I've Got a Thinking Problem

My name is Davis MacLeod Haines. I was born and raised in Alabama, I live in Chicago, I am in a band called whysowhite (whysowhite.com) and I believe in Love. This is my mind.

Posts tagged poetry

Feb 19

For the Dreamers

You always knew it was possible

As soon as you picked up your first stick and saw a wand or a sword or a spaghetti noodle,

You knew there was a Universe of possibilities in every little thing the Light touches

Another Universe in the ones the Light doesn’t

The walks you’d take yourself on, through the backyards of the Cosmos, verdant otherworlds, haunted houses on hills that are alive with the sound of your own imagination,

You knew that if To-day, you are an elf, than an elf you would be,

"And there’s no stoppin’ me, world! You hear that?! Try and make me go home for supper!"

You could fall in Love and dream in a third with the way that her backpack bounced behind her

Daydreaming that it was a basket of bounty from the Garden of Forever

The chicken wire fence that separated your tiny kingdoms was a mile-high wall with one loose brick desperate for you to pull it out and whisper sweet everythings into its darkness

And when backyards became alleyways, haunted houses became busted storefronts and sticks became broken bottles,

when kings got jobs and castles foreclosed

was it gravity that weighed you down or

was it you who forgot how to fly?

Love,

Davis


Oct 29

Live Death

You don’t realize you are dead until you

die.

Then you wake up, alive, and think,

"If this is death, than what is life?

And when does one become the other?”

See, you felt alive the whole time you were

dead,

but then once you actually died, you truly felt

alive.

The world is brighter when you’re dead,

the tastes stronger, the smiles wider,

the hurt deeper, the Love truer,

and all because death gave you

Life.

And all this information becomes too much and you aren’t sure where you are or where you’ve gone and you can’t remember what it used to feel like and you’re not sure if you want to and the sense of self you have now is stronger than you ever thought it would be and equally as mysterious and you are still trying to figure out what happened and where it is taking you and you can’t figure out where all the Fear went and where all the Love came from then it becomes clear that

if this is what happens to you when you die than

would you rather

live life

or Live Death?


Aug 16

This Side of Helplessness

Tears

Each drop a mis-

understanding of the One question:

Why?

I pray

My heart is minutes and miles away

My hands, clasped, reaching for and into each other

Looking for God or somethin’ like It

Take him gently and wrap him in your stars!

Be bright, stars, so they can see him each night!

Silence, still.

I’ve been helped and hoped for, but

Nothing prepared me for

This side of helplessness.


Jun 17

Love Thy Father

Love thy Father as thyself

For where would I be without he?

His wisdom rich, his clarity

astounding me.

So, too, his positivity

Each day a new leaf, a new chance

Each night a new dance

Spinning in new directions

As he opens himself to change

Never compromising his heart

of wide range.

Yes, he is strange, but enthused

He’ll tell you a joke to keep you amused

Taking you in, he listens with eyes

Content with himself, no longer he tries

He found God in the flies

He’ll sing you a song if you’re lucky to hear it

No fear, just the tune and your ear

And a smile

Love thy Father as thyself

For his gifts he has given you,

Too.

For my Father.

Love,

Davis


Jun 11

I am the Slab

I am the slab.

I am the parchment, 

The blank Word document.

I am the dough, I am the script, I am

the Pepsi commercial.

I am the eraser mark,

I am Meet the Beatles.

At the beginning of the

                                                                      long 

and

                                                winding

                              road

to

the core and contents of my he(art), or

The sculpture, the poem, the loaf, the film,

The realized piece that is

Me


Jun 7

You Artist You

Look at you,

You Artist You

Living out your greatest work,

Every day, Every breath you

Love and Die through

How refreshing to realize

You Are Your Art

And that every note you sing,

Every word you write or color you paint

Is an act of Love and

A Gift to the

Universe that gave You

Life.

Namaste,

Davis


May 30

Lawless Southern City

by Jonathan Brown

My heart is a lawless southern city

like Savannah or New Orleans

where you can drink on the street,

smoke where you want

but they only take cash

and even the cops are drunk. 

Lucky you. Lucky you, you tell the truth

because in this town, every time you tell a lie

a barefoot, redneck child nails a kitten to a telephone pole.

Don’t ask why. Just pony up the cash and thank the bloodline.    

He’s my little cousin Jimmy. His daddy was a carnie and his mama

was a Ferris wheel repair technician.

They fucked on a dare,

still do on occasion,

make mistakes.

Two years ago on this very same night

you and I sat on the concrete surrounding Colonial Lake.

We tossed the crusts of our PB and J sandwiches into the liquid sky.

While we ate, the moon rippled like a flag in the wind

on the surface of the night. Fish swallowed the bouncing stars.

If you’re hungry tonight, I know a pizza shop

about four blocks from here where they sell pie by the slice

and life by the drop.  I used to work there.  We could pretend

we own the place, drink free water and sit in the window seat,

watch people pump like good drugs

through the veins of these streets.

Even though it’s my heart

I wouldn’t walk the park alone at night.

The bus stop is no place to call home after dark.  

If you’re not done yet, we could get hopped up

on truck stop Viagra, go post up on a rooftop

and narrate the night air

that whips in and out of these alleys.

Say, when was the last time you walked into the wall

flower shop down on Poplar Avenue? 

That place is packed full of awkward blossoms.

Each looking down at his flimsy stem

and feeling too small to carry the weight

of such a heavy stamen.

That place, that wallflower shop

makes me want to break shit,

makes me want to take a brick

and make a splash

in a florist’s store front window,

pick up a shard of shattered glass

and carve the inscription Forgiveness is Free

on the side of the cash register

so the owner of the wallflower shop can know

that just because it sells doesn’t mean it should, 

being good is no substitute for being amazing, 

and people of this city would rather be wrong than timid.

I appreciate that moxie, that swagger,

that joyful noise, that riotous voice

that says don’t box me up

I am not an antique figurine.

I am not your grandmother’s love letters.   

I’m a sucker punch.

I’m a firecracker in the hallway of a middle school.

I’m a pair of brass knuckles in a back pocket begging to bruise bone.   

I’m a long shot.

I’m a sloppy blowjob in the bathroom backstage before the show.

I’m a damn good time.

I’m a grown ass man who won’t act his age.

I’m a warning sign.

I’m a loan shark named karma and I gonna get paid.

I’m a promise made on false premises.

You can bet your bottom dollar

this heart is gonna break.


May 23

Believe and Be Love

Try not to conceive Love with your mind,

But rather, feel Love in your heart.

Your body will thank you,

And your mind, at ease, will be Free.

When you begin to let Love

Fill your body and soul like a

Glass pitcher filled with sweet lemonade,

You will find the courage to

Believe and Be Love,

Refreshing each who sip from the

Over-spillage of your Spiritual fulfillment.

Namaste,

Davis


May 12

Empty Circles, Full Spheres

The open-endedness of my recent experience has been relieved of

Its ambiguous grip as a broad chapter in my life has come to a

Close. And through all the closure, loss, tears, worries, confusion, and timidity,

Only a few words still linger in my head, bouncing around like change in a can:

Let go, be your Art, and never compromise.

Love, Always

(for DF)


May 1

You, I Believe

Belief, in its purest form, is Energy.

It is the Energy that Dreams use to manifest.

It is the Energy that separates what exists, and

What doesn’t.

It is a gift we are all capable of giving.

We give it to the Sun, to the Earth, to the things

We see, eat, touch, and hear, for we know those things

Are t(here),

But when we give it to each other,

We make Dreamers out of screamers,

Lovers out of leavers,

And we give Hope to the Ones left behind.

Belief is Love is God

Namaste


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