For spring and Etta

New day

We go through his nighttime routine

Cleaned up

Jammies on

Go peepee in the potty

Daddy reads books

Two, sometimes three

He has eighty

He only wants to hear the same two or three

He can quote them

But he wants to hear me read

I change up the voices

For 15 minutes it is a vaudeville act

And a circus

And an open mic

And then I turn out the lights

I close the curtains

And it’s time for snuggling

Sometimes we switch

And Mommy sings the quiet encore

His favorites are a secret

He likes improvisation

Then there is more snuggling

You can communicate all of creation inside of a hug of pure intention

He is well loved

We are defenseless against his charms

We are happy

Even when we try not to be

For a time in the dark

We struggle

For space

For connection

For comfort

Sometimes there is bliss for two full minutes

And then a realization sets in

Soon there will be darkness

Soon there will be loneliness

He angles for more time rather than enjoying the moment

Not knowing he is a microcosm

He is always living his life in anticipation of the next thing

He is too much like me

He says, I need you

And he does but . . .

That is not why he is saying that

He says, Don’t leave me

And the heart breaks

He says please – just like he’s been taught, but more earnestly

He works his magic

Manipulating

And 15 minutes turns into 45

Until finally a line is drawn

And inevitably

The cry before the sleep

I have tried to reason with him

I have asked him why he would want to end such a wonderful day with tears

I have asked him how anyone could cry after getting everything they wanted

I have lost my temper

I have walked away

I have given in

I think the hardest thing on Earth

May be closing that door

(Every day I am thankful that this is my hardest thing

It could be food or electricity

It could be selling myself or taking a beating

It could be my life or my family’s

It isn’t and I am so lucky)

I tell him it will be ok

I ask him if he had fun today

I ask what his favorite part was

It’s almost always playing cars

I say we just have to go to sleep for a little while

And then we can do it all again

Only differently

He says, yeah . . . OK

But I can hear in his voice he’s still busy convincing himself

I say if you need us you can come get us

But you need to stay in bed and go to sleep

He says, Tomorrow’s a new day (I think he picked it up from Chicken Little)

And I say that’s right buddy

Tomorrow’s a new day

And I think I’ve won but,

He starts negotiating tomorrow’s exploits

Visits to friend’s houses or grandma’s

Cookies, chewies, cars, and video games

He’s so effing cute

He’s so full of joy and possibility

And despite a desire to stay all night I interrupt him

I love you – good night

I was just talking about. . .

I love you – good night

Um daddy could you stop saying that I’m trying to. . .

I know what you’re trying to do

I Love you – good night

. . .

You have to say it buddy

I love you too daddy – good night

And I bring his door to a close silently

Peace is not a closed door and a sleeping baby

It’s a smile

It’s him reaching up and holding my hand

It’s the chase

And unbridled laughter

We wind the day down, lonely

Listening for him

Secretly hoping he wakes up again

Wanting some water

And needing a hug

We never really rest

Some part is always joyfully waiting

Playing at all the angles

Planning for the next thing

Each New Day

We hide the Easter eggs

We sow the seeds

We run the race

We cry and bloom

We sing and play

Each day is another chance

Another way to say

I love you

Turtles all the way down

Reach down into your heart

Down into the library where you keep your precious things

Past the archives of mental pictures of the people you love smiling

Past the lost and found

Just south of the place where you know it doesn’t matter

And that it will be ok

Reach down into your heart

And ask yourself

Are they among the galleries of perfect spring days

When you think of your heroes

Do they ever have ties on

Are they giving interviews from some mason built irony about how they disagree

Are they drunk and mean at some party taking hipstomatic pictures of absently lit cigarettes

They should be teaching

They should be inspiring action or solving problems

They should be making children laugh

The view is disappointing

We have to turn the other cheek

If I could hold you while you cry it all away

I’d be there with soft arms and radical empathy

But there are too many of you

No matter how much there is of me

Anyway

If you believe like I do

I am always holding you

Just as the turtles are holding me

You should know

I don’t have heroes anymore

I do not have gods or overlords

I have love

And a menagerie of talismans

That I say are fraught with power

But are really only reminders of love

Reach down into your heart

Massage it back to life

Brush away the plaque

Jericho the barricades

Quiet down the cannonades

And listen

That is not crying

That is not something you saw on the internet or cable tv

That is not the song they want you to sing

That is the song of yourself

The voodoo that you do

It has been lost in the din

It has been succubus sucked

It has been so brave in the dark

Yelling out the chorus with equal passion time and time again

Dig that nasty base line

Let it resonate

You are a beast, a singular creation of power and portence

If no one else has said it today

I am amazed

You are amazing

Believe what they say

Or believe what empowers you

It is all made up

Only you make it true

Just do what you do

You do you

Reach down into your heart

Reach past the way it is

Beyond the broken dreams

The embarrassments

The learned lie of failure

The struggle for perfection

Manifested as popularity

Reach down and want the things you want

Define your own dreams

Paper is not people

The journey to a piece of gum is little more than the anticipation of aspartame

But the journey to flight . . .

The Tao of freedom . . .

The path to a durable happiness . . .

To love my family

To say what is inside of me

These are precious things

Reach down

Because you know it isn’t as close to the surface as it should be

Reach down

And resolve to feel more

Reach down

And fail spectacularly

Reach down into your heart

And love defenselessly

Be afraid, but do it anyway

Reach down into your heart and be

Mild fever - mild ear infection

I am searching for my voice

Even as it escapes my throat like barbed wire

And dreams

I am interpreting the blueprint

Conceived in a child’s smile

My pantheon unfolding

The revolution rescheduled

I am not going to write another word about how I am broken

I am ignoring a desire to pen poor prose in place of truth

The ducks are fine (I’m not sure about the beavers)

Thanks for asking

The sun is rising earlier

I am sleeping less . . .

I am trying to discern the pattern inherent in the chaos

Like remembering the echo of a flicker on the screen

Repetition is the first step to defeating natural freedom

The next step is incandescence

Then oh how the dominoes flow

It requires your belief

You have to ignore the rhythms calling to you from inside

You have to wear shoes if you want to go outside

Do not step on the grass

I see the anarchy of the morning dew, daily

I spout subconscious talking points with equal regularity

No I did not see the Oscars

If the revolution was televised I missed it

I turned off the cable

I know how it all ends anyway

I am the worst dressed

I dropped the f-bomb

I’ve been sleeping on a single bed beneath a coughing child

I have been applauding the bravery of persisting through pain

I have been negotiating the peace accord of dinner time

2 more bites of chicken

2 more pieces of broccoli

Drink all of your juice

Then you can get down

Crying gets you nothing from me

Except for hugs and sympathy

The idea that I am settling is the thing I set on fire in protest

As it has always been, today is the best day of my life

I am a forgetful bastard

I know

I know

The dishes have become a sculpture

The dishes have become the mashed potato mountain from Close Encounters

They cannot be done

It means something now

They must be worshipped

They must be pondered

I sacrifice this inexpensive pizza to you dishes

I kneel to your girth

You are a wanton thing

You are a benevolent, forgiving god

The bourbon is placed in the middle of the kitchen

A welcome waypoint between the altar in the sink

And the unfolded monument that extends like a mountain range

Like a dragons back

Like a poor man’s pyramid

From the washer and dryer

Hail to you oh god of sleeplessness

Praise to you sweet lord of getting through

I have lost all patience

It is my song to you

I worship at the foot of the xbox

Inside I am a champion

I am a warrior

My sword is augmented with purity and experience

My halfback is unstoppable

He sits on my lap and says maybe we can find some treasure

Or kill some monsters or something

Maybe we can play the crashing game

Maybe

Maybe

He is reconnecting me

Even though his cold has ruined date night

Even though her cold has pushed us beyond arm’s length

We circle the wagons

We aid each other

And we become a heap of tissue, and blankies, and peace

All of my new dreams will be of other people’s happiness

Phase one of project blue beam

I will make a joyful noise

I will initiate the unconditional love protocol

I will project something worth believing

Let the dishes linger

Leave the clean clothes to wrinkle and pile

I have almost gleaned their meaning

I’ve been loving you so long

I will want to sleep tonight

It will be my intention

But you will sleep

And I will linger

In a quiet world

Interrupted by the echoes of you two

Coughing upstairs

I will love you best

In the darkness

With my pure hope

I will pray

That you persist

That you get better

That you don’t leave me alone

That you keep loving me

There are so many of these moments

That you will never know

Moments of gathering strength

Moments of tenuous joy

Moments of thankfulness and scars

Moments when I think I hear it

My voice scattered like stars and good intentions

I am searching for an unnamable feeling

I am trying to define a wordless something or other

I am seeking you oh god of guts

I am up

Too late

Again

Recounting my blessing

Pointing a finger at each subtle failure

Forming a mythology fraught with beauty and lies

Somewhere

Amongst the stream of possibilities

Is the perfect me . . .

I am beginning to think

This struggling soul

Is the best that I can be . . .

San Tropez

I've been listening to Roger Waters and Pink Floyd again. Man . . . that music has a pass card to my secret lair. It just walks right in and starts mucking up the place. Self programmed through repetition. I am and have been more a fan of Floyd than the Beatles, or Led Zeppelin, or the Doors. I have been a consumer of the others, but never in the same way. I have tried several times to leave Pink Floyd behind, but they are a soundtrack of my self and however much hip-hop or alt pop, or bad rock I listen to, they remain a watermark of my musical taste.

Incidentally, my mom says that Dark Side of the Moon was her favorite album while she was pregnant for me. She listened to it constantly during those nine months. At some point when I was young . . . I want to say I was seven . . . we were driving down the street and a song came on. I started singing along, knowing the lyrics without really knowing what it was. I asked her and she freaked out a bit. It was Time. The idea that music could imprint and follow me from the womb fascinated both of us.

Sometimes it is astonishing to think that in some way my melancholy matched up with the sad introspection of post war English youth. In my mind, their reaction to their parent’s fears, to an evolving national identity, to the sadness of learning the truth, and to our ravenous and evolving global economy could not have been given a better life than through experimental music and the fact that this music made them any money at all is a tribute to their unflinching lyrics and musical virtuosity.

Hard truth is my favorite kind. I like beauty and love too, but I have always felt that the last thousand years or so have been a series of mistakes and the lies we tell ourselves so that we can keep moving forward despite the obvious insanity of each step. We are so out of balance now that the new fantasy, as expressed so vividly in Reagan’s 1987 address to the UN, is that some diabolical outside force appears to force unity and change.  (Let me just say, that I see a lot of amazing has happened too, not the least of which is me and Pink Floyd. : )

The amazing thing about this odd dream is how powerless it is . . . even at the supposed zenith of control we can do nothing but plod forward toward our own demise and wish it was different. Personally I believe we are better than that, but I see how anyone could let themselves become overwhelmed by our time. I’m sure if I knew what a president knows my mind would be changed, at least a bit.

There was a time I wanted to save the world, like Superman. And I guess I still do, but I think my tactics have evolved. To me our only hope is to look at ourselves, see the hard truth, admit who we are and what we have done, make amends, and then change. I don’t think we will. I just think it’s our only hope. I have gone from advocating wholesale global change to a faith in or hope for entanglement and its ability to spark a fire that leads to something big.

So, I spread happiness one person at a time. I hold doors open. I smile. I trust in my belief that I am connected to every atom and quark, every higs particle and each undulation of time, every desire and every star system. My ripples mean something. The way I live has an effect and one day my joy will contribute to an inevitable shift. I am empowered. I don’t try to control you. I just do what I can do. I have bad days . . .

On bad days sometimes I find my way back to Time, or Wish you Were Here, or Us and Them. I remember that I’m not alone, that it is sane to feel sad, that relentless hope is a worthy religion, that words have power . . . When the melancholy threatens to overtake me I stop and I listen to this or this or this or maybe this - and then I find my smile and walk, whistling into the twilight.

Get out of my secret lair Pink . . . and clean up before you go.

SOS - three

I have not learned to play guitar yet – I still imagine skateboarding along and through the many obstacles of the city when I am not driving – I keep a heard of butterflies whose only job is to flap until there is more necking in this world – I also keep several kinds of bugs with allergies – their job is to achoo randomly – I like surprises - I look up words to make sure they are what I mean – I have come to enjoy the diversity of flatulence – I imagine that you’re laughing

There is a magic to America – sandwiched between country music stations and mountain ranges – the loneliest highway is wonderful if you can bring a friend – I-35 a long lick between our collective cleavage from concrete jungles to redwood forests I have leaned my head back in stunned gazes – I have memorized voices, gleaned their meaning, and lost the words like leaves down river – everywhere I went I loved them – the hopeful, the angry, the crafters trying and trying again – you can still find them, open, opening and curious

I saw the people on the streets today - the wind adding its own cold sense of urgency - it whispered run or you will die outside - I tell you friends the wind has never lied to me

I Texas not Texan - I Texas State not UT - admirer of longhorns, who sometimes sweats burnt orange - fan of old cowboys and tigers - sparky and too tall - conceived in Grand Rapids - heart broken in Lansing - my families could be family if not for the similarity - I left the cold for a reason - and now the season has me

SOS - two

I puzzled by duality – existing in another place – I might be having coffee in Paris right now – I might be trading jokes with Brenner or smoking crack with Patrick – I of so many possibilities – I create tandems sometimes just to have more – I imagine infinitesimally small differences like wearing my hair in a ponytail on December 12, 1983, or preferring gouda - there a whole reality – In this one I have purple eyes – In this one, no human trafficking

I pulling away from the veneer – I veering off path – I am not a caricature of myself – I am more myself – this is me – struggling, weak, unsatisfied, ignorant and mean – I have other qualities – I think they’ll fit better in some other section – Judge me if it pleases you – Send the poison from your eyes or lips – I have no antidote – In some place not too far from here you have already killed me – If you thought it the karma damage is done – Words are only thoughts given another dimension – translated from the information pool at the universal event horizon

I wish to be the decider of which dimension I inhabit – I wish to augment this ability with the right to explore and change my mind – I might want blue leaves in fall or more pyramids - I wish to fly – I wish to know what comes after death definitively so that I can make a reasoned decision as to whether I’d like to be involved in such a process – please do not bury me in a box – I wish to feed the earth – it is the least that I can do

I who does not qualify for a geek badge – I who is not, strictly speaking, literary – I who is not even medium read, let alone well – I who has made an art of finding crevices to call a home - I have learned to live without your feedback – like a camel I cling to things high school teachers said – I fight the urge to ask you – I do not self promote so I don’t seem needy . . . but you and I both know we are all needy – I would rush into your arms each and all – I would suffer every opposite to love you – I have learned that I love too much – especially too much for those who don’t believe

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.