Late Sunday night free write

He is incredible
a black hole
and I think I would like to be focused
to a single point
so I hit the accelerator
and rush toward the event horizon
Smile revealing that
perhaps I've always wanted this kind of
explosive
Wide open
euphoric
glee filled
love

unexpectedly I pour on
a seemingly endless font
Finite for sure
but boundaries mistaken
expanding
redrawn in a new generation of poems
that know now what the old ones had only guessed at
I might have been doing it wrong
It's easy to play the game of love
but if you really want to know the stakes
then procreate
get some DNA in the game
and watch helplessly as everything changes

and I'm not saying if you don't have babies then you don't know real love
You love
I know
You love in passioned glances, in dirty corners, in silky beds, lurid mouths open, sweat filled bodies covering
Both women and men
In twos and threes
You have a knack for it
I see
and I say
Love on brave children
There are many loves to know
do what you do - just be careful


This is my new love
only three years old
and his light lives or dies by the smile in my eyes
I am responsible
Everything else I love in this world can take care of itself
Can pack their stuff and go
But he
He clings to me
Like a satellite
Like a sister star
Like skin, or a thought for paper
a voice to mic
He teaches me to love things right
The Spider Man way
Because love is a power - a great one
and I have wielded mine irresponsibly for too long
destroying dreams as easy as colliding galaxies
but he
He changes me
He makes me better
He requires more
He sits at the center
holding all the pieces together
maintaining order and a sense of inevitability
showing the depth of me
and I am an order in the chaos
I am something too large to be devoured by need
I am a lover
sure
But more, I am a father
I am a teacher
A light that will not be obscured
And he
before I leave this world
He will see me reach the singularity
and He will be more.

In other news . . .

Piano
D.H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong to the old Sunday evenings at home, with the winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

 

 

SOS - One

So obviously I'm still on a Whitman kick. I'm going to play around with it for a bit. I like the action of it. I like the cadence. We'll see if it goes as long as his does. At any rate I'm gonna sit in his sandbox and shamelessly fail to write anything like him - while still managing to steal directly from him. . . but he is me and I am him and all is pickles, right? So really, by the transitive property, I'm stealing from pickles.

I hope this finds you well. I hope you are shining your light and living your dream.

One

I – 37 years old and gaining strength – carrying past dead rock stars, heroes, sinners, and saints – carrying past assassinated Americans and the promise of virgins – shaking my head at hippies, parents, boomers, bangers – my family all and more – these kids now a days

I emulating Uncle Walt – in some alternate and incredibly close version I am bearded – I am writing better words than these – I have decoded Pythagoras and  poured him into my own ear – I have taken the essence of da vinci and kant

I meaning we and all and more when I say I – open to my surroundings like the ocean – must be coming to a high tide – wide like arms that say I love you – after so long arms crossed, enfolding my center in a barrier to keep the cold out – It cannot be one or the other – being is opposites, but also patterns – My trough is low and swollen – more full than the apex, but I do enjoy those moments of weightlessness as I fall

I have seen the best minds of my generation bicker – selfish and lonely – I have followed the pattern – flickering from the screen – the end is coming – except when it isn’t – we have all been brainwashed since birth – battered by ballads and bozos – Stockholm Syndrome a fashion house – prêt a porter jeans and shoes that are to die for – Excuse me a moment – I need to update my facebook

The Ancient of Days (God as an Architect) by William Blake

Make me proud... by ~OmeN2501

On Songs of Myself

So I’m reading Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and more specifically this morning I’m wrapping myself up in Songs of Myself and of course I love it, but my brain can’t get past the first verse because it says:

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

. . . I’m thirty-seven years old . . . and for a moment I let that sink in . . . Wow . . .  I like that kind of thing. I don’t mind measuring myself against greatness. Ginsberg wrote Howl when he was 29 and though I recognize the differences the two have a similar smell about them. I wonder if I will ever have the luck of writing such a thing. I wonder if all of the work, all of the patience and practice will one day combine with the right stimulus and a ready state of mind to create a moment of literary greatness.

One of the things that inspires me about Songs of Myself is not just the words and the reach and the joy, but the sense of self contained within. To me Whitman seems to know exactly where he is in the universe - in the ebb of space and time. That is what I envy and decide to emulate. To read it you would think this knowledge alone makes it difficult to do much else but celebrate creation.

There have been times in my life when I have felt this. And when I do worries fall away, ego disappears behind the bigness of interconnection, and there is a something that I’m in touch with that, to this point has hidden from definition and truth be known need not be defined. It’s not that I am above the concerns of the day . . . it’s more like I am aware of the relative size of the concerns in the context of everything that is, was, or might be.

I realize I have been waiting for words like this for my generation, not old words that amaze, but words that pierce the core of my life right now – words that tear at an inescapable truth and change reality by voicing them. I make a promise to myself not to wait for these words anymore, but to hunt them – to make them mine – to speak them.

The promise within the promise is to remember myself. The Gunslinger also touched on this - remember my scale in context and my place in possibility. If I approach my life and this hunt for words from a place of love for all, love for self as all - I know I’m going to have fewer problems with fear and doubt and who knows . . . maybe in twenty years you’ll discover that , hidden in some chap book are the words I’d been hunting for. If you find them, speak them  . . . and change the world.

Your instincts serve you well

I have this odd desire to write something political . . . or something about a revolution that is always occurring but never gaining any ground. I'm fighting that urge by refusing to write . . . at least I was until just a moment ago. And so ends the awkward prologue meant to explain why this post comes so late in the day.

At some point you'll be able to take this blog and chart the pattern of my inspiration. Please don't do that. I'm afraid it will look like this:

And then subsequently be used against me in a court of law or at least as another reason not to cast me in a play or allow me to host a poetry slam. I'm weird enough without your help. So no charts. OK? OK.

I'm going to go make some popcorn . . . stay right there. I'll be back.

So, not to toot my own horn, but I've discovered a special time bending method to make it seem as though no time has passed even though several minutes have. You're welcome. Now back to my premise: Fox in Socks is a mean book. I mean I got through it, but I have several years of voice and diction training. My wife is dyslexic and . . . well let's just say she's still drinking. And while we're at it, Oh the thinks that you can think is not for toddlers. It's a nice book. I get it. Imagination - sure, sure. But my kid is still having nightmares. Some thinks should be left unthunk.

Anyway, the rumors are true. I did go to high school with Shannon Elizabeth and even though she probably won't admit it, there was a couple of weeks at the very end of our senior year where we didn't talk at all. Yeah . . . I know. It was mostly because I was sort of a tool and was sporting a mullet. Good times.

Let's take a moment to enjoy a musical interlude.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s05jcrJw0as
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6zDfxZ4NcE

So my son woke up in a start last night and yelled beaver and ducks . . . no idea what that means. I'm just putting it out there. The mold is strangling me and believe it or not I am 100% sober. It's the new altered state. Black is still the new black. I checked.

As the train pulled away I smiled at the conductor. The wind blew a speck of sand in my eye. The sky was taking on soft purples and pretty pinks. The sun sagged, silhouetting the trees. The greens were crisper because of the cold. The other commuters hurried to their cars, heads down, breath forming empty thought bubbles. And I didn't see any of it, because I had sand in my eye . . . but I think we all learned something that day about time and kindness and about getting on the train first so you can get a good seat.

Good night folks!

A Catcher in the Rye

Finished reading Catcher and glad to be done. Not going to critique it, just check it off the list. I think I might have enjoyed coffee with Holden at some point in my life. I bet we could have been fast friends at fourteen. Even now I often dream of running away, of a simpler life, of clean air and lots of quiet. Someday, I think. Someday.

The ballad of Duckie

So I've got myself in that head space again. I've had an imaginary conversation with you and apparently the fake you is tired of hearing about my smile and the ducks that live by my house and sunrises. You also couldn't care less about how much I love my wife and how wonderful I think my son is.

I have deleted several blog attempts over the last couple of days and even now I don't think this one has what it takes to be published and read by the tens of people who peruse my musings. I will admit to a slight Olbermann preoccupation and a Fallout New Vegas obsession, but that can hardly be blamed for a complete breakdown of confidence and another bout of self imposed writer’s block.

I know that self editing is a good thing . . . kind of. I mean in principle I know that. I would hate to think that this practice devolves into a sort of vomitorium of the Sanders subconscious. I’ll also admit to a sort of So you want to be a writer style that scoffs at convention or craft in a way that is privately unsettling and publicly akin to literary russian roulette.

I keep telling myself they can’t all be winners. And then I tell myself, hell you’ll be lucky if 25% of them have snippets that are winners. Then I tell myself to shut the hell up. Then the two of us give me the silent treatment and start to seek out some sort of liquid intoxicant. After a few of these it is all very reconciliatory and most times concludes with a bad rendition of a song from the eighties during which I hold a boom box over my head. I have a fair amount of conversations with myself in addition to the ones I have with imaginary yous. You might be comforted to know that I never do your voice aloud . . . but I do all the other voices out loud. Some of them are quite scary or funny or endearing - depending on the current cervesa count.

I will be very upset if I am discovered and become famous after my death. If that sort post mortem displeasure is possible I am sure some fragment of my energy will stay behind just to make an audible sound of disgust. My ego demands fame immediately and is crushed by its absence every day. Thank goodness for scarring of the mind and short term memory loss and then of course there’s the ducks, and sunrises, and family stuff that used to bring me joy before you ruined all of that. Hopefully I can find something to enjoy that a fictional you won’t destroy. I doubt it though. Imaginary you always ruins everything.

Since I’ve got a couple of words left before I hit the magic 500 I’m going to imagine that we go to Six Flags over Texas – not the dirty one, but the early one when the very idea of theme parks was still shiny and new. I’m going to imagine we went on roller coasters and didn’t feel sick and that we had funnel cake and didn’t feel sick and that we went on the water ride underneath the noon day sun and that our skin bronzed and our cheeks flushed. I’m going to picture us walking for miles in people-watching circles holding hands and bursting into a run at each new excitement. I’m going to see us too innocent to even consider kissing, but old enough to remember this day for years. I see us spending an hour in the photo booth, creating perfect tryptics again and again and snuggling oh so comfortably on the long car ride home in a way that can only be described as wholesome. I’m in canvas shoes and jams. My shirt is pink or checkered. I’m 99% sure I have a mullet of some kind. And neither of us has been broken or smashed. We are beautiful in our ignorance and possibility.

I know you’re not all in to the men. Do that thing in your head where you replace me with someone you do want in those pictures. I think I might just hit publish on this snippet after all.

I’m holding a boom box up over my head. I’m punching my right fist into the air as I head across the football field. I’m getting the girl and Blane is learning a lesson.  Like the original. Like it always should have been.

Scrolling

With thanks to Travis Bedard and Philip Glass - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jx7EEQQNfDU
and part 2 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGWpvXeQxrY

Please listen to the links while you read.

I am watching you
and the cascade of updates
I espy your hopes and pains
slide vertically by
and I'm in love with you
I have a crush on you
I'm still angry

This strained conversation
has re-awakened the child inside
long protected from failed dreams
kept ignorant and afraid

I wonder why I ever thought
that was safer

I am panicky
I am fictional
I am intimidated and inspired

You make your beautiful seem effortless
and far away

such ease

like having wings
or flowing downstream

I wish it

watching

a mad rush
a piano mimicking melancholy
and rain

the silent arpeggio of us

To talk of tears
is to turn some away

I know this

I refuse to control
what is natural to me

I miss you now

but
I have
welling in me
a madness of tears
that must be freed

each moment of empathy
opens and isolates

my chest a failing damn
my skull the weight of inevitability. . .

It has been years
since I have felt
this kind of cleansing coming

Last night
I was ready
but something small and silly held me back

so I just fell asleep
unfulfilled
twisted up like a memory

This morning
you have armored me

I am in a cubicle
Writing poetry

Amazing . . .

I think I have the strength
to finally fall apart

I will wait for the moon

watching the clock
and you

and you

and you

Not dark yet

I will have to starve this suburban me
I will have to put blinders on him for a time
I will have to beat him with a bamboo cane
I will have to show him what an awful thing he has become
I will push him farther than he has ever gone
Farther than he thinks he can go
He will have to suffer

I will have to admit things that will punish me deeply
I will have to see a truth too long hidden
I will have to resist the lies I have told myself
I do not have to cry for the things I’ll be losing
But I’m sure that I will for the sense of catharsis
I have grown attached to the thing I have become

I cannot be the man I want to be
By doing the things that I have always done
I cannot be the change I want to see
By ignoring or forgiving the small failures I am so often guilty of
I do this as a celebration of me
I do this because I believe that I am capable of greatness
I do this because I will not live a life of quiet desperation
To do otherwise would be cowardly
Dishonest
Unfair

I have rediscovered the power of integrity
I have surrendered again to the compass of love
I have remembered that I am connected
The first steps were easy
The journey is long

When I am hungry
You’ll see in my eyes
The passion and purpose
That defines my life
The leanness of me
The power and sleekness
The joy and the love
The worth and the weakness

I will be the sun
I will be the child
I will have control
But I will be wild

I will care for my freedom

Thank you for helping me practice my patience
Thank you for loving me as I fell short of myself
Thank you for believing in a me worth achieving
And for caring enough to be disappointed

I will love you better
I will always love you
I will
I will

Check this out

I'm going to start dropping more stuff here. I visited the page the other day and got bored looking at it. I mean I like myself and all, (lol) but I'm hoping taken as a whole you'll get a more clear picture of who I am as I add more and more content.

Let's start with this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJMsQPsSqBA

I hope yours is going better than mine

Not-that-cold for 5 minutes is a helluva lot different than not-that-cold for 40 minutes. Of course I knew this, but the morning brought it into sharp focus. My first bus was just late enough to allow me the unique opportunity of watching my train pull away. Normally this whole scenario happens in reverse. At the end of my day I get off of the train just in time to watch the bus drive away.
Why even stop at the frackin train station if you’re going to set the schedule off by just enough time to make the stop completely useless. I don’t want to wait almost an hour for public transportation. This is beginning to seem like a purposed attempt to piss off anybody trying to use the transit system. Every freaking day, I’ve got to feel nervous about when the bus is coming and if it is going to get me to the train on time. Every freaking day I’ve got to watch that stupid bus add another half of a mile to my walk home - and I pay them for this. And I mean - they can see each other. The bus can see the train. The train can see the bus. Why would you pull away before anyone could have a chance to make their way from one to the next? That just seems stupid and mean.
Aaaah, to feel helpless, cold, and angry at dawn. If I get any more patient I’m going to slip into a coma. Reading about how everything makes Holden Caulfield sort of sad and lonely does nothing to change my mood and on my second bus I find myself listening to some phony on the bus chatting up some girl.
He’s trying to seem too young; she’s trying to seem too old. Neither one of them have much to say, but they keep talking anyway. It’s the worst kind of conversation.
“Did you hear about that guy in Alabama who said all that stuff about you not being his brother if you aren’t a Christian?”
“No I didn’t. That’s wild. You shouldn’t joke about stuff like that.”
“I don’t think he was joking.”
“I know he wasn’t”
How the hell do you know he wasn’t if you don’t even know what she’s talking about? He goes on to say:
“I consider myself a Joe Six Pack, ya know. I don’t really trust science stuff. I listen to talk radio. Not all of it. Just the stuff I like.”
“I don’t really listen to the radio. I get most of my news from the internet.”
“Oh yeah, me too. But you know – I like to listen to some of the guys talk about sports or cars or whatever.”
This is a grown man. He looks to me like a professor; calico beard, nice scarf, long coat and expensive shoes. She’s not too far out of college; a year, maybe two. She got on that grey penciled legged office attire that translates well to happy hour. They both seem to have jobs in politics. I can’t tell who is conning who, but it bores me and I can’t escape. I pretend to read, but their conversation eats away at my concentration until I am just staring blankly at the book so that I don’t give them my patented, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ look.
Anyway, I made it to work. I stayed in my coat for about an hour, trying to get my core temperature back up to where I like it. My spine hurts a little. I am flailing about my universe in search of something to redeem this morning. I am all kinds of out of sync. The Capitol Metro is just some twisted object lesson I didn’t need. And all I can think is, ‘I should’ve been nicer to my family last night.’ Blargh. The wolf moon can take a flying leap.
I’m going to go scroll through Twitter and Facebook until I find something that makes me giggle. Then I guess I’ll try to get some work done. Anyway, good morning to ya. I hope yours is going better than mine.

Long weekend - No writing

Hey, hey and good morning. I missed you. Whether you are the words, the work, or my imagined audience, I hope you had a restful weekend and that this finds you well. I have to admit right up front that I'm fantastically lazy about writing on weekends. I prefer to selfishly spend time playing with my son or talking to my wonderful wife or catching up on video game quests that I set in motion the week before. I accept it as another quirk in the practice of the Tao of Me and delight in the art of living my life as much as I do the daily practice of my art(s). I got an extension at work, so less worry there. And I’m taking Fridays off from work now, partly to spend more time with the youngster and partly to give Etta more time to devote to her 2^nd and 3^rd jobs. She is working her tail off to help inspire and facilitate new work in Austin and I am lucky to be able to help in any way. I have long aspired to be the man behind the great woman, a sort of promise I made myself to repay some of the karmic debt I owe to my mother, who sacrificed so very much so that I could be all that I am today. One day Etta will be the proof of the m-theory of Austin Art. It is an honor to live along side of her as she struggles and strives, fails, learns, and achieves.

What a nice morning. Cool enough to require a coat, but warm enough to know I’ll probably be carrying it this afternoon. I wore a hat, but it was as much to cover my hair as it was to warm my head. The ducks were blanketed in a small but thick sheet of pond fog that created a fairly believable phantom quack effect. Try as I might I could not locate the dullards and I imagined that they rather enjoyed the hide and my seeking; like a three year old who can’t help but laugh at the anticipation inherent in the game. I found a five dollar bill in the grass in the dark on my way to the bus stop. It sits now in my warm pocket, surrounded by a field of probability that is strengthened by my unwillingness to check and make sure I actually found five dollars. The new bus schedule actually makes me feel like a sound effect in the Happy Workers song. (Sorry about the video, I couldn’t help myself.) I stepped off my bus and watched the train slide into the station. Without breaking stride I stepped on and snuck into the back row for a little Catcher in the Rye. I was unable to wait for today to read the last 40 pages or so of The Gunslinger. It ended like I thought it might and I’m hooked, not as ravenously as college me was to the Hitchhiker’s Guide books, but hooked enough that  I know I’ll read every book in the series. It is on a serious list of books to read and off the probably not list that most books are on. I’m a bit surprised by the colloquialism of The Catcher, but I withhold reaction and let Holden weave his slacker spell. I step off the train and right on to the rail connector that takes me downtown, stealing a few more pages before yawning like a shadow onto the third floor ten minutes earlier than usual. This morning the smiles come easy because of some cheeky mental preoccupations. One, my dreams are becoming very vivid and after checking with some dream dictionaries and interpretations, most have been about being excited to share my gifts with the world. Also they are funny. I like that my subconscious takes the time to be humorous. Two, there is an empty office on my floor that reminds me of The Secret of My Success every time I walk by it. I am seriously contemplating a sequel. I’m bringing this song back. Man, Michael J. Fox was cute. And the third has to do with timing and freezing temperatures, and changing bus schedules, and this blog. I see what you’re doing there universe . . . and I like it. I prefer a more direct approach, but I know that’s not your thing. Oh by the way . . . nice timing with The Gunslinger. I’m more than happy to be encapsulated on a blade of purple grass, as long as I can count myself the king of infinite space.

Let's get to it

I woke up ready to take on the world this morning. I got out of bed without debate, threw on several layers of clothes and tossed some leftovers in the black picnic bag that I’ve repurposed as a quasi briefcase. I even managed to get the trash packed up and rolled to the curb and make some fresh coffee without losing too many minutes from my routine. I decided on a brisk pace to make up the time and fight off the cold even though it is not as cold as I had feared. I’m pretty sure I could take the loss of another ten degrees without too much worry or stress, but the truth is that with even a light wind the morning would be almost unbearable. I think the ducks and I have officially broken up. They have been avoiding me for the last two days. It pains me a bit, how fleeting bird/man love is, but three geese have set themselves up in their place and they have offered ham handed honks and go yonder stares to try and salve my obvious sadness. The path by the pond is just uneven enough to offer surprises that leave me flat footed at times and stumbling at others, so that most mornings I take on the stride of a fast moving Frankenstein that has been crossed with Randy Parker and I hate it. Since I took dance classes in college I have always taken great pride in my agility. I try to find humor in my gracelessness and remind myself to be thankful that I am the only person in the neighborhood dumb enough to be outside right now. Yesterday the substitute bus driver was dead set on skipping the train station entirely until the other folks on the bus convinced him it was a valid stop. We actually had to pass it and make a u-turn. Today a new substitute almost drove right by the stop where I was waiting as I hopped up and down waving my arms frantically. I’m noticing a theme or two beginning to develop here. Luckily he slammed on the brakes exactly how a bus driver is not supposed to and after a short trot I was safely in the arms of the city transit system. The train station is becoming a family. At first there was a lot of awkward silence and a total lack of eye contact, but through the patient use of smiles that protective coating has been pierced and now there is open small talk about the weather and even some acquaintanceships being formed. It is heartening to see. We all shuffle in the cold and hem and haw about the ten minutes we will lose to a new train schedule that starts next week. The train is blissfully warm, everyone finds an open seat, and I settle in excitedly to read twenty minutes worth of The Gunslinger. There was this fabric that was briefly popular some fifteen or twenty years ago. It was different colors depending on which angle you looked at it from and as you walked it flashed from awful to much, much worse. The sky was like that, like a crumpled piece of bad 80’s fabric shining neon blue and purple in alternating wrinkles; pretty in the sky, not so much on parachute pants. I shuffle upstairs and prepare for an early meeting thinking about the few people who read this thing and how they may be disappointed again that it is late. I have the greatest friends. The really do love me. What an awesome gift . . . and there is my smile again. It’s gonna be a good day. Let’s get to it.

Broken and guilty

I want to write the poem that changes the world
I am not at all afraid of writing it
or of trying

I have been broken by experience enough to know it will be difficult
I have stepped into the tempest many times

I want to tell you that if you are taking sides
Your voices have lost meaning
You are yelling into a wall of sound
I am not interested in your intentions
I am not invested in your hopes or wishes
What are you doing
What are you doing

I am listening for the whispers
I am listening for the snot covered tears
I am listening for the swollen bellies and the falling trees
They are their own cacophony
What the other noises are trying to drown out

Sure, they are crushing me
I am dying every day
That death has been meaningless for so long
I have made myself a shell to be king of
I have hardened my heart with the myth of being powerless

Can I appeal to the child in you
Even as I know that we each accept the death of innocence
That we look on our beautiful children with sadness
Knowing they will each be smashed by our unwillingness to change
If you think we are unable you are a liar and a weakling
What are you doing
What are you doing

We who built the pyramids
We who wrestled the rivers
We who created and destroyed the gods
We who pierced the fragile cupola
We who have overwhelmed the internet
We have seen the edge of what we can see
Short-sighted like Alexander
Let us conquer ourselves now
Let us look inward and outward, but not beyond

I want to write the poem that changes the world
but I don’t want to trick you
I don’t want to hold a mirror and force your eyes open
I will not use guilt if I can help it
We all know these things
They rise up in us every time we see a human reaching out for their potential
They rise up in us when we see a father and son giggling
or a mother holding her child
They fall down with each senseless bullet
With each bloody knuckle or boot
With each hate-filled word
With each dollar spent despite the muddy morality

I know that life is heartless and space is cold
but you are an impossible wonder
From star dust
Born of lightning
From single cell to this
A chooser of possibility
A master of determination
We have to try to remain open
We have to live through each experience
We have cling to one another
We have to care
I know it’s hard
Harder than it should be
It comes with the territory
A part of being impossible

Look at your history
Study the larger compass
Where are we going
Why
What is the purpose of all of this
What are we doing

I was not willed into existence
to burn this planet down
to ravage every resource
until I lay crying like a newborn
At the teat of the desert
We have stopped making sense
We have forfeited control
We are audience to a manufactured fate
This is not how it’s supposed to be
There is so much more than this

People with picket signs aren’t handing hugs out
Being right doesn’t feed the hungry
Selling drugs isn’t a way out any more than doing them is
Don’t you dare trust people hundreds of miles away
to do what needs to be done right here today
Don’t you dare think, but what can I do
What have you tried
What are you doing

I want to write the poem that changes the world
This is probably not it
I hope it is a beginning
The star dust that becomes

I want to tell you each and all
I love you
I know that there are limits
I know that you have tried
I am so imperfect
I am amazingly flawed
Broken and guilty

But there has to be a way
There has to be a change
You know it to be true
Look at me
Look at yourself
Look at us
What are we doing
What are we doing

You think it’s cold now, wait till tomorrow

I woke up at 5:00am this morning, twenty minutes before my alarm was set to go off. I have taught myself to wake up in a panic by being late for most of high school and this was one of those kinds of awakenings. I searched for my cell phone because it is also my alarm clock and couldn't find it so I popped up and searched again and there it was; right where it was supposed to be. I knew this had ruined any chances of going back to sleep, but I laid back down anyway. I let a quickly retreating dream mingle with random music and a short list of things to do that was already being created by the responsible center in my brain. It was nice while it lasted except I never have good music in my head this early in the morning. Inevitably it is the Scooby Doo theme song or something by Gloria Estefan. I got up and began the odd task of dressing in layers. Two pairs of socks, sweat pants under my black slacks, two t-shirts and then a sweater. It took on the pacing of a lost ritual and sent my mind listing back to grade school days in Michigan. The thermometer outside my house said it was 32 degrees and that thing usually reads a little warm. I shuddered a bit at the knowledge of this. I reminded myself that I had actually walked to school through the snow and resolved to think all day about the secret pajama party that was hidden beneath the first layer of my outfit. That was the smile I needed and I tossed on some shoes and headed downstairs. I threw an assortment of food into my bag and put on coat, hats, and gloves then took the gloves back off so that I could grab my keys, set the alarm, and then lock the door. Then, I gave myself a standing dutch oven and cursed and laughed as I walked away, hoping that a brisk walk would dissipate my own foul smell. It did not. The cold was shocking to my senses and it reminded me that it has been a long time since I was in school. For a moment I was jealous of that younger me, so strong, so tough, so stupid. Then I remembered all of the baggage that came with being young and performed an internal nanny-nanny booboo for youth. The ducks gave me the aquatic fowl equivalent of a middle finger as I crested the hill overlooking the pond and I said, You think it’s cold now, wait till tomorrow. This did not please the crowd and there were various quacks and squawks that I will not repeat here.  The wind was at my back which I was thankful for and I made good time from point to point only really cold along the halo of face and neck that was left uncovered. I saw an old friend on the train but recognition came a second too late, so we didn’t speak even as we got off on the same stop. I’ve got a meeting set for late morning with the big boss to find out how long I can expect to remain employed. I feel calm in a way that reaffirms my luck and love. Work is quiet like a church whisper as I arrive and I peel off coat and hats and settle in to my pajama party day. I take care of all the work I need to do in less than thirty minutes and pilfer a cup from the coffee club’s private pot. I’ll bring some money tomorrow or the next day. I am a temporary man. I am a school boy. I am a thief. I am a gun. I am an early walker and a duck talker. I am the mc of a secret pajama jammy jam. If you are in a cubicle I am there beside you whispering memories of sunrises and summer breezes. There is more than this. I am the keeper of the map that leads to that. If you are reading this, then chances are I love you. Search for me and I will take you there. Know my smile. Good Morning

A welcome to the winter

The morning kissed frozen circles on my cheekbones, darkening the sky with a gentle mist and I walked with my chin tucked into a strategically flung scarf; eyes low, pace plodding. The ducks startled at my approach, but I think they were just humoring me today or giving me a half-hearted huzzah for old time’s sake or maybe they were just so cold that it seemed like all their caterwauling was done in slow motion. Whatever the case, it did the job of warming my heart and making me smile and I offered greeting and salutations as I passed along our pretty little pond. There is a step beyond chilly where the winter loses all of its novelty and demands that you pay attention or find yourself in a predicament. This may have been the first of those days although I felt emboldened by my relative warmth even as the grip of old Jack Frost over took my balmy places bit by bit, like a Risk game played out over my anatomy. I made excellent time despite what I thought was a lackadaisical pace and then the cold let itself be known. Being still in a windy winter chill is not something that comes naturally to me. It occurs to me only now that this may be why I have never really been a ‘journey is the reward’ kind of person. Whoever said that obviously wasn’t from a place with long and dangerous winters. I paced around the bus stop like Rilke’s Panther, trying to ignore the breeze that had been blocked by the twisting streets of my subdivision. Foolish of me to try to ignore, but much of survival is mind over matter; a fact that the first few chapters of The Gunslinger will remind me later on the train. The bus is later than it has been in weeks and I spend every bit of the couple of minutes onboard trying to build up more warmth, knowing I have another 15 minute stand at the train station. The field across from the station always reminds me of The Ghost and The Darkness on days like these. The clouds are so low and the mist so thick that you cannot see the city lights of Austin reflecting in the distance; only a dozen or so street lights on the highway licking their way into the dark distance and then mystery. I retrieve the thermos of coffee that I have been saving in my bag and drink slowly and gratefully pondering the weekend that passed and the day ahead. I was a bit of a super hero this weekend, taking on parenting while an ill Etta tended to the needs of the city. I did all of the chores, took care of a sick wife, and took time to laugh and learn a little something about myself. Today should be a day of revelation, although if I have learned anything it’s that time has a way of dragging the real truth out over days and even years. As the train pulls up I make a plan of patience and quiet, then rifle through my bag, for a book I should’ve already read thankful for the heat.

It's like the very act of starting a blog has given me writer's block

I woke up this morning and my face was as dry as I imagine stars to be. There is a particular kind of pain that is sinuses so parched that when you breath you can feel the air rush across raw bone. I tried to cope. My plan was to sleep in, but it proved much to much to ignore. I stumbled to the bath to fill a glass with water and followed that with two more glasses. Dryness defeated, but my body just used all the water to create a cedar fever explosion in my face that I have decided was a cross between the blob and that video of the whale they exploded in Oregon. Each sneeze sent sharp pains to my inner ear and viola . . . my day began.
Now, I don't want to say I was cranky, but I'm sure I would have shamed bad Santa into silence with a glance. Nobodies pain was as great as mine. No one was allowed to be happy or jubilant or sad or tired. All emotion was a stupid farce in the face of my predicament. I might as well have said waa and flopped around on the ground. This pity party lasted about 5 minutes. Luckily I spent most of that time in the bathroom. Not too long after my celebration of boohoo began I realized that my son was moping through his whole morning torturing his mom with a whine every time he didn't get just what he wanted. I stopped to listen without intervening. We try not to rescue each other unless the other asks for help. He wasn't actually crying he was just making a crying noise any time she tried to do almost anything for him. If things did not go just the way he expected them to, he would act this way. Uuuuhhmmm, hey there universe. Good morning. Don't you think it's a little early for reflection and life lessons?  How about you eff off and come back around ten when I've had some coffee? Wicked lame.
I reassess my current situation. I add space to my pain threshold. I think about times that have been much worse and I ask myself, "Is this how you're going to act every time there are allergens in the air boyo? 'Cause you live in central Texas and you refuse to take allergy medicine. Do you really want to be this way?" The answers are obvious. I hate how easy it is to lose sight of yourself and make a string of selfishly bad decisions. I am so guilty of being reactionary and thoughtless sometimes and of making my family suffer when things aren't going my way. Children . . . little mirrors . . . so mush to teach them, so much to learn. I remind myself to be thankful that I am on the path and that I am working to better myself. Some people are stuck in a cycle of self loathing without reflection. At least I am trying to find a way to like me every day.  I gird myself with some secret mantras and head down to be a father. The smile comes so easily. Alright Universe, you get a pass this time, but I'm watching you. You hear me? I'm watching you.

Lost in the labyrinth

Day 6 - Finalized construction of pit filled with spikes, trained most of the ducks with frickin lasers, having trouble locating sufficiently round six foot boulder, forced to rethink hall of flames idea. It is harder to hunt down a Hattori Hanzo sword than you might think and even harder to claim one as your own.

Gained control of the thermostat at noon, took over the break room soon after, have not heard from the hunting party in two hours. I fear the worst. There is a chanting coming from the copy room that can only mean that war is upon us. The tribe goes about preparations silently. Permanent marker face paint is disturbing. Thankfully we recruited the engineers early. I almost feel bad for the folks in QA, but they started this.

Sent an email to my wife, just in case. This may be the last entry in this journal. If you find this and the drums have faded, escape while you can. Let the sun kiss you face again. Live!

Number 2

Farther out in the hinterland of America a number two pencil longs for the warm touch of my hand. I know I have lingered here with this glamorous qwerty facade. I needed to find myself in the near infinity of interlocking and dovetails, but I promise I will only ever sharpen you with my teeth. I will push you into majic circles until you are immortal and only a memory.

Why am I talking about myself in the third person?

Without a cubicle, Aaron considered himself the nudist of the third floor. He watched YouTube clips with reckless abandon, laughed boisterously at anything that even slightly tickled his fancy, and openly mocked people who awkwardly searched for some way to knock before engaging him in conversation. He was a continual flash mob of 1, building the stuff of office legend

Late again

I am late and for reasons unclear this calls to mind the strained whispers of old gods and dead kings desirous of remembrance, despite their fiction. My time is kept by the light of stars and the pull of the moon, by paycheck, by fickle buses and loping trains. I disavow any era that begins mid-winter as I stumble hurriedly through the dark waiting for the world to turn my cold face to the sun.

Another transition

I woke up angry today, as if waking had interupted a fight with my subconscious. The air was cool, but it seemed to hold fading pockets of summer in the wafting humidity - and the wind blew this confusion of sensations hard onto my skin. The PA system at the train station said the bus would be ten minutes late, so of course I got angrier and it showed up right on time. The clouds held back the sunrise, only conceding a deep blue; waiting for me to finally find a smile among the secrets and the stories of the Sandman and despite an old habit of stacking sadness on anger I gave the dawn a grin and got the last word in.

Dance Sucka

Slipped slyly into a soft bit of Minkowski space to practice flying and majic. Was humming White Christmas to myself when the vibration overwelmed an airborn fragment of crystal and I made accidental contact with Nibiru. They say, 'All is well. You are missed. Send more poetry.' I said, 'We don't know how to send more poetry.' They said, 'Be limitless in dreams, when you say love - mean it, and dance sucka.'

An experiment with meter

And wherever it dripped through the holes that I pierced in the clouds that were sent to test patience and mirth a new flower would grow with a scent like a pine crossed with ozone and lips and sweet burgundy wine. Though the Cirrus was thick they moved fast like the night and gave glimpses of majic, moments of delight. And the sleep was not lost and the dreaming deferred exploded in wonder all over the world.

Christmas week

The solstice brought gifts of double chocolate vodka and David Jewel's new book(s). So, I devoured them both singing saturnalia songs and rode the double buzz like a nuclear weapon into dreams. Too many alarms like hammer blows and the fog fondles, the fog licks, the fog finds its way inside of me along with the dirt, the detritus, and the humbug of the city of Oz. I dreamed of you Austin – of your imperfect faces – your fractured friendships – your art of precipice. You are an orgy of muses. You are an oubliette. You are the earthquake that shakes and breaks the cup before the tea leaves can be read. I am less like I was and more like myself and I will yet be the warm fog to your Christmas week.

To the Onmyoji

It is on mornings like these that men who do not wish to be seen move openly and quietly to their destiny. Frost dragons curl into cinnamon roll swirls, cold crystals capture the light of remembrance, and the old fox sets his trap, if one is to be sprung, knowing that there are secrets that give power to this distracted darkness and that there is a desperate hope in this crevice of time. The sky is a twirling of anthracite. The ground sparkles like glass dust and each breath freezes into a circle of fine silk that wafts to rest covering Cimmerian footsteps with warm regret. It is better to be sleeping on a hard palette in a restless child’s room . . . better to be awake, trying to interpret the disturbing dreams of Christmas Eve . . . better to be a drunken poet; blissful, broken, unconscious, trapped in practiced ritual to the onmyoji . . .

A doorway back to dream

It is a rain of angles; ignorable in shadows, when backlit - heavy, shimmering. I find comfort in the quiet falling. This is a storm of openings. If need be, one could slip between the drops and find a pathway to forgetting or a doorway back to dream. I am in between places - all intersections and reflection; soluble, insolvent, solved. I am still walking the path, searching daily for joy in the Tao of me. I have never been a person for the path of least resistance. When I say I want things to be easy, what I mean is I want the wisdom to travel troubled waters - to know that turbulence is the Qi . . . This old umbrella will remain unopened. No puddle on the path will go unsplashed. I will sing a song of dew and drizzle to pay homage to the stream.

Resolution

There are parts of these old bones that are still uncharted. Landscapes of tendril and dendrite that I will never see. I must remember to remain a mystery to myself. I must remember to stand in the storm. I am building aqueducts in Antioch. Tending gardens in Babylon. Secretly hoping that eventually the Anunnaki will abduct me. I am not counting down. I will not wait for a fictitious date to do the things that I should do. I will celebrate more days when the universe is aligned with me. I will dance around the fire. I will speak my own flawed truth. There will be exultation. Watch if you want to, but know that there is always room . . .

For those we lost winter 2010/2011

I will remember. Even as the thought of you fades away from the forefront of my days this magic brain will cover over the pain and tuck you away in song lyrics and certain kinds of rainy days. You’ll twist into my DNA and I will take the time to write your name out in the way I walk this path or shake my ass - in the freedom of my laugh and in the easy way I give my love to those who ask and need it much. I will remember that I am not the paver of this street or the progenitor of the beat that pumps my blood and moves my feet. I am a humble follower; a journey incomplete. There is still so much to be done and we will carry on the work that you began, each in our own way as we can. This sadness turned to hope will help us cope with the ending of another long December. Goodnight my love. You will be missed. I will remember.

Blue Degas

There is a blue Degas I'm told that, if you know its secret code (which is an origami fold), will to the touch feel just as cold as walking winter mornings. I have guessed dancers, as you might but cannot get my creases right for if you do you it reveals the sight of sunrise over Austin. It must be false, how could Degas paint what he never felt or saw, the spirit, color, love, and awe that is this blessed city. And still I crimp and ruck and pleat, explore and hope and feel and see, my life is for hope and belief, and I relish and appreciate my circumstance and lucky fate

A quick note

I know alot of what follows is not the prefered length for a blog post. To be brutally honest I'm just trying to front load this thing with content. Much of it you (the people who know me) have already seen. Here it is again. The new hotness starts tomorrow. Blagow!

Instructions for a very particular moment of laughter

This can happen to you if you want it. Wake up before the dawn refreshed, despite a lack of sleep and happy because of the love of another. Let the last vivid, funny, and mysterious dream keep its clarity and write itself down in your memory. Toss on your clothes and head out into the darkness. (Do not take a coat. It is warmer than you think.) The moisture will hang impossibly thick in the air, like an infinity of membranes each making up their own water reality. Let the dream persist. Let it tickle your fancy. Take a slightly different route than you normally do; one that makes the morning quieter. As you come up the hill you will hear a convocation of ducks heckling two large geese for being too loud and a heron for not saying a thing. And then, in a moment I can only describe as pure delight, unknowingly surprise a badelynge of ducks. In a start they will take flight all beating their wings suddenly and simultaneously, surprising you in return, before they settle back down mid pond in a cacophony of quacks and splashing. This is where you laugh; full and nervously. Laugh as if you are part of something that depends on attitude, luck, and timing. Laugh as if laughter praises the birds and the fog and dreams and love and the universe and your self. Laugh, but don’t stop walking. There is still more to see.

The parable of cedar fever

Last night I had a dream that the a-tsi-na tlu-gv had split into two families. One was the family of sweet aroma and warm fires. This was the tree of our ancestors, the tree of balance and memory, the tree of patience and contemplation. The other family was born of excess and chaos. This was the cedar of consumption, the cedar of fevers and swollen sinuses, the cedar of brash action and willful ignorance. In my dream the cedars lived side by side. Each knowing the other was simply a reflection of the earth they grew from. The two families remained separate, but shared the bounty of the soil, the messenger wind, and the radiance of the sun. The people knew that it was the cedar that was causing the great pounding in their head, the burning behind their eyes, and the exodus of mucous but they could not discern which tree belonged to which family. So they cursed all cedar trees, forgetting their creator and the rebirth of day and night, forgetting themselves, forgetting their fallen ancestors. They were no longer able to see their part in its duality. The culture of now had closed their eyes, their minds and spirit. A great war was declared on the cedar. The people set about girdling every tree. They tore the skin off and poured salt into the wounds. They burned them in vast fires and poisoned the land to kill the roots. When they were done the sky was dark, the land covered in ash, and toxins reached deep into the soil. The animals had run away. They had no plants to eat. It did not take long for them to realize what a terrible mistake they had made. They sought out their fathers and their father’s fathers for counseling. They gathered at the ancient sacred places and asked the creator to bring back the sun and the animals, and the plants that they eat. They listened as their fathers and mothers chanted old songs nearly lost to their memories. They waited. The creator considered his children and though they had done immense wrong the creator loved them and so it was decided that the earth would be restored and that the a-tsi-na tlu-gv families would be combined once more. This new tree exploded with pollen in winter to remind the people of the war on themselves. It was hardy and plentiful, but it made poor fires and bore little fruit. And so it was that the cedar became the tree of our ancestors and the tree of fevers and tears. In my dream, a tradition was born. Each time a person sneezed it was a reminder of the cedar trees, the ancestor, and the two families; and anyone who heard them would say bless you to give thanks for lessons learned and for a forgiving and loving creator.

On the end of temporary

The boss basically said you know how you're a temp? Well, you may be much more temporary that you have been thinking . . . and I understand his desire to soften the blow, but I'm not a fan of grey area in business. My personal life is one big grey area; a shifting landscape of love and art and forgiveness and happy compromise. I need him to say, your contract ends on the 14th. That's information I can use. This is . . . well it is what it is. We are all caught in a web of our own spinning. I resolve to be more of my true self and to avoid actions born of fear or shame. I actually find myself wishing that I could be laid off by someone I don't like, so that I can finally unleash some righteous anger, but he's a good dude. So, I internalize it. I go back to my quasi-cubicle and I weigh the odds. My experience tells me I won't last through the end of the month. Cedar fever is not a good backdrop for this kind of information. I start to think about her . . . about the subconscious truth that will live for a fraction of a second in her eyes. How will I tell her? Does it do us any good to worry her with this maybe information? Is it untruthful not to tell her something I don’t know? I realize I’m just like my boss. That tears it. I decide to drop the news after our son has gone to bed. I fret. I worry. I need her to be strong. I need her to tell me that it is going to be ok . . . and then a remarkable thing happens. She is strong. She tells me it will be ok . . . and I almost crumble into a weeping heap at her feet, but instead I just act like it’s no big deal and escape to a late writer’s meeting. She is my yin and too often I have let her walk this earth unsure of herself, unsure of me, unsure of us. It is an injustice I aim to remedy. I get home late and she is just finishing work on her fourth job. She tidies up a bit and then lets me have the living room for nerd time. I put something I don’t really care about on the TV and work to clear my nose and throat enough to maybe get some sleep. This is just a day; just one among an amazing string of days spent loving her. It may be an eclipse kind of day, but I know there will be more like this; more days where I am awestruck, where I feel lucky and proud and grateful. The cedar fever is relentless and I feel just terrible. I go to bed without kissing her, without touching her, but there is no distance between us. Hump day . . . wodensday . . . midweek; at once a day to be endured and one of the wild hunt, a day of commerce and messages, a day of fasting and woe. And I think yes and yes and yes as I whisper I love you and drift off to sleep. 

Greetings and Salutations

Welcome everyone and thank you so much for stopping by my little blog. What follows is just my passion. I hope you enjoy it. I have been writing for most of my life and have been lucky enough to meet some wonderful people and experience some amazing things. I have no agenda or plan. I make no promises except to create something for you to look at regularly. Namaste, much love, and happy day.