Encounters

As I walked a homeless man pointed out a memorial on a doorstep for a man shot in the head, that was bullrushed by police. And I felt like I lost a brother, like a large part of humanity was gone because of a man I didn't know.

And I saw the homeless man I met two weeks ago in the same spot. It was his birthday and he was hungry. Maybe the truth was stretched and his goal was to drown further in a dark pool, but maybe he was an honest man dreaming of a chicken sandwich. I could lose two dollars to a possible lie, or I could buy my own chicken sandwich to pile on the cereal, apple, yogurt, granola bar, roasted chicken, mac and cheese, and cornbread that I had eaten throughout the day. So I risked my two dollars for the hope of giving this man his birthday meal.

I had to do it for myself. I had to do it to believe that all of humanity wasn't gone, blasted away with the bullet hole in that strangers head. I needed to put forth an action that would be in favor of humanity and keep feeding it hope to stay alive. For if the rest of the world goes to shit, I won't let it go in my eyes. Because the day that I stop hoping and believing that the earth is surrounded in good will be the day that there is no point to the exhaling and inhaling of oxygen.

Enjoy your chicken sandwich Mister. I enjoyed your smile when I handed you the two dollars.

The complete video of Build Us Fiction at the cabin.

The full version of the first song my band played at my birthday party last year. We took all of the furniture out of the living room and replaced it with a drumset, amps, and a canopy of lights.

Grandpa poems (part 3 of 3)

don't pour sprinkles and a cherry on the cats, grandpa

he was leaning against our sink,

spiraling down the drain.

four years of washing memories

down like milk after dessert,

only to forget what the pie tasted like

or that he ever ate. 

he never understood what alzheimer's was.

"would those make good ice cream?"

he asked, pointing at our cats.

"what do you think these are?"

my dad questioned, worried.

"hah," he chuckled, and i didn't know

if he thought it was funny or confusing.

"grandpa, these are cats.... not ice cream."

my dad and i stared at him, searching

for the slightest sign that he was in there.

but there was nothing, so we laughed

to hide the fact that he was gone. 

Grandpa poems (part 2 of 3)

trinkets

all i could see was trinkets and knickknacks.

to the side was my grandpa's casket and all 

i could see were those damn collectibles.

the funeral home was cluttered with an assortment of antique memorabilia, things like an old unfunctional

sewing machine and 1950s tin coca-cola signs.

and porcelain dolls that never stopped staring

at me from across the room.

it's all i saw, all i loathed.

i was numb to everything else, except 

a burning rage towards those absolutely

worthless trinkets.

and the chairs we sat in.

metal cushioned and upholstered, 

but merely subtracting the coldness

that can be quite pleasant 

to a sweaty palm.   

Grandpa poems (part 1 of 3)

dear god,

i used to know you and him

until the alzheimer's hit.

you made him forget 

me as his grandson

and see his son as 

a friendly stranger visiting

the nursing home filled with 

passive zombies, void

of the love you promised.

the possibility of you and 

his disease coexisting, let alone

the rest of the world's suffereing

was illogical and insulting to 

anything good. and i was 

supposed to praise you, the thief 

of seventy one years of memory?

believers of you go to heaven to live in

peace. those who don't are fucked.

this is essentially what i was taught 

in twelve years of catholic schooling.

my grandpa believed in you and your 

son, going to your house every sunday. 

he loved our family dearly and was a good

honest man. from these criteria he should

have been on his way to heaven.

the problem is that he forgot who i was.

he forgot that he had been married

and who his children were.

who is to say that he remembered,

much less, believed in you?

throughout his last year he lost almost

all of his memory. by the end there weren't 

any signs to show even a hint.

a belief in god most likely escaped him.

by what i was taught, by these criteria, 

my grandpa was fucked.

goodbye god.

i forgot you.

sincerely,

michael schenk

Beware of the nightclub and its touchy, feely, grabbin and groppin hands

Part 2 of Poem Marathon. This one is the poem version of part of a short story I was writing. I found that I'm much better at poems because they are closer to writing songs. The inspiration came from going to a club in South Carolina and sitting on the edge of the room disgusted by the entire scene.


The Character

The rainbow array of lights seizured around the ceiling.
Bodies magnetized by sweat and spiced cologne
gyrated around traps of sticky puddles that
splashed from the rims of mixed drinks.
Hips and hands did all the moving, they did all the talking.
Gazes were driven by the prospect of sex and
body language preoccupied their limbs, making them forget to tread.
No limbs circling or scissor kicking to stay afloat.

He used to be a charmer, conjuring spells and
weaving fabrications to make girls believe in him.
Living an alias for a single night, killing
off the character that she fell in love with.
Josh, Ryan, Nick, Steve, and Greg all disappeared
at the climax of their story. He had become a
hunter with a smile, mounting trophies on his bedpost
instead of the wall.

Living as Ben tonight, molded with a girl, working his
incantations on her drunken ears. He summoned her name
and she said Roselyn, his Grandmother's name.
The charm vanished as those pewter eyes pierced the roof
from the clouds. His ancient example of a woman
and why to respect them. Her regard, her care,
her unconditional love now had conditions.

His knees cracked the ground, palms compressing his brain,
fingers snagging his hair, and the gyrating mass opened up,
leaving him with the only private place in the building.
A foot and a half radius of space between him and the mob of sex
was a separate universe catalyzing an instantaneous evolution.

He dug a deep rectangle into his brain, kicking the monster into the grave,
but before he filled the dirt he raised the shovel into the air with both hands.
Muscles and gravity drove the metal tip into its throat.
Two inches of neck were gone and the shovel was removed.
Another strike and three more inches ere torn.
Two more gone, three more gone, and only four inches of skin
and vertebrae and veins held the head to the monster.
The shovel raised towards the sky and met with the ground,
passing through the last four inches of his past.

POEM MARATHON!!!!!!!!

IM GONNA POST A SHIT TON OF POEMSSSSS CAUSE IM MENTALLY HYPER RIGHT NOW!!!! JAAARRRHOOOOOOO! This one is inspired by the movie Into The Wild (#2 on my all time favorites list.)

Wilderness

Sitting silently still,
mistaken for apathy, yet
content as if it saw an
unshakable proof for God.
Like birds that have
whispered with the wind,
conversed with the sky.
A soft slumber spot and
food for worms, who may say
to each other, "We never
wrote a symphony, but
we didn't hurt a soul."