I asked what I could do for Country
And my Country wouldn’t tell
The Ink, the Drink, the Song to sing
The Film based on the Book
The family of Pain, the Fear-torn days
My loyalty as all-important work
With each and every part of me
Obligated, contractually
Signed on the dotted line
With blood for ink in a pen of fire
Pledged for eternity
To kneel before my desire
In all of this, pleasure and tragedy
I remain in secret service of your majesty
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
In Service
(In My Own Majesty’s Secret Service)
I came to report for duty
But my Country would not have me
So I found several strong desires
That I could serve instead
First it was to Ink and Page
Whom, to this very day, I remain a slave
Then I gave my love to Amber Fluids
Which my liver quickly sent away
To the Cinema, I surrendered my entire heart
It only loves me back between the film’s end and it’s start
I offered the whole of my mind to Literature
With it’s sweet, empty promise to take me from here
I sacrificed my blessed soul to Song
Who lied, and said they’d been singing about me all along
I left all my pain with my family
They put their pain in a duffel bag and shouldered it on me
I pledged to spend every single night with Fear
But it seeped out into my days, now it’s always near
By a Woman I became employed to work at my loyalty
Before my work is done, I am dismissed, then hired by another agency
In secret service to these masters
Has always served me well
I asked what I could do for Country
And my Country wouldn’t tell
The Ink, the Drink, the Song to sing
The Film based on the Book
The family of Pain, the Fear-torn days
My loyalty as all-important work
With each and every part of me
Obligated, contractually
Signed on the dotted line
With blood for ink in a pen of fire
Pledged for eternity
To kneel before my desire
In all of this, pleasure and tragedy
I remain in secret service of your majesty
Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010
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