A Haiku for You

Happy haikusday, I mean its almost over, but I wrote what I am calling a super haiku. It is 5 haikus put together to form one longer poem. Enjoy, and as with everything I ever post one here feedback would be nice. And please just know I really am not as creepy as this poem seems on the surface.


Rain drips on my head:
tears from angels above
as I dig this ditch.
The evil is past
torturing on my soul stays as
rain drips on my head.
The sun is far off
darkness consumes my mind as
rain drips on my head.
I still hear the screams;
shrill, loud: trapped in my head as
blood drips on my hand.
Rain drips on my head.
I fall to my knees and cry
as the ditch is filled.

How Time Changes Everything

I finally got my diploma in the mail, making it official: I am a college graduate. It feels good, though I have been done since December some late paperwork postponed the actual piece of paper from reaching me until now, but that is not the point. The point of this is I am done and I have the documentation to prove it.

It is now setting in that I am an educated man. I guarantee if we were to hop into Bill and Ted's phone booth and take a journey back ten years ago to a small, scummy town called Hopatcong and asked people "where will Dan Perrucci be in ten years?" I can tell you that there would maybe be one or two people who would have thought I would be a college graduate. They all had this impression of me that actually wasn’t who I was, or who I am; they thought I was a stupid, angry, asshole. Well they were right on two of three things: I was an angry asshole (now I am more of just an asshole).

I was never stupid, though I can understand why people thought that: I got bad grades, but in reality I have always been smart. I just never wanted to show it, I never felt like applying myself. School was boring and I was surrounded by people I hated and wanted to slam all their heads in the lockers. (Please note that if I went to high school with you and you are taking the time to read this, I most likely didn't want to bring physical harm upon you . . . but I probably really did). Seriously, if I continued on the path I was on I would probably be in jail or some other asinine shit.

I changed, one day I realized where my anger problem was going to take me and it wasn't a place I wanted to be. I was close, but fate led me out of the situation that anger had put me into which brought about a new me. I only regret that I didn't get this brutal lesson sooner, but regrets are like a man's nipples: pointless.

Regardless of when I learned the lesson it was learned and with the support of friends and family I made it out of the darkness and moved on with life. Will this come back to haunt me at some point in the future? Maybe, but it also made me into the man I am today, which, though flawed in many ways, is a person of great character and talent.

Well that sounds conceited as all hell.

Back to what I was saying:

I look at what happened that day as a blessing in disguise, I found out how much the people around me care about me and made me realize how fucking stupid and childish I was. I'm not saying this time was easy and I walked through it without fear, on the contrary, I was terrified. I woke up and replayed what happened in my head thinking of all the things that I could have done to prevent it, but it didn't change the fact that it happened. I cried at times, I tried to laugh at other times, but I was always afraid.

Anyway that is the past, this is the now: I am a college graduate. It feels good, I know I still have to find a job, but I have a nice piece of paper in my hands that ten years ago I, and the people who knew me then, would have never thought I would get. This is my proudest accomplishment, the first of many things I want to prove to myself and the world that I can do.

Paris, NJ

It has been a very long time since I posted anything, I feel I owe you guys something awesome, but instead you get this. This is my first draft of first story of a book I am trying to assemble, so feedback, good and bad, is welcome. It is the first draft so I am hoping on improving it, so any helpful advice. Thanks friends.

The antique shop below my apartment was packed out the door; it had been that way every Friday night since Sam, an elderly black man from the South Side of Chicago, took over the store year ago. It’s not the antiques that were the draw, but it was Sam’s blues band. It gave this small Jersey town a glimpse into the old blues that owned the windy city nightlife during the 50’s; it provided me with the “I Can’t Sleep Because of the Blues, Blues,” a tune by the legendary Muddy Waters, I believe.

I stood on my second floor balcony, and tapped my foot along with the smooth electric guitar chords being plucked in the shop below; I took a few puffs of my cigarette and looked out over the cobblestone sidewalk and took in the cool fall evening— that’s when I saw her.

Her face was gleaming in the light produced by the neon Eiffel Tower, which stood as a marker of the shop since Sam started running the store; her dark hair seemed to fade into the night. Her red dress seemed to reveal everything, yet keep it all to the imagination. My eyes were fixated; they had never seen such natural beauty in their 28 years of being open. I didn’t notice the clouds beginning to roll into the night sky blotting out the moonlight: it only seemed to intensify the mystery woman’s radiance.

As I continued to stare at the lovely woman the bluesman downstairs went into his original song “Woman in the Night.” Yes, this sounds cheesey and like a fairytale, but sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.

I had to get to her; I couldn’t stand observing from a distance any longer.

I put my cigarette out and rushed down the stairs. The cool September air flowed through my blonde hair, I didn’t even care that my feet were bare; my heart was in charge that night not my brain. As my foot hit the last step the rain began to come down, that didn’t dampen the mood in the antique shop; the blues continued to blare and the crowd continued to grow. I pushed past the line of people waiting for their chance to see the local blues legend,

Reaching the corner; I stood in the rain, illuminated by the faux Eiffel Tower, but the beauty that occupied the same spot moments ago was nowhere to be seen. I walked up and down the street searching for a glimpse of her again, but luck had never been something I had. My heart began to ache, and finally my brain took over and I began to shiver in the rain. I lost my chance at finding love in the prescience of the tower like so many romance stories, though, I know, it wasn’t the real tower the romance of Paris was in the air regardless.

The next afternoon I went down to the shop to talk with Sam to see if he could help uncover the identity of the woman since he seemed to know every beautiful woman in the town. I walked into the shop to see Sam fiddling with an old grandfather clock, his heavy black hands working effortlessly on the gears inside, like a surgeon he was precise and quick. Without turning around he heard me approach him.

            “I learn’d how to fix these back in Paris, I was der tryin’ to become a great bluesman, I wanted to be the nex’ Howlin’ Wolf, but I wasn’ gettn’ much money fo’ my show, so I took to fixin’ clocks in a small shop.” He paused and stepped away from the clock, “lor’ that seem like a million years ago,” he seemed to drift off into some distant part of his mind, a part where he still lived and breathed the Parisian night.

            “Sorry to interrupt Sam, but can I ask you something?”

            Still being lost in his memories of La Ville-Lumière, Sam didn’t even hear me. “Come here fo’ a minute, look right der on the counter. Those are picture of my Paris time. That der first one is me playin’ at a bar down by the Eiffel Towa. Da Towa a thin’ of beauty. It stands in da night, glowin’, like a gorgeous woman, you just drawn to her. I fell in love under da glow of that der Towa, I gots a picture of her somewheres, hold on a second.”

            I starred at Sam’s picture, his white hair was a solid black, his smile was dazzling, his hands gripped his guitar with such strength that if the guitar was alive it would be gasping for breath; nothing like the man that stood before me, he is a frame of his old self. His hair as white as his teeth once were, his teeth no longer glisten anymore. I suppose it was from the toils of a struggling musician; dental coverage isn’t usually something clubs offer to perform.

            “Right der, dats Délia an me; my French beauty. Now ya tell me if ya ever seen a mo’ beautiful gal.”

            Sam handed me a black and white photo, its wooden frame cracked and worn from time, my eyes were first drawn to the Tower in the background of the photo; it illuminated the dark cloud-filled sky.

            “Now, what you haf’ to ask me friend?”

            I ignored Sam; I didn’t need to ask anymore. I stood looking at the woman from the corner: Délia, standing with her arms wrapped in Sam, smiling. Délia’s face gleaming in the light from the Eiffel Tower; her dark hair seemed to fade into the night sky. She appeared just as I saw her the night before— a woman of exceptional beauty, so close yet unattainable.

When Sam passed away, about three years after his Paris crossed with mine; I took the photograph and hung it in my apartment, like a painting in the Louvre. My Délia: there to look at, but never to have.

Is Santa Real??

This was an assignment last semester for my Interpretive journalism class, we had to write a response to a young girls letter to a newspaper back in 1897 asking if Santa was real. This was my response, and if you are interested here is a link to the actual response from the paper: mine is far superior. http://www.juntadeandalucia.es/averroes/vertie/motivadores/dearvir0.htm. Also this is the thing I wrote that had a classmate questioning my soul, which was one of my first blogs. So go read that again http://danielperrucci.blogspot.com/2011/04/soul.html

            Recently we received a letter from a young girl asking if Santa Claus was real. Well young Virginia it is time for you to know the truth.

            Each year on December 25^th children across the globe rush to their Christmas trees to view the packages that were left underneath for them. It is understood by most of these children that the gifts were left by a jolly, magical, obese, cookie fiend who lives at the snowy North Pole with an army of little people who spend the 364 days (365 in a leap year) other than Christmas eve building toys that when opened read “Mattel”, “Playstation”, and other name brands.

            On Christmas Eve, this man flies from roof top to roof top of all children who belong to certain sects of Christianity on a sleigh pulled by a team of flying rangifer tarandus, better known as reindeer. After landing the sleigh, all the reindeer, all the toys, and his not so light self onto the roof without it collapsing underneath the weight, which in itself may be more fantastic and magical than a team of caribou flying and pulling a sleigh around the globe in one evening, he enters the home. Now in most states this is considered breaking and entering a crime subject to fines and time in prison where Saint Nick would most likely not fare well.

            Now once inside the house he plants these mystery boxes strategically under the pine tree, or pipe cleaners sticking out of an aluminum pole to create the illusion of a pine tree. Parents constantly tell their children not to talk with, or take anything from strangers, yet here is a stranger who is leaving boxes full of unknown components, yet parents don’t stop these from being received. When the boxes are being unwrapped just pray Santa wasn’t having a bad day, and that ticking noise coming from the package is really just that new watch you had hoped for. The world better pray Mrs. Claus does not leave her husband or we are in for a red Christmas.

            After dropping off the hopefully not dangerous gifts he defies all laws of gravity and makes it back the roof top, where his reindeer wait for him, missing their opportunity to escape their life of slavery. He does this over and over until he visits the home of every child on his nice list. The list which was created by months of watching other people’s children sleep, also known as pedophilia, also a crime. How he watches the children of the world is not know, but before going to sleep children should check their teddy’s eye ball to make sure it isn’t a secret camera.

            So, Virginia, if you want to believe that this overweight child watcher is bringing you gifts each Christmas morning you are more than welcome, just remember that Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of prostitutes as well as children.

            You can tell your friends this: there is a Santa Claus, but he is not a person he is instead the embodiment of the holiday spirit.

Open Letter to Politicians

This is a poem in a form called a sestina I tried my best so enjoy!!


You never listen to our voice.
You stick to your agenda regardless
of how we think or how we feel.
We want justice. We want to know.
We want our voices heard
from sea to shining sea.

We are caught in the middle, don’t you see?
You do, but you mute our voice
so you can say what we said wasn’t heard.
No matter what you ignore us, regardless
of what we say. If we say yes, you say no.
You get your way, but never ask how we feel.

We feel betrayed, lied to cheated, we feel
you are all Crooked with a capital C.
You tell us what you want us to know,
over powering our thoughts with your voice.
We claim to want change, but regardless
we just remain a sheep; part of the herd.

But I won’t be a sheep, I want to be heard!
I want you to know my anger: how I feel.
You can try to silence me, but regardless
you will hear me. From sea to shining sea,
you will read my words and hear my voice.
When I’m done my name you will know.

When you say yes, I will scream NO!
You say sit, I will stand up and be heard
You say shut up I will raise my voice.
My words will make you feel
my frustration, and make you see
that I will not go away regardless

of how much you want me to. Regardless
of how tired I am. I need to know
that the injustice which I see.
can be changed by the herd.
You will know my pain and how I feel.
You will know my fucking voice.

Ah, yes you will know my voice
regardless of how that makes you feel.
From sea to shining sea, I will be heard.

Thanks

Thanksgiving is approaching faster than Usain Bolt and I couldn’t be more excited!

This late fall holiday marks my favorite holiday, not because it’s a celebration of a joint feast between the pilgrims and people who they soon killed off, forcing the survivors to live on “reservations”, or third world countries within our own boarders. . . that’s a different story. Mass genocide of native people aside, this is my favorite holiday because it brings together my family; the most important people in my life. The only ones who I know will be there for me regardless of what stupid shit I do.  

People use Thanksgiving to tell what they are thankful for; so I am going to use this post to do just that.

First off, obviously, I am thankful for my family. I love them; they have been with me throughout the ups and downs. When I was at my lowest they (plus Yesabel who is like a family member) were there for me. I was facing an existence which I may not have survived; I could have spent years of my life trapped in a box. I fought through that and became a better person, they never once shunned me or judged me. They supported me, though I did get the occasional ripping which is expected for my siblings. For that I love them, because without them I could have let the situation consume my every day, but I kept my head up, and for that I am thankful.

I am thankful for my friends. I only have maybe 5 true friends outside of my family, and you know who you are. You are awesome. You support my writing when I doubt myself. You keep me going. You keep me confident.  On a sad note, I recently stopped talking to my best friend. Shit is odd; we had been friends since 6^th grade. We stopped talking because his girlfriend is a selfish, dim-witted, unintelligent, unattractive and unappreciative individual and I told her so.  I spoke what everyone thinks about her and what he doesn’t see, and he took her side, I’m not mad, but I think he is blind. But for those who I still have, I hope our friendships keep growing and become stronger. If not, oh well, I always say that I could never be lonely when I have myself and that holds true. That does not make me any less thankful for you guys. I love you guys.  You help me continue to grow and change as a person and I look forward to continuing to grow with you.

I am thankful for my talent. I write: that’s what I do. Am I great? No, not even close. I will never be famous because of my words; I just don’t have that much talent. But what I have is a creative drive, and I am thankful for that. I want to be the best writer I can be, I want to read my own words and be proud that they came from my mind. I have a few people to thank for this talent: first my parents for boning and giving birth to me. Next, Professor Mary Thompson who helped me discover my passion again. I wish I could show her how much she actually helped me, I think it is because of her I decided to become an English major, she put the pen back in my hand after my shit brick of a English teacher, Garrett Boatman, all but destroyed my love for words. A BIG FUCK YOU TO GARRETT BOATMAN: I hope you have been fired so you can no longer kill people’s dreams.  Also Yesabel, you have been my most supportive fan and critic. You helped me focus and create, you rock. You support me when I hate my writing. I am thankful for all the other writers I have met during my time at MSU who keep me wanting to reach a new level; you guys keep me motivated by just writing. Keep going! I know we will all do something great with our words!  One last thanks on this subject goes to Professor Dale Burg. You are crazy, but you believe in me and you try to knock proper grammar rules in my head, I am slowly getting it. You could have given up, but you have recognized my talent and want me to be great. 

I am thankful for a lot of things, but these are the main ones.  I wish I could repay all of the people above with something outside of saying thanks, but that’s all I can do. I just hope this is enough to show how much I appreciate you all.

Haikuesday

I was recently inspired to attempt writing Haiku. This inspiration came from my extremely talented friend Alyssa, (you can click on her blog and enjoy someone far more talented than the person you are reading now), and my favorite writer Richard Wright. Today is haikuesday, apparently, so enjoy my first ever attempts at these little Japanese poems.


Falling

Red leaves fall to earth.
Raked into piles, bagged, and dumped:
Beauty Forgotten.

Library

Knowledge lines the shelves
untouched, unread—dust covered.
God damn you Google!

DWI

Lights flash in the night.
Stumbling in the darkness,
Steel bars end my day.

NBA

The ball once bounced high,
but the ball bounces no more;
Deflated by greed.

Bashful

The fox trots away
hiding deep in the high grass.
Fox, come out to play!

Awake

The cute grey kitten
bounds and bounces on the bed
Stop I'm sleeping!!

Bowel Trouble

Grey cat eats a shoe
laces, tongue, sole: ate it all.
Grey cat can't poo.

Grey Gas

That grey cat farted!
Said it wasn't from her behind;
she tried to blame me.