GreenDomes

Words that Matter

2010-03-26T17:19:00.000-07:00

Barely old enough to follow orders. My sister, Kathy’s, orders—five years older.

We had our Sunday rituals in the Blade house. Up early—breakfast on your own. Sometimes dancing around the table after cereal breakfast to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, while Mom and Dad snoozed. Dancing and dancing faster and faster. Then rush to dress for church. Slacks and wet combed hair. To worship with kids my age. Church is social. Was for me. Play and pretend.

Home to a big Sunday feast. I ate for Mom—that’s how she loved. Red meat and potatoes, and the occasional trip to Furr’s cafeteria. Eat and drink after praying. Prayer was key. Key to all the nots. Could not see, not hear or understand. There’s power in prayer. I was made to realize my prayer asking for Jesus saved me from Hell. My fear tossed around like a ball on a schedule.

Sunday afternoon Mom and Dad found their way to bed behind a locked door for the afternoon snuggle. For some reason, Kathy thought what they did behind that door was wrong.

“You and Cilla take these pots and these spoons and follow me,” Kathy said.

She led us down the shadowy hall and began to sing her song and bang her pot and asked us to follow suit—and yell it out with conviction.

“Jesus knows what you’re doing. Jesus is mad at you. Jesus knows what you are doing. Jesus is mad at you. Jesus knows what you’re doing. Jesus is mad at you.” And on it went.

She got into trouble for that with my parents. Words do matter.

2009-08-15T16:55:00.001-07:00

What did I learn?

I don't really know.

I could make something up.

I'm clever enough

to make it sound good

but not too good,

still believable.

Truthfully, I don't know

if I learned anything at all.

Cruising

2009-05-13T06:01:00.001-07:00

Do you ever feel like a solid old car

with rust damage along the bottom;

with corrosion caused by salt;

caused by solutions?

The Kill

2008-11-16T09:27:00.000-08:00

Life force phallus
held gentle on her
tiger tongue—
Death Chompers
poised to collapse
evil lying
boredom
at the slightest
sour scent.

Scars that still itch on occasion

2008-11-11T05:45:00.000-08:00

I clearly remember
how I felt on the inside,
the struggle against and the
abandon to.
I can easily recall
how you felt to the touch
thighs, hands, hair
lips, forehead
and there are times
when your smell rushes at me
and my nose is full of you
and my brain reels with
unexpected memory.
How is it that connections
remain from such physical memory
when all other connections are
long dead and cold.

Wait for the Report

2008-11-11T05:35:00.001-08:00

Shot glass splashed with tequila
full and dripping onto the wooden bar
worn with scrubbings and dried out by
alcohol, hard as a rock.
It rests, waits, impatient
wants to be thrown back, shot
and slammed back down on the bar
loud report, bam, didn't even
need lime
fuck salt
straight shot.

That is how I feel some days;
patient anger dripping onto the bar
waiting for the report
fuck limes and salt
I'll take my future neat.

Two

2008-09-14T00:51:00.000-07:00

Two RVs
squeezed between Utah
slick red rock and
a river.
Kids, baseballs and mitts—
thirty foot perch
across a dirt road,
one on the cliff,
one on the river bank
and back and forth,
their tosses mighty
and effortless.

You're Not Seeing Me

2008-09-09T05:27:00.001-07:00

you're not seeing me.
I'm talking
but no amount of reasoning
or preparation can get
my thoughts through to you.
I'm backing it up with
actions, daily living
puncuates my voice
to no effect.
You're not seeing me
and there is no
way around that.

No one was impressed.

2008-08-18T08:52:00.001-07:00

When sick,
I remember being a child.
I remember the coughing,
trouble breathing, and
days indoors.

The girls thought I was gross,
spitting phlegm into trash cans
during gym.

The teacher still make me run laps,
I would do my best,
but I would start coughing
and would spit into the trash cans
every lap.

No one was impressed.

Free Dog

2008-08-17T08:22:00.000-07:00

Does the black bitch
know she’s free?
From the look in
her eyes—no.
Head over a tailgate
‘free’ sign—
taped below;
bright-eyed, big
floppy-eared fool,
‘bout to go home
with a new name.

Form Flatters Function

2008-07-28T18:14:00.000-07:00

Sobbing: "Why are you doing this?"

Pausing: "I believe in the power of symbolism."

Big Sobs: "Why me? What did I do wrong?"

Insulted: "This is not punishment. You did nothing wrong that I know of. Even if you had done something as wrong as to deserve this for reward, I would not stand as your judge. I am no judge of people. That is not within my nature."

Sniffing: "Then why are you doing this?"

Back to Work: "When the pathetic mushrooms in white lab coats receive bullets, plucked from vintage dark grain wood paneling by Neanderthals in blue uniforms, they will be excited. They will find quality prints on each bullet. They will feel lucky. They will easily match those prints to you. How will this make them feel?"

Unwilling to Answer

Answering: "They will feel smart. They will pass the fruits of their genius back to the Neanderthals, who will promptly start looking for you. Your record will come to light along the way, and they will begin looking for a prime suspect."

Mad: "Why me?"

Matter of Fact: "You were small of stature and looked like your will had been bent by a crushing life. You looked like you had given up recently. People in this state of mind are the easiest to fool, manipulate and physically manage. You fit my needs and you crossed my path when my needs were at their peak."

Worried: "They'll know it wasn't me. When they find me, they'll know. They will figure it out."

Working: "In their minds, they will have figured it out before they ever find you. They will have no other evidence or suspects. They will be at a dead end. They will have no interest in assuming it was not you. But, as you say, they will eventually figure it out. We will help them. The pieces will fall into place. My point will be made, and your small role will help me make it, and in a way you will help them realize that you are not perpetrating this. They will realize that you were a victim too."

Scared: "I can describe your appearance, but I won't. I won't help them. Let me go now and I won't tell anyone. I'll just blend back in and you'll never see me again."

Finished with Prints: "I want you to help them and me. You can help everyone. Now, sit very still."

Screaming

Chopping: "I need these. I am going to exonerate you with these. Each shot to the temples and chests of the current administration with bear one of your beautiful finger prints. Each symbol will be followed by the delivery of the same dainty finger, which left the print that their smart little mushrooms will find."

Panic: "No more. No more. Please."

Tagging: "You see why I must keep them organized. There can't be a single flaw in the communication of a new symbol. To have the greatest impact a new meme like this one must be simple, immediate, flawless and bright red. We will achieve all four."

Shock: "Please, no more. No more. Please."

Pity: "We are already done: Congratulations. The hard part is now over; relax. Your part in this play will be remembered and written about for years to come. In this way, I'm not shortening your life expectancy, I'm lengthening it."

Crying

Affection: "I can give you everything you've asked me for now. I'm done here. You will be remembered almost as long as I am."

Silence

Finished

Social Lament

2008-07-01T12:35:00.001-07:00

The older I get,
the more broken I feel.

Social situations,
have become uneasy.

Each interaction,
challenges my new poverty.

I wonder why,
have I begun to slide away.

Occupied

2008-04-23T20:11:00.000-07:00

Cursed daily
over the phone
and face to
face,
I’m the Doctor,
Lawyer, Counselor,
Crook
unknown, on
the other side
of a desk.
—First face victim
to a lasting
impression.

Sometimes I Wish but Don't Mean It, Not Really

2008-04-13T15:18:00.001-07:00

Sometimes
I wish I was less experienced,
maybe even oblivious,
aware of the obvious
aware of only enough
to navigate the room
to the fridge,
bathroom,
and bed.

Then, I think
Then I could just
kick back and ride it out.
I could ease in and watch days pass
like a child
looking out a school bus window,
occasionally wiping the fog in a circle
so I could get a better look
but detached enough
to just watch
and think
about lunch
and the cute
girl across the isle.

The Neverywhere

2008-04-13T15:03:00.000-07:00

The attraction of self-pity
The reason some people get addicted
is that they can forget about everyone but themselves
It makes them the center of the universe

The center is pleasantly purposeful,
direction is easily defined,
and there are no awkward in-betweens:
The center is always a destination
and a beginning. Always both.

Self-pity is a surrogate center
a placebo of purpose
a negative nest
nestled in the center
of neverything.

Its killing you
but at least you know where you are.
You're neverywhere.

Awkward Thought

2008-03-27T08:47:00.001-07:00

The first,
the unrehearsed,
the reaction to the unforeseen
speaks what we can clearly know
of any other
one of us.

The Comfort of the Unforeseen

2008-03-25T19:05:00.001-07:00

Worry
is for the foreseen;
that which we can imagine.

The unforeseen,
the unimagined,
is never worried for.

The uninvited is received
by our most natural reaction.

A credit and a testament
unto ourselves.

Ride

2008-02-17T12:06:00.000-08:00

Sat on a big scoop,
spoon
front of
a small plane.
Pilot landed
the craft;
abandoned street.
Took off and
skimmed high
wires.
Couldn’t keep
nose
up
with scoop full.
Take it down.

But we all need
to go
back up,
up and
escape
this perilous
Fight.

Little Vacations

2008-02-12T06:03:00.000-08:00

I enjoy escape into places that have proven
to be successful retreats for others.

I read constantly.

Reading makes me feel less alone in my work,
my friends have been through this before me
and they have left little presents for me
and notes, still warm from thought.

When I come out of these little vacations,
I must step off of the trails, that
have been so carefully marked and designed;
concern that I will finish showing in detail.

I throw off these blankets, proven warm by others,
and walk about in the brisk cold, uncovered in the
uncertain light of a perpetually early morning.

There are no signs marking my way now,
this is the environment in which we work,
but there is direction, undeniable and unmutable.

There is merciless direction.

I thrive when making trails, it feels clean and good;
this phenotypic expression of myself is expensive,
I can't sustain it long.

I exhaust myself quickly
and soon return to these little vacations
and the comforting presence
of friends who give
and need, simply, that I receive.

This companionship is unconditional
and can only be offered by those separated
from us by time.

I'm proud to be a future friend
of so many thinkers and writers,
once lonely, but no more.

I read them for rest and because an embrace
has a value for both parties.

Similarly, I make trails and retreats,
preparing the way for future friends and lovers
to take little vacations with me,
walking the trails that I have
so carefully marked for them,
and hopefully intersecting with their own
merciless direction, so that we can,
across time, find comfort in each other.

Japanese Smoking Plate

2008-01-09T18:53:00.000-08:00

My smoking plate is Japanese.
Hand painted rectangle
Glazed green
with clear light cracks beneath the surface
making it feel fragile
and aged
into quality.

I wonder who
will see me
when I am old
and if they will feel similar
about me.

2007-12-21T14:44:00.000-08:00

"Yes sir," Andy says, as we drive through the respectable neighborhood in a respectable American brand rental car. "I need it." I give him the pipe and he passes it back and I pass it back. The windows are rolled up and it is a flavorful weed with a nice texture, an even draw. We're inhaling and exhaling, me in my slow compressed chest posture, hunched in breath with a pumping heart. Andy's head up, looking about, easing the steering wheel past a little kid, standing in the street with a blank, bored, gaze; a haircut for his head of black hair that gets him no trouble. The passing car, the street, his boy scout house behind him, drifting away a short afternoon. "I'm holding it in. I'm holding it in." Andy says, squeezing his words. My window is cracked and I've had enough, "good," I say. He takes one more hit, timely sunglasses, exhales and feels like he's grown five times bigger. "Wooh, hah" he yells, rolling down his window, aerating the dim cloud. "I'm an addict," he says loudly. Then he barks, "And I'm Back On!" breaking all sound in the car, firing it out like a cannon to the backyards and driveways. "I'm Back ON!" He can be heard three blocks in any direction. "Back On!"

Andy wants them to know, wants them to hear, that the crack has hit the street, that he's 6 foot 5 and has been a bully all of his life and he's not from here and he's bringing them his home town act. It's America, baby.

"I need it, Duane," he says seriously. "I feel like I'm going up."

"This is Humboldt," I say, "straight from California, brought up in flour sacks." We're heading down the hill, passing houses, green lawns. A little dog stands in the road, like the kid back there, with no curiosity for the slow moving car, no fear of rolling tires; standing half-asleep in his familiarly marked lawns, groomed curly fur. Without any build up, Andy barks like a mad doberman, cornered, raising the hairs on the back of my neck, showing the little dog, who's who. The dog steps backwards, with a few timid barks back, but Andy's bark was so fast and loud and from the jaws of a human, that the little dog doesn't know what to do. Two men and a woman are standing on a porch. A tall, well dressed, older man, is saying his goodbyes but is in the middle of some story so that the men don't give the barking dogs any play or space in their time. The middle-aged woman in the doorway looks away from the conversation. And I can see her trace over the open front window, past Andy's slack jaw hanging fresh from a growl, to the mirrory glass of the back window, wondering, "is there a dog in that car?"
We drive on. After a 36 hour dry stint of Andy rubbing palms in suits, faking everything for a job, he has let loose, found his form, and is introducing himself to the community.

That First Decade

2007-12-20T15:04:00.000-08:00

The first decade of my adult hood, was wild,
it was passionate,
it was creative, and
dangerously undisciplined.
I am who I am because of it,
and in that way I celebrate it,
but in a very real way
it was a waste of material.

The Way We Lived

2007-12-20T15:02:00.000-08:00

I was never good with women.

My twenties were flowing with them
but I had no use for them then,
or barely any, besides the basic
exercises and interactions.

On rare occasions,
usually in the fall,
I would want a real girlfriend
but I would have no idea what
that meant, really
or what was required.
Effort would be wasted
in futile attempts that rarely
amounted to more than saying hi
or waving. I would leave poems
and drawings for anon girls
in coffee shops,
then leave,
not to return for months
due to both poverty
and the fact that the cave
was always
hard to escape from.
-

Who was I then?
I was hungry.
I was poor.
I was alone.
I was manic and crazed.
I was desperate.
I was alive with creativity.
I was a magnet
hiding from metals.
-

I rarely remember eating.
For years I think I barely ate.
I was heroine skinny
but it was all
cigarettes,
whisky,
and minor drugs,
mostly I was burning
from thought
consumed with thinking.
Undisciplined mind
Uncontrolled abilities
leaking all over the ground,
the cheap carpet,
the floor furnace,
the smoke colored walls,
the paintings hanging from every space possible.
I was living on pure
liquid youth.
-

I painted the closet doors
took them off and hung them on the walls.
I painted cabinets and sheets of hard board.
Those were hung on the walls too.
The house was all open cabinets and closets
and a wild riot hanging from the walls.
I ran out of detachable surfaces
and starting painting what was left of the walls.
It was a museum
made by everyone living there
painted by me
but made alive by the crowd
coming in and out,
saying my name,
talking about me, only feet away,
betting on when I would die.
-

They all lost:
I am still alive, and
grounded by memories, imbued
with the solid craftsmanship
of unhindered youth.
-

The way we lived
baffled those around us.
“How do you keep it up?”
“When do you study?”
We studied every night.
We were desperately studying
, searching, for ways to keep going,
ways that made living better
than not;
Hoping, the next book, hit, girl, party,
would somehow balance it all out
so I could keep a job
so I could stop crying
when a girlfriend would hug me
so I could stop thinking
so I could stop burning
so I could just stop
and relax
and feel normal.
The way we lived was more like survival
than the careful experimentation of our peers.
They were baffled and entranced by us.
We were burning bright
right before their eyes
and they didn’t know any better than to clap.

Fitting Into the Scheme of Trees

2007-12-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

I was outside
under the canopy covering my house.
It was close to sunset.
I was in a chemically perfect spot,
looking up, eyes open
watching the tops of the trees
sway easy
back
forth and back
making that slow sound
of rubbing,
of limbs touching.
So rare for the immobile.
So exceptional for the solitary.

Outside felt more
inside than was usual
and I knew
those trees were
seducing me,
softening me,
patiently acclimating me
to that slow sound.
They have been all along.

Words can only promise they can not fulfill.

2007-11-21T16:31:00.001-08:00

All words are empty until filled with action.
-

Words are containers, to be filled with experience. This is how words gain their weight.
-

Every word is a promise waiting for actions to put true.
-

Persons that are not people

2007-11-20T06:53:00.001-08:00

Some people just don't know how to be people. They need other people to reflect their person, so that everywhere they look they see a brilliant company of themselves, dancing to strings unseen. These images of self compose all they know of others and the bulk of what they know of themselves. We live our lives, and the bulk of theirs as well. When they speak to you, they are looking themselves in the eye. When they show affection for you they are affirming themselves.

We become people as we become aware of each other, while they remain a person in the midst of a reflective throng; blind to others and surrounded by themselves.

2007-11-09T10:25:00.000-08:00

"He is like you, tall, handsome and thinks God owes him something."

my german Aunt Heidi describing her handyman's son to me.

the night more blurry bright

2007-11-08T05:33:00.001-08:00

I like to stand in front of my bookshelves.
It feels good,
to soak it all in at once.
Eyes tracking across spines
Remembering moments, thoughts
and places I’ve been. Some moments and thoughts
mix just right;
forming one feeling,
like mixing yellow and red skittles,
almost warming in its goodness.
I imagine that this is how a weight lifter feels
staring at his equipment before a work out
or a painter at his brush and canvas.
The music helps
And the wine
But there is something about standing in front of your bookshelves
And letting them tickle your mind:
remembering a feeling,
or an entire line of thought.
It makes the wine stronger
And the night more blurry bright.

That Creative Mood

2007-10-22T17:17:00.000-07:00

A mood can be an elusive state when sought after through the sticky fog of a daily environment.

Attractive and Playful Ghosts

2007-09-19T19:08:00.001-07:00

It gets harder and harder for me to make phone calls
Non daily social interaction is difficult
It has nothing to do with those others
those who I would call
those who I think about calling
but don't.
It has everything to do with
my mental state
and I'm not talking about depression
or something like that.
In a way its positive,
it feels positive.
I'm pulled, away from some things
and drifting ever closer to
something central.
Several times a day I wish
I could focus my thoughts
on certain topics,
but I have to bend them back to work
and the people around me.
I can't give them up
or they won't give up on me,
either way,
they plague me like
attractive and playful ghosts.
I want to go and live with them;
not forever
not even for that long
a year
maybe two.
And when I come back
when I reemerge
I can make those phone calls
and assure my loved ones that
my feelings and thoughts were never far away from them
I just had to go somewhere,
a small journey.
I'm not sure how long I will wait,
as long as I can I guess.
From the outside I will
have merely reduced my social
circle to my wife and daughter
and maybe an occasional visit
with a local friend.
From the outside I will look far away
or maybe withered and drawn
but it will just be the stress of the work
the travel
the playful and unrelenting
thoughts that tease at me
and pull at me.
Resistance,
is difficult when I truly want
to receive what they have for me.
There is nothing supernatural here,
I just don't have the words to express
what I struggle with
on a daily basis.
It wears on me.
I hope it makes me stronger,
so that all the resisting
and waiting will give me
the strength and patience I will
need when I finally and fully engage.
I just hope its worth it,
that what I bring back will
help others forgive me for the length
of the journey, and for not being
there during the long deployment.
I worry that no one will understand me
when I return and what I have will
sit on a shelf
and wait for someone
who is ready
to find it.
That would be an unkind fate,
but my fate is my nature,
so my worry changes nothing.
Even now, after saying all this,
I can just let my mind drift a bit and
I'm there
with the lights of thought
the puzzles that haven't been worked
and the warmth in my
chest that says
its good.

I am Temporary - Huh...

2007-09-19T06:24:00.001-07:00

I feel mortal today.
Not old,
but aging.
I don't mind;
no negative vibe here,
just an encouragement
to focus
and minimize
wasted time,
and even more, to enjoy
the people around me
as much as possible.
I wish it was all
as clearly laid out
in my head, as I'm making it sound,
but really, these
are passing thoughts
and feelings.
Moments.
I'm just trying to capture one
before its gone
and I again forget
how fundamentally mortal I am.

Excerpt from "Craceytown"

2007-09-16T11:42:00.000-07:00

I remember you there at those conversations. You took my breath away. Night of nights. So I killed them all away from you. So what? What next? I don’t owe what you don’t owe. Milkman said leave me. I said, no.
Why is that your new thing? Brag away from me. I need to sit a while. Right now. Himself is gone, leaving the cold flooded homebrand. To the light, he sings. To the light. Ain’t that the shit to beat it all. I’m yellinm’ children.
I can throw and hit a little.

Found the six polished rocks in the grass. Waiting for Dad. Mom don’t want to not know where he is. He worries her. We wait and wait. Dad’s still not done with his work. The new lady boss has him cleaning extra classrooms. Mom waits and worries, and prays Dad will come back to work tomorrow. Six Polished rocks, one of which was petrified glorious wound wood, made it easy that day to let my mind go the better. Better you and much better me.

Six pound fourteen schneebleys.

Black rat back, you bastard.
And then homeward boun’ we were, off to ride the roller to church. Hear Dad rock the bass on the way. I might listen, might not. Figure figure. Figure.

Left a gift by the door of your mystery. Left it there—elephants alone. Two. Didn’t care—home or not. I was not the worrisome warrior anymore. I can still see the drip. Still see the misunderstood motion for love. Motion love—motion of love. Bring over to Higgenbothemgall corner and watch ballbanyon from the lookerland hello seats. I’m from that plateau and have hid there among the bears and everbeasts. I hiked for glory—plateaued for pain. But you can’t listen anymore. Went the wind wild west, you say. And I’ve harmed.

Maybe you didn’t ask. Maybe it was I all along wanting the image broken. Yes passive. Would should could, might perhaps if why care? Line over the double ee. See. Shined on the wicked sided walleyed mishmosh of the others. The zoo keeper’s hungry grizzly contemplating that leap over the moat to the rush of loud lucsious children to eat. I saw and warned him. He didn’t jump.

And the fine fire built here within me, thank you.

It’s walked a path ground down to nearly the core of me. The center gleaming bright but the details around the edge stomped soft to bits. Truth to tell the more you tell the more the more. Round and round the center right.
And all my little soldiers turned it into a sales numbers game. How many would it take?
How many outlaws would we take on return to Craceytown?

The bouncing lady in big dark sunglasses barreling down a road that hugged the edge of a deep-sided canal. Blipped that bump and turned that lump upside down in the water. Seatbealt drowned her. Rush the children away and help them forget they watched her die—centered at the fence in silence, helpless to the wicked mess—def and isolated. Mate the memory to…la dee da. Incandescent blue tubes over TV’s uncle teacher, and we all laughed at the ads differently, embarrassed that we did. The beard and his trivia. Sports and all the rich little tits—I pop my jaw and impact wisdom teeth. Made ‘em want to shake me awake. Made ‘em work.

You pass the bills I can’t pass back. You yell and yell and stir the neighbors’ cats. But I can’t pass back. And here’s where’s it’s authorized. And have a nice day. And goodbye.

Throw out the friend’s brother for trying to touch mine. I’d kill and might have once neffortlessly.
I’m a legal drug dealer. See kids, I ask physicians to push and peddle my pretty pills twice daily for the rest of their lives. So bad? So sad. Never mind crossed combs and mirrors or piles of shave cream. Nevermind. I understand. Lipstick lounge.

As I said, the sound of death was wild. Right of my life. Next time. Won’t be a side of guilt I waited to tell you might fall off the table. Make more sense she says. You’re losing them. I’ve lost them but I have a plan I say. You’ll see it’ll grow like an erection and retract even slower. You’ll see.
Here we go.
So there we were, angry, old, rejected, forbidden, and left to wander. There in a fellowship doorbelless laundryhouse for coldboys.

Let It Rain

2007-09-03T16:15:00.001-07:00

The dogs pout when it rains.
I like the rain, muscles relax,
first time in months;
what else can I do but
stay inside,
write,
drink,
smoke,
and listen to music:
I have no choice when it rains.
I value the freedom of that loss:
let it rain.

The dogs hate it, and look at me
like I could, and should
stop it.
They want to go outside,
and run
and bark
and feel themselves.
I understand this, but
I am a pharaoh unto them,
and my self is of greater value.
To these I am a sun god, incarnate.
They can not comprehend me
and so heap their
wishes upon me,
in deep want of evidence.
I’ve never made it start
or stop raining
but I have acted in ways
beyond them,
and so they expect me to be capable
of everything beyond them:
Capable of fulfilling their
wishes and wants
and assuming
that I have not already ordered
all things under my authority
so that they suit and please
my will.

I have.
I am pleased.
Let it rain.

A form of sleep

2007-08-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

How long has it been since I didn’t feel tired?

I can’t remember.

Huh,

weird.

There are moments I feel wired,
amazing and ready,
but mostly I feel exhausted
and in need of pastoral
scenes of steers
chewing
and looking up on
occasion,
bleary eyed,
like they had just woken up
from a form of sleep
that they enter while eating.
that and some nice red wine
maybe a cotes du rhone
or bourdoux
and time,
blessed time,
a wealth of time.

Patiently Waiting

2007-08-17T15:00:00.000-07:00

I feel ugly today
ugly inside
like the awkward kid
worried about being beaten
at school again
or at home
or maybe more like the kid that beats him
at school
and only gets beat
at home.

He's solving the problems he can
Neither are comfortable
both seek solitude
both patiently wait
to not feel like this anymore
to just live
without so much struggle
day to day.

Easy to see how human minds
first started to imagine
heaven
nirvana, etc.
Real undisturbed rest
at last.

I wonder if anyone really minds
dying from old age
is it always a release
is the last exhale
a sigh
of relief.

American Sea Change

2007-08-04T19:04:00.000-07:00

A wave has crested

Change feels inevitable

Disillusionment is commonplace

Mistrust of the prevailing social order

Feels honest

It may not come during my lifetime

The wave of a nation is large

Measured in generations

Between crests

But it comes

And we feel it pulling at us

Plucking those taunt strings of meaning

That we have recently become so aware of

Sore muscles we didn’t know

A shift

Or a discovery

Of what the good life means to us

To our generation

Beginning to take power

Beginning to take responsibility

I’m ready for a change

The tune life is pulling from me

Compels me to move

To think

Not in refinements to what our parents did

But in wholesale change

Radical redefinition

Creative reinvention

Of our national self image

Of the American dream

Of the good life

A wave has crested

And a generation comes to power

Generation X

The first generation to be accelerated by technology

The first generation to be more mature than the preceding

The last generation that will remember the way it used to be

Before

The American sea change

We have been slow to move

But the tune is personal and compelling

And what we do is not rash

It is inevitable

And we all begin to feel the need

To move

Towards the only honest direction

That leaves hope for those that will replace us.

in progress

2007-08-02T18:33:00.000-07:00

I think the crisis you foretold—the one you said would make me have to change—I think it occurred. You said I might see death down a hall. You told me my choice would be clear, and that questions I had would stand small. You said I couldn’t know love until I was made to see. What you said was true—all of it—and at the moment of truth, my will went dry, my mind went black, and one was still there. Not exactly what I expected.
You were right when you pleaded with me to find my direction and make the most of it. You told me to eat, so I did. I ate and thought about meals of my past. Meals that made my world go round into a potter’s ground of bliss uneventfulness. I ate the dust of your worth. I’ve been to the edge of panic. The last word of reason. I’ve been to the place of fear and fearnot. You said it would scare me straight. It did.
Don’t care about the year-end statement. Day to day. Do the best you can due. You thought I might get grabbed around the throat or squeezed on the chest. You were both right. Fear and fame led me straight away—balanced at the tip. Fuck you.
Not an ounce of concern before crisis. How true. I thought listening to the couples murmur across the pond could set me low. The peaceful pillow talk of lovers in the dark just to sleep a few more minutes. Turn. And you turn over to. My turn to spoon you.
I saved nothing. And I was saved. Wasn’t shown how to live.
When did I go to shit? How does the progress look? Tell the truth, as you always have. Always given me my medicine. How did you know? You gave me the best and rest of you. And there’ll never be enough of me. Never enough to pay the payend.

“His Dad was kind of famous,” he mumbled. “He had money to—he was a trust fund kid. His Dad wrote books. He was a famous— ”
“He was a famous author,” she said, “Stephen Ambrose.”
“The Lewis and Clark historian?”
“Yeah.”

“Let me tell you something about frybread. Frybread has caused all those old Indians on the reservations to get diabetes.”
“My mom raised me on frybread.”
“I love frybread.”
“He don’t mean disrespect.”

You knew. Knew it all along. And it was the finest thought I’d ever known. You alone.
But the blasts never last. This may be how it is from now on. Ya’ll’ll have to go digging. Sentences aren’t looking one to the next, as they used to. You showed me more of me, standing hunched and low.

2007-07-14T11:54:00.000-07:00

Two Feathers said,
‘i don’t run’

he has dark, wrinkled
leathery skin, & a kid’s flat nose
his long sweat dried black hair
is streaked w/ gray

his ancestory is in the land
like mine in God

he sat at the bus stop bench
not holding his sacked bottle
he passed it down a few seats
so a cop couldn’t say it was his

“see?” he says to me
& pulls out a black and white photo
“my Grandfather . . . ”
the picture’s an old truck
w/ fat, round fenders
the side panel is riddled w/ bullet holes
a gaunt corpse in the cab
“. . . he did that.
tommy gun.”

a cop drives by
hanging the crook of his
hairy blonde arm out the window
he calls Two Feathers, Michael
& tells him to get moving

the cop car coasts up the street
moving w/ the push of traffic

“come on Two Feathers”
says a young hippie guy
w/ a stripped down bike
“let’s get going.”

“no.” he says
mad
“see what you did?
bringing the heat on me.”

“well let’s go man
they’re gonna come back.”

“no,” he says, “i don’t run.”

the hippie kid slings his pack
on his shoulder
& pushes his bike
around the
corner

i sit beside Two Feathers, in his
sweet perfume of drink
because i don’t run from trouble
just blessings in disguise
& people w/ good intentions

My Human Experience—June 18, 2007

2007-06-18T20:53:00.000-07:00

Today, at a fast-food restaurant, I stood with my old friend John Henning, waiting in line for our food from the counter. We were talking baseball, which I always enjoy with John, and I wasn’t paying very much attention to anyone other than me. Typical. I was very hungry, and John and I were having a lively discussion because the Rockies are winning.
Trays were being loaded with side items and moving out quickly after the order was completed. I saw a tray resembling what I thought mine would look like. I took my ketchup, napkins, and straw, and sat them on the tray and began eating the fries, one by one. I noticed a large dark-skinned gray haired man leering at me from my left. I wondered instantly if I had begun to devour his fries and not mine. A moment later when the announcement was his, he stormed over and said, “Give me some more fries” as he picked up the fry carton and flung it toward a tray that turned out to be mine, followed by my other accessories and scoops and handfuls of thrown fries. I felt his blood boil as he murmured obscenities and insults under his breath. I felt the excited tension build as he hurled, “idiot” my way. And I did not disagree. I apologized as cordially as I could and took all the blame. But he was not satisfied, and would never forgive me. I ruined his lunch.

Hearing and Knowing vs. Meeting and Seeing

2007-06-16T16:50:00.001-07:00

I heard about D before I met him.
I think he heard about me before he met me too.
Its funny how it started out like that;
Hearing before meeting;
Knowing before seeing.

Now we hear about each other (phone, blogs, email)
more than we meet with each other.
Its funny how we keep it going like this;
Hearing more than meeting;
Knowing more than seeing.

Would Jefferson and Adams still have written letters
if there had been telephone, or email?
I think they would have.

Would Cicero still have written all those letters
to his beloved friends
and companions of heart
if there had been telephone, or email?
I believe he would have.

In missing my friend,
I remember what he has said to me.
I replay him.
His expression,
of face
and word.
In his distance, he is closer
than many I see and meet,
but have such trouble hearing
and knowing.

Drop the Wrench and Back Away Slowly

2007-06-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

We are passionate,
smart,
creative,
self motivated,
and other elevated adjectives
that bullshit bloated
childhood authority figures
drilled into our foreheads,
eager empty eyed missionaries
tightening bolts
on our social salvation,
and each day of our lives
we do what we can
to escape the impossible
fucking goal of living up to
adjectives:

---

We are passionate about escape
We escape in intellegent ways
We escape in creative ways
We are self motivated to escape
Everyone I know gives escape one hundred and ten fucking percent!

---

and in doing so
we do so.

2007-06-14T23:10:00.000-07:00

went down to 7 bucks a whack
to get my haircut
by the old lady barber
w/ the little fur ball pooch
wearing a jean jacket
panting its felt tab tongue

an old man is getting his
hair cut
then a younger man waiting
& me in third

she finishes the old man
he gets up
& digs in his wallet
she sweeps up
skiffs of gray hair
brooming
the chrome hubcap base
of the barber’s chair

he gives her a crumpled fold of bills
‘thank you doll,’ he says
he reaches out
& they squeeze hands
in a wrinkled understanding
once, not so long ago,
they weren’t the generation
next in line for the grave

‘i’m gonna go have some beers’
he says on his way out
‘well then go across the street,’ she hollers after him

the guy next in line sits in the chair
the old man goes out the front door
& turns up the sidewalk

‘i didn’t mean in that direction’
she says to us
as the old man heads left
towards the dancin’ bare
strip club

Another Day

2007-05-31T19:24:00.001-07:00

Stress goes straight to my neck;
muscles seizing,
grasping at themselves, so
each new grip, just
binds them tighter,
heat builds up,
throbbing, and kicking at shoulder joints.

Frustration and pain.
God Damnit, exhale,
Slow breath.

I massage at them
violently,
trying to relax the muscles.

My head's held at an angle,
hand massaging rebelious neck muscles,
into submission,
grimace on face,
beard long in front,
balding head cut close,
eyes intense,
marching down the
quiet white halls
of wherever i work.

I look out from my angry
frustrated head;
the world is askew.
I'm looking for some way that
it will change.
A way the future will make it
better, easier to bear,
more tolerable.

I want to have time alone,
to think,
to be at peace for extended periods of the day,
to write,
to study,
to create something
for people like me.

I keep looking,
but the older I get,
the less hopeful
it looks,
that there is anything but
more daily suffering,
not understood
by those who appear to
feel good today.

I can't appear to
feel any way other than i do.
Its a failing of mine,
this involutary honesty.
I often wonder,
how many people
walking, these same white office hallways,
feel the way I do
but never show it,
never let on?

the chair (friends of the dentist)

2007-05-22T22:42:00.000-07:00

walking off the dock the next day
in short sleeves
& track mark in my arm
i felt clean, & my muscles felt strong
my veins were thick, swollen from labor

this new thing
was better than pot
so much cleaner in the head
pot can be a dirty drug
like tobacco, a nasty habit
hamper up the neural connections
slow down the thinker

i was on to something here
a new peak experience
here’s something to work
for
a week, two weeks, maybe
just a night, hard, strong,
indelible, like a new believer
that’s died for God

{{{{}}}}}}

there are directions to take in this life
& there are hours to waste
& there are thousands of ways
to avoid that ache.

& still, i cannot carry it
cannot name it, describe it
cannot share it. i know
how to dodge it
for a while.

i grieved
a full year
& longer.
she was there also
not wanting to live
but afraid to die

cloudy morning, no call no show, warming in god power choice on a bench beside the river walking path

2007-05-19T13:19:00.000-07:00

water fills in a valley
flows through
now it is flat
like a shimmering parking lot
"it is a very soothing garden
you just want to stay there"
one after another fighter
scars, rip the guts of
the sky
the sky guard trembles
the river's unhindered
"he said, feed it w/
vitamin D
so I did
& they're huge
& they're blooming."
the tow-boat has the drone
of a bass drum
& the tenor of chopped
up waters
dog walkers
reckon the sky freight
joggers scuff their breath
"she'll let 'em out
& they'll potty."
prominent nipples through a jogging suit
a neck & wrinkled face
"see what the new James Bond
is like
well, he has blue eyes."
the moisture from the damp
wood bench has transmitted
to the seat of my pants
married pairs ambulate
w/ empty mouths, wordless thought
then it is all clear
the morning people
go home to their nests
to cook bacon & eggs
abandon the birds
more chirps of worms
& songs for murder
& i am w/ them
outside of the program
& the warehouse
of moving boxes
where
they've registered me
to be.

Pulp Flesh under Fist

2007-04-18T05:22:00.000-07:00

When a woman was wronged, her man left
to exact justice by the physical exertion of his will.
He would pulp flesh under fist.
He would kill.
Her fury was funneled through him,
imagining his wrath and
his savagery as the extension
of her own will.
Together they were strong.

Humanity has found it necessary to make the units of power
weaker, so the whole
can be collectively stronger
and more savage.
A modern funnel for a nation
of passive men and women
to pour their fury and frustration into:
the state.

Men used to fill the imaginations of women.
Men were the sword of the family.

Men lost a role in the family, protector.
Women lost a concrete and constant
reason to honor her man, protection.
Every step of civilization has reduced,
the family, in favor of
the state.

We went from the swords of the family
to the iron ore of the state,
being pounded, daily
into the service
of a common fate.

I still dream of pulping flesh under fist,
of righteous slaughter,
of my woman funneling her will through me,
of blood on my hands and clothes,
and of her picking up these clothes
and carefully washing the blood out of them,
while smiling at me with
open respect and love
leaving me ready,
primed,
eager;
to do anything needful.

Cry

2007-04-12T17:23:00.000-07:00

Cry.
When I go, I hope you cry for me for years
And a lifetime.
When you hear my voice,
Or feel me familiar
I hope it kills you—
With me.
Scream and growl.
Wail and sob-on alone in your home.

Once, I made a delivery to a stranger. From the walk, I heard a woman inside yelling, roaring, and sobbing. I stood a few feet from the door before I announced my presence. The sound was so beautiful and passionate. She howled and bellowed words I couldn’t understand. She sang out in anguish and it was a feast and a symphony. She made me feel the pain. I felt the urge to cry with her, and then I pushed the glowing yellow dome. She took several minutes to gather herself, but I held patient—out of courtesy to the suffering. A Hispanic woman came to the door. She was middle aged, neat and pretty, with tied-up large curled black locks falling off her head. You’d never guess that moments before, she was in the grips of a fit of passion, mourning and screaming out for the lost. The dead.

2007-03-23T11:58:00.000-07:00

MLK 6 bus 3-22-7
"i'm a big girl but i'm little. i stay away from big men, like that."
"little. girl, there ain't nothin' on you that's little."
"i said, i'm big, but i'm little. i'm big, thick. but i'm little too. i don't want no big dude like that go sit on me, might squash me."
"you ain't little."
"yeah. i'm big thick. but a big man like that, all i feel is his big belly hitting me."

Change of Face

2007-03-16T21:48:00.000-07:00

I turned the corner,
Wheeling along behind
Windows and doors, where
A small boy on the walk
Stood tall on his pedals, and
I watched his face of deep
Concentration inward; and then
It shifted—in mid turn—
He smiled
And turned it all up.
He lifted it
And I imagined what
Scenario and story in his
Mind had led to that real
Smile.
He won.
He introduced the moment
And won.

Door of Disagreeance

2007-03-10T14:10:00.000-08:00

There’s a woman from my past, that when I think back, annoys the hell out of me, and in fact I still want to lecture her on the ways how not to treat men, because I never got to tell her. She was a controlling abusive abrasive she-devil. To this day, I struggle with why I spent nearly two years of my life with her. She was short and stocky like a good catcher should be, but she was cute and mousy in the face. When we first really talked, and not just smiled and flirted in passing, when we really talked, she told me she would be bringing her two-year-old daughter with us on our dates. The next time we talked she told when and where we would have sex. And we did. She told me to stay, and I did.
And then I thought, why do I think like this?
She hit like a guy, and did often, because I let her. She told me to call her when I got home, so she’d know I made it safe, and no one ever told me that, and I did. She told me. She told me we were good together and I thought so.
She didn’t tell me how she truly felt about her mother. And I genuinely enjoyed talking to Marilyn. Marilyn was an un-adopted orphan from New Jersey, who had made it out, and she was a good woman. But her daughter I knew best and maybe other of her children, were somewhat domineering and a little off. And from what I could tell, it was because of Marilyn. Marilyn told her husband and children what was what. But her children. Some were not right.
The one I speak of, she, she made me sit to pee, and thereby so did Marilyn, but I’m only pissed at the younger. How emasculating, to sit as a man and pee, when God clearly made us able to pee while upright. She said there was hard evidence that much splash-back landed on the floor around the bowl, and they had beige carpeted bathrooms. So I was told to squat like a woman, and I’ve not forgiven her. Eventually we both found we could not tolerate each other and the best occurred, when we parted ways.
But I must tell YOU, that she still makes me angry, when I think of the way I let her treat me. However, I did talk many long hours with Marilyn, where I learned much about life from her. Even though I didn’t agree with many of her iron clad opinions, I respected her, for what she had been through, and she knew many trends about people and their ways. And she warned me of things and signs about people I later valued. So it seems I may have known this woman I now despise, because I was meant to meet her mother and learn a few truths.
There’s more to say. And I might get to it one day.

Excerpts from Man is a Good Creation

2007-02-05T16:12:00.000-08:00

[Excerpt from Man is a Good Creation]
I was indoctrinated into the Christian religion from a young age. While I was still naïve and young enough to have recently believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, adults were actively and systematically trying to save my soul from an eternal and horrible torment that I was sincerely assured that I deserved.

[Excerpt from Man is a Good Creation]
A man who gives himself the benefit of the doubt is equipped, by practice, to extend this to others.

[Excerpt from Man is a Good Creation]
Healthy humility is not so hard to experience. Look into the mirror a few minutes longer than normal. Hold your own gaze. You will either have to look long enough to bring your "bad" side into focus, or long enough to bring your "good" side into focus.

Healthy humility consists of liking who you are, good and bad, and experiencing hope and anticipation in whom you are becoming. Humility is an honest self understanding.

Quiet Confession

2006-12-21T18:04:00.000-08:00

It was a quiet day. A day where the whole family does their own relaxed thing. A quiet Saturday maybe, like one of those days after returning from a long car ride. Although, I don’t know if we had returned from a long ride the previous day or not. Nonetheless, we all, Mom, Dad, my two sisters, and I, stayed confined to our quarters for most of the day.

I remember lying there writing in my journal about masculinity, and how feminism had attempted to destroy the masculine male. How masculinity had been turned into a negative thing, a problem that should be treated. Strength is only violent, unworthy and unnecessary. Feelings and emotions are what matter. And we can all agree on some basic human rights, can’t we? And then guided by our feelings for our fellow human beings, we can solve all the problems in the world. I don’t know how much of all that I was actually thinking, but you get the idea.
I knew I’d grow facial hair for the plain reason that women cannot. And that doesn’t matter, but who cares because I wasn't thinking any of that.

I was sure I would see the end of the world while I was still a kid. Well, I guess that didn’t happen. But back then, I’d been drilled with so much apocalyptic theater chatter, that I expected it nearly everyday as a boy in my parents’ home.

On that quiet day, when we were all confined to our quiet places, doing our quiet things, I fell asleep on my back with my journal across my chest and a blue pen in my hand. I turned once and switched out my lamp and changed positions. I stirred an hour later to the sound of thunder but did not wake. A storm rolled in and darkened the sky and hushed the breeze. All the elements were ripe for an encounter.

I dreamt I was deceived by a familiar old guy. In his garage, he had trick handcuffs and demonstrated for me how to escape the trick cuffs. He did it a couple times; a simple rough clockwise twist with both wrists granted freedom. He did it behind his back to prove he could. He asked if I could do it, and I did in front of him. He asked if I could do it with my hands behind my back. I turned my back to him. He switched the cuffs for real ones. I think I knew instantly, in my dream anyway, that the cuffs were changed. I remember the ratcheting rapid clicks had more meter to them, and the squeeze on my wrists was a bit more deliberate than previously. I gave them the same twist as before, but they didn’t loose. And just as I was calling out with questions and demands, he came out of my peripheral, behind to my left, wielding an aluminum bat. Because I saw him I was able to glance most of the blow to my head and shoulder. It was a fight for my life. I stumbled over debris in the garage. He walked over to me, preparing to strike. I tripped him up with my feet, and then did all that I could with my legs to put him on the ground, and I did. And then I heel beat his face till he quit struggling. Then I crawled through my handcuffed arms to have them in front of me. I used the short few links between each cuff to strangle the would-be killer, until he stopped breathing.

—And then lightning woke me.
I was alone. Not just in my room, but the whole house was vacant, because I checked in sort of a startled-awake adrenaline fit. I immediately thought I had slept through the rapture and my name had not been called. I was not chosen and I didn’t deserve it. I wanted to cry, and I may have. I tried to call a couple friends on the phone, but no one was home, which furthered my assumption that I’d been left to tribulate.

Not long later, Mom and Dad came home with a new TV. They left me sleeping because I looked so peaceful, Mom said.

I never felt foolish about my brief thoughts that day, and it makes sense in my landscape mind today--the complexity of beauty.

I am truly American

2006-12-09T14:43:00.000-08:00

After work, Thursday night, I had a dry blue collar thirst for beer. This is an unusual occurrence for me, it happens once in a great while, I could probably count the times on both hands. It manifests after a day of hard work, physical labor, moving tons of material, with fork lifts, with your hands, clothes covered in dust. The only thing that sounds good is a cold beer, stomach nearly empty, lunch digested by energy, a fast pace. This is the kind of evening not to wait but to drink it down on the drive home.

I am truly American, I have joined the ranks of the archetypical auto worker. Except I am in the business of building trucks, tractor trucks, semis, diesel engines, fleet trucks, heavy duty trucks, military trucks; in the business of creating more need for oil, feeding the needs of war. A union worker. & a lay-off is in the near future.

So on this day, at the beginning of the shift, they have what they call a town meeting. The production line shuts down & all the swing shift workers in the plant, remove their ear plugs, take off their protective eye wear & gather in the middle of the floor. They have a stage set up & a big power point, screen. More & more gather, mainly men, it looks like a harley convention, a rock concert. “All those standing move forward,” a man yells & droves mill forward. Some sit on orange dingy’s – one man standing golf carts for moving parts quickly through the plant. A few have metal folding chairs. Every race, black, white, asian, every working age. One guy looks south american indian. I mistake his round face for a woman’s but then see the long black soul patch hanging from his lip.

Along with the smell of fresh paint & solvents in the air, there is an energy as all face the stage, waiting to hear the specifics on the lay off. It’s known that 800 were laid off in a Canadian plant. Rock music plays over the speakers until the plant manager steps up to the podium. He is the new plant manager, explains his past, working thirteen years for a competitor, now he’s settled his family in Vancouver, excited to be back in the northwest, a place that has a lot to offer. The outline appears on the screen & he addresses what will be covered, last years progress, this quarter’s progress, safety & what everyone wants to hear, the forecast for 2007. When he finally gets to the forecast he essentially says nothing that’s not already known. Due to new emission standards, truck buyers are leery of purchasing trucks with the new engines, this is industry wide, sales are predicted to fall off in the spring; but as long time auto workers know, there is always a rebound & this is counted on. & when the market comes back call backs will happen. Then he highlights things to keep in mind in a lay off, quality should not go down prior to the layoff, as the buyers now will be the same buyers later etc., there is funding for school or career development, food help from the unions. All over the floor the work force listens rather unmoved, it is massive, it is the flesh muscle behind the rigs. Some have climbed up on a military truck & listen to the speech perched on its bed. One guy sits in the drivers seat of a just completed semi, window down, listening.

I think of this mass of strength, & how it is mobilized by one thing, money – each person is here only because there is a paycheck waiting at the end of the week, the same with armies. If we paid all these men & women to kill would they? what about to plow? to remove every dandelion between here & Mexico, what if they were all paid to sit cross legged for eight hours a day, paid to pray, paid to help their fellow man? Ah, the whistle blows & it is back to work.

So I make a stop at the convenience store & search for quarters in my ashtray & find only two in a mess of nickels & pennies. I miss the cash of pizza delivery. I buy a quart of beer with a credit card. Every time I’ve hit this convenient store the parking lot has something going on, usually internally, in a strange crack addiction way, the guy in the car next to mine fidgets with something, or the slight man, leaning his strength to push open the glass door, looks emaciated by liquor or something, dressed in tattered layers, wandering off to find a hole to sleep in. Christmas music plays inside, jingle bells, ring in my head.

I sit in the car w/ my bottle opener & see a kid walking, aimed at my driver side window. Nope, I say before he’s near. I crack the window, his hair is dyed black, hanging in thin locks, baggy pocketed black pants. He starts his speech, “I’m not able to go in there & buy something” he stutters, smiles, & starts again, “I’m not able to go in there and buy something because I’m too young. Do you think you could help me out?” He is beautiful. And the times I used to do the same thing, one day, Andy & I skipping school, spent all morning, searching for a buyer, one old man, lectures us, “I used to be an alcoholic, if you’re smart, you won’t touch the stuff.” Thank you sir, & we head off to find someone else, finally locate a bum that goes into a downtown liquor store & gets a little something for himself along with our purchase. This kid is all alone, maybe planning to drink alone. Young, maybe 15 at the most, wonderfully, naively hoping for a fine escape, to cure everything. “No,” I say, “I can’t but good luck.” I drink the beer in 7 miles, getting the carbonated, elevation of slight numbness into me & feel fine for bed when I get home to the sleepy house.

Thoughts on Change

2006-12-06T06:45:00.000-08:00

Change is often resisted on a personal level, and
just as often healthy to everyone involved.
-

Change seems to be something that must be practiced
before it can be handled well.
The practice of change is not yet taught
or instructed
in a scientific fashion.
-

We are strangers to change.
We resist change that effects ourselves,
while celebrating change that effects others
(but could indirectly benefit ourselves).
-

We come back stronger from change,
or we don't come back.
This is evolution in action.
-

An aware and fully conscious adult should be
willfully practicing change.
So that when change comes it is not strange
and threatening
but familiar.
-

Two Week Purgatory

2006-12-06T06:37:00.000-08:00

I received a new job offer.
Accepted.
Gave notice to current employer.
Accepted.
Now I'm counting the days,
ready for new problems, and
new pressures.
Ready for,
new.

Sound

2006-11-18T12:40:00.000-08:00

As Mozart is the sound of the mind,
Cash is essential to the soul.
But either fit with the loneliest
Profiles among the commoners.

Never used to be,
When the men ran wild
And chased animals through
Trees.

Days where the sun bites last
Light of work weary old.
Hair lain forcefully on grains
Of yesterdays.
Miles and miles of new spaces
Filled with the eyes’ glorious
Color.

Music played on before
The composer lifted ink.

As I’m thankfully over the worst,
I’ll allow this illusion to serenade me daily.
And it’s just that easy, to the
Next best thing.

A Little Nervous

2006-11-01T07:09:00.000-08:00

I feel a little nervous this morning,
  a little anxious.
I’m not shaking
  or curling up into a ball.
Just a little, nervous.
Waiting to be unexpectedly accused
  of something for which I’m innocent
  or guilty.
It’s an awkwardness, that
  leaves me unsure,
  which is not true to
  my nature.
I know this will pass with
  sleep or smoke, and that tomorrow
  I will feel strong and resolute.
But today remains, and I feel
  just a little
  nervous.

Trails of the Commonplace Prophet

2006-10-31T18:22:00.000-08:00

I’ve almost had it with this life.
Lord, keep me going,
Because I don’t know what else will.

She said, “things were never meant to be this way.”
And I said, “what do you mean?”
But she didn’t know,
And nor do I.

On a bright morning, after we’d fought harshly, and a week after the December 26, 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, I walked past a man I thought to be homeless in a nearly empty parking lot.
“You call that a tsunami—that was nothing but a wake,” he blurted, as we passed.
Initially, because of my troubled state, I thought he was talking about she and I, and I was stunned. I took a few steps and then looked back, but he was gone. That moment has lingered with me like a bad memory or a powerful dream.
I can’t make any sense out of his message intended for my ear.

The strangest messages can come from strangers strangled by truth.

Not Knowing is a State of Wisdom

2006-09-29T15:24:00.000-07:00

There are many things I struggle to say
Cough, stammer and stutter
I’m daily looking for a way
To communicate
I want, I need, this I believe
; A verbal outlet
; A window to take my bet
If there were only meaningful risks
Long shots are still shots
I wouldn’t be so stiff
with unreleased need.
Life is far too easy.
Survival is free.
Relevance has been re-keyed,
And no one really knows what to do
; With themselves
; Their lives
; Their resources
; Their will
The bookshelves are full
of pages and ineffective answers.
The podiums are manned
with gurus, holy men, and handsome faces
none of which can stand on their own.
They need our need to lean on.
It answers questions for them,
but not us.
I keep coming back to a single purpose
that I never regret:
struggling to say.

2006-09-27T01:23:00.000-07:00

some people are meant to be the drunks. they give the occasional drunk so much more pleasure. Michael Sutton, he was meant to be a drunk. i don’t care what you say, that was when he was alive -- when he knew his fix was coming, imminent. “i’m going to introduce you to . . . “ whatever, he might say about some wine i’ve never tried before, he’d give me a description, like just before meeting some attractive college girl or boy full of talent.
these days i miss him. thinking of our last visit. how could i be honest? he mentions plans for moving up to the northwest, how can i tell him that my wife shudders at the idea of him living near us? you creep her out, i might say, but never do. i never know how to read Beth, he tells me many times. Beth is always an enigma to him. She doesn’t say enough to clue him in, yet she is alert & not much escapes her & he sees that. but i can’t explain her, i’m her husband. ah, it’s fine, fine.
tonight i drink a bottle of wine, el gato negro, which mike introduces me to probably in the boise days, in our depressive 4-plex living, yet wine & pills get us so elevated & numb to the problems of tomorrow, it’s all tonight. tonight, things are truly what they are, & we are truly who we are, we feel this good, just as warm & feeling as now. pain, well, pain is manageable, tonight. this is who we are.
tonight i drink alone B passed out during our movie, i finish the bottle of wine, take the trash & recycling out to the curb, go back out to the back porch, pull a few times on a tobacco pipe, missing the company of Mike – these were his kind of nights – gut full of wine muting a morning full of responsibilities.
when i see him in heaven, i hope to God that the two of us can sneak off for a drunk, for an evening, we can talk about the saints, he can tell me who he must introduce me to -- who will blow my mind. & i’ll agree, fuck right, man. & hopefully my life won’t be all piss & shit & he can be impressed by some little token of mine, some badge that is a precursor to me, this is my brother Duane, he . . . & he’ll make whatever i’ve done sound better than it actually is. but before all that we’ll have another glass since we’re just getting started,

2006-08-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

strolling down 12th st in Boise on a hot dry afternoon, headed for the cold swift water of the Boise river, flapping my slippers upon the baking white sidewalks, my backpack slung over one shoulder. heat radiating off business buildings, a girl walking ahead of me w/ white tank top, see through back; ripped jeans, one rip just below her cheek. i catch up to her quickly, ‘what are you up to?’
her glance is quick and calm, ‘absolutely nothing.’
she is short, trim, w/ a little bra that’s too lumpy for her small breasts. her hair has been died, red, blonde, orange, and now is a mixture, an unnamed color. i’d tell her what i’m up to, killing time while Les Schwab mounts two new tires on my wife’s van, but she doesn’t ask, so i stick with her agenda, ‘absolutely nothing huh?’
‘yeah i’m looking for some people’
‘who are you looking for?’
‘my boyfriend and his friend.’
‘what did you do to your arm?’ i point to two deep scars on her shoulder, almost touching them with my fingertip. each scar is about an inch long & deep. if the cuts ran a little longer they would have intersected and made a sideways ‘v’. her body seems young, unaged, fresh. her shoulder is perfectly molded for a young woman.
‘my cat scratched me.’
‘your cat scratched you? you got a mountain lion for a cat?’
‘it attacked me.’
‘that’s one big cat’ we are nearing an intersection. ‘what?’
‘i was attacked by a unicorn.’ she repeats.
i understand what i already knew, ‘yeah, i’ve got scars like that too.’ i ask if she is of age.
‘of age?’
’18.’
‘no.’
we cross the intersection to a corner music store which looks vaguely familiar to me. i think i’ve been in it before. it’s one where a patron feels pressured to purchase or pontificate on which band he saw where prior to their obscure popularity. she crosses behind me, for the door paneled with music artists’ posters. maybe her boyfriend is inside. ‘take care.’ i head on down to find a place along the river.

Stay

2006-08-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

Never noticed the ceiling—
Then on the floor looking up
It’s there. There is a ceiling.
I noticed. Buried I guess till
Now.

What kind of person is he?
What kind?
What kind of girl is she?

What kind is me,
Crazier than blazes
Out there today?

Powerless and weak to the
Charm of lingering tears
For David’s daughters.
Tempting me back with
The couldn’t realize—just
To search a path.

Verse after verse,
the music
Changes gradually to
Empty your thoughts into
Buckets of bulging, pregnant
Good intentions I have
For mother earth tomorrow.

Today, like yesterday,
Will die in the ephemeral,
Nature of memories—
Everything is mine after all,
And I’ll pass-off doses of
Reassuring words as mine.

Still looking up from my
Bed—the bathroom floor, and
A walk through the comfort
Dream place. The one hard to
Describe, because it’s more
Personal Feeling than broadcast able.

I’m unable to defend my place—
Apologize, I cannot.
A million times up and back down,
Makes the ride every ride,
I won’t get up. I just won’t
Go from here
Into the sphere around four o’clock.

But that’s a fleeting fancy—
I do not follow that creed, my
Nature intends to trudge and plod
Through fields of variety and
Comfort foods, and therein,
Stay.

Path of Inquiry

2006-07-26T19:01:00.000-07:00

“The faith of a soldier is commonly the fruit of instruction, rather than of inquiry;”
Edward Gibbons

I’m reminded of the hymn sung on Sundays in the Baptist houses of worship, “onward Christian soldiers”, and on the almost complete trust and weight of discipleship resting on the foundation of instruction in the modern church.

I’m chastised and forcibly reminded that Jesus never recruited soldiers, unless to convert those into friends and brothers, and that he only ever led us into his imitation in discovering and communicating the underlying truth of man’s nature and purpose. The path of peace, as some generations of Christians have embraced, bends the partisan sword of soldiers into the patient understanding of neighbors.

The path of inquiry is where we will see the footprints left by an elder brother we remember and still hold up as a mirror and measure of our own behavior. Where we don’t yet understand, and there will always be considerable amounts, we should rest on the wisdom of our family and the good knowledge of our friends, until we have the time to personally inquire and investigate the truth for ourselves, both enlightening and exercising our own minds in this prescribed and singular practice of faith.

We are not the soldiers of a sovereign but the friends and little brothers of truth.

Always Ready

2006-07-24T14:35:00.000-07:00

Ready to fight
Ready to fly
Directionally confused
Tired
Still, but ready to move
Happy in spurts
Hopeful in episodes
With panic experienced briefly in between
And above all
Completely distrustful of all these feelings.
Is this a normal
human
condition?

One Management Opinion

2006-07-10T11:44:00.000-07:00

The state to keep
your creative assests
at peak productive potential:

Not under the thumb, so much as
ready to run
dogs straining chains
creative
bound up
ready to rip throats out in whole new ways

Investment Children

2006-06-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

Parental Investment
Species invest time, energy and other vital resources into their offspring. They take critical calories and burn them in service to their progeny, calories they could be using to get stronger or more secure in their characteristic struggles. Some leave eggs on the beach, others raise them for a season, and still others raise them for years. Humans take significantly longer than other species to reach adulthood. There is a critical amount of investment needed to bring offspring to adulthood, at which point they are understood to have a sufficient chance at survival and procreation. Humans have in recent history counted children at age eighteen to be adults. I reference history because healthy modern eighteen year old humans are still fully or near-fully dependant on their parents. Other human cultures allow an earlier maturity and independence, but modern western cultures have been pushing this number back. I would guess a national average is closer to twenty now, and for the affluent and educated it would probably rest closer to twenty five before full independence is reached.

Surplus
There are significant elements of the human population that are investing more in their children than historically normative. We are in a transition. Education levels for men and women of all economic classes are higher than their economic and working situations demand. We have a surplus of education in our culture. We have also begun to get more and more free time and free income for these same groups. This secures, at all but the lowest levels, a group of parents with education and intelligence that goes unchallenged during their work day, and the time and money to exercise their atrophied mental limbs outside of work.

Meritocracy
A contributing factor is the idea of the meritocracy. The belief and trust that merit will win out in the end, maybe not in every specific situation but in the majority of situations, the best will be rewarded. Whether this is true or not is not as important as the belief of the populace that it is true.

Unprecedented Investment
This leaves modern affluent parents in the western world in a unique situation to provide unprecedented investment in their children. We still do not know what this radical change in parenting investment will yield. The children of the sixties became the first of these parents, and they had generation X, to whom we should credit the explosion of the information age. It was this generation of offspring who were sufficiently invested in, that they could dive into the primitive computers with active imaginations and a nurtured intelligence and bring in a new era of mankind. History will look back at this primitive information society and wonder at our rapid adaptation. Marvel at the type and amount of labor required to build programs that support our new economy.

Observation of Acceleration
This is an example of what the first generation of investment children have accomplished. They still live and work, and have much time left to add to this record. They have yet to fully take political power from older generations, although this is not too many years away. In the meantime they are having children of their own. On average they have waited later, and the more affluent and educated they are the truer this proves. They have waited till they were more capable and mature than their parents were, and if observation proves true they are investing more in their offspring than their parents did in them, possibly double or triple the investment of critical resources.

Speculation on Division
What will this accelerating investment cycle bring us? What will our first and second generations of investment children bring forth upon this planet? My speculations on this topic bring more hope than fear. I wonder if the cultural singularity will come or if we will evolve with too much speed leaving ourselves vulnerable to the still savage and brutal parts of the globe. This will cause upheavals and forced balancing of power. We see it beginning now.

Investment Divide
Mankind will change dramatically, at a rate unprecedented, within the next three or four generations. They have the potential to fulfill our hopes for human kind, but we have a global concern; certain parts of the world will enjoy this and others will not. Those who do not are a threat to our offspring. We must equip them with similar advantages, or we must equip our children with the power to subdue them.

Those Standing to Loose and the Final Minority
The future is always opposed by those whose way of life will have to change to thrive. These peoples will wish to hold back change and even regress into our past where their ways of thinking were dominant. They will look ahead at the change these investment children bring and dread the future. Our offspring must advance to a point they can peacefully bring the majority of these people along with them, they can not be ignored or deprived. Their dread must be combated with hope, and assurance that they and their children can participate and thrive at an equal level. Once the majority of hold backs are convinced of this we will be left with the minority. The minority of these will have to be subdued and forcefully dominated until their generation dies off. With every generation the minority will find itself decreasing, and becoming more marginalized and irrelevant to the new world around them. Our investment children must woo and encourage each generation to join into their present; still our anticipated but future.

Undetermined Potential
We are living in a historical time of transition. We would like the world to slow down, but we keep doing every thing we can to speed it up. How else to give our children a better life? What is the limit of investment that we would make in our children? Our only limits are our willingness and our capability, both of which are reaching levels never before seen in such a large section of human society.

Ancestral Dream

2006-05-24T09:38:00.000-07:00

The ancestral dreams are a
Welcome vision—nights that
Need the violence.
The sword’s angle falls
Harshly through flesh—
Mine cut people in half
Because they could.
I would too—had the
Women asked.

Leather beards and I,
Behind angry eyes, lead
The way to tents of
Lust—the way it used
To be and should’ve been,
There in those wet lost places.

In the fortress, girls scream
And women don’t—in another
Place assumed—I boil with urge
And desirous rage.
Make the weak do as they’re told
For the good of my clan I can.

A messy and perfect conclusion
Meets the dawn of my new day
Here among their children.

Space Yellow

2006-05-24T09:35:00.000-07:00

I began in the space yellow
Tide morning hue null in
Mind.
Of bells gone loud and
Last valence shaken moist
No more the wicked
Son I’ll be.
Kick the soup
In the stock iron
Man.

Little Corona

2006-05-23T10:52:00.000-07:00

The sun shone brightly on
The California shore—
Alone with my siblings,
Family and others.
She came from the water—
An enchantress birthed by
The deep and nurtured with
Sand.
Little Corona flows with
Scattered eccentric memories
Shattered—I want you still.
I struggle between images forbade
For us both under the warm
Stream of dirty sand beach showers
Placed for eternity.
Tan and tar stained feet never
Clean—I watched the moment
Unfold—acted out and planned
For a millennia—my departure and
End, imminent.
But you, you imagined the dream
Could last forever—gathering my
Name and attention to this very
Undesirable moment for the
Pain of wicked work.
You’re the comfort
Demon in a black one-piece,
Dragging me back
To this place gone twenty years
Today and also yesterday.
I’m stuck with you—stirred
Thin throughout my psyche
You’re there, in love with me
Alone.
I wait.
I wait for word from the crowd—
A passing whisper of your
name gone dilute.
You healed me for a lifetime
and made the bleak seem small.
A day will come again for you—old
One at Little Corona,
A day when pleasure finds words
And runs you wild.

Redeeming Habit

2006-05-20T17:46:00.000-07:00

I like drinking black coffee,
some mornings
more than others, but
I drink coffee
every morning
of every week.

Habit keeps me going anyway;
momentum.

Addiction: reelected once a day;
incumbent.

This morning,
the warmth in my hand,
the steam in my eyes,
make the daily addiction
worth it.
All those mornings of habit
are redeemed
when it makes a morning,
any morning,
feel like college
or that coffee you had on the deck of the ship
staring at jungle coastline
feeling refreshed
and ready.

I think of my other addictions like this too:
one wife,
two kinds smoking,
and all kinds of drink.

The thing to watch out for,
is a significant delay in redemption.
This is when the
Redemption of Habit,
has been a long time coming.

I should keep a journal,
of those perfect mornings
when I feel so well
constructed.
Then I could determine the standard
deviation of my addictions.
Rehab would always occur before
four standard deviations had been reached.
Maybe five.

Another thing I should do is remember.
I must remember,
when the anticipated and
unforeseen moment arrives,
at that moment,
that signal moment of a good addiction,
I must do nothing but soak
And bathe
And breathe
Until I feel so exceptional, that
I have no need to do anything else.

2006-05-13T13:09:00.000-07:00

last night at 2:30 in the morning
the sun rose in the west
i had dishes to wash
but went outside to marvel
w/ the other two workers
gazing at the new day
the anomaly at close
we had to point it out
to the drunks leaving the bar next door
but they didn't care
one blonde girl didn't see the big deal
since most of the sky was still black anyway
except the yellow sphere around the orb
& the brightening land beneath
it's fucking time, i said
to her, it's how we live
at this time & that time
be here and be there
the other workers & i became
prophets of the sun
preaching to the unshaken
followers of routine
Can you not see what it
means for the sun to rise
at 2:30?

i moved my finger across
the red veins of a map
& ended up in Michigan
& followed a quick footed
shaved head man skirting over sand
through a compound of buildings
leading me to a service
(i thought, if i had to catch him, tackle him
i could. he could not escape me. his tracks
in the sand.)
he opened the door & in the meeting hall
the locals had painted their sheeps' faces,
made them wear dresses,
sit in pews beside them like children
the woman next to me hissed & scolded
her sheep for its shifting, sizeable inattention
Dad preached & told of a speech
Nancy Regan gave that caused an
economic depression in Hawaii
the congregation asked about
my youngest daughter,
"if when she was here, could she speak?"
they spoke of her in the past tense
b/c she was not with us
but was adrift, lost somewhere
when the glow from the west melted time & direction.
yes. she could speak.

Work Spends Me

2006-05-03T10:56:00.000-07:00

I haven’t written much lately, and
my recent ideas feel undernourished,
and skeletal, to the touch.

A common poverty

Work spends me,
spends
and spends
until I’m spent.
Good ideas flow
in and back out
not captured.
They will have to come again
when I’m rested
relaxed, and
refreshed.

Maybe after the next
objective, deadline or strategy
is realized
i’ll be better able
to save my time
and energy.
Then I’ll be rested
relaxed, and
refreshed.

A common hope

A Grey Matter

2006-03-30T17:20:00.000-08:00

The tow truck arrived after I had been sitting there for more than an hour. The man looked familiar and friendly. A tall, wiry, dark-haired man in a red baseball cap and worn work boots, got out of his truck to greet me.
“Have you been here long?” He said.
“An hour,” I said.
“Sorry, I just came from a really bad wreck,” he said, with a nervous tone.
“Oh yeah, what happened?”
“I don’t know how the accident happened, but the driver must have taken a terrible blow to the head.”
“Why?” I said.
“There was blood everywhere, and I found a chunk of gray matter on the back seat as big as an onion. But that’s not the worst of it.”
He told me how it had been a hot wretched afternoon, and he’d been rather bored most of the day. He wanted something to do, and when that call came in, he was ready and willing to be there to provide a needed service.
When he pulled the crippled car back to the yard and parked it, he heard a strange dull ring coming from the car. He figured he might have to disconnect the battery, which is common after a wreck. He stuck his head in through the broken front window and immediately wished he hadn’t. Bees. Bees frenzied in the car, hundreds of them. It took the driver a moment to figure out what was attracting them. And then he spied the gray matter, now half the size it was at the crash scene. Bees cannot resist the powerful, fatty, cholesterol ridden aroma of mammal gray matter.
How sweet it is.

Dallas in February

2006-03-23T06:55:00.000-08:00

Dallas in February, depressing in a truly urban fashion, traffic slowed to a crawl by a persistent two day old drizzle. Everything is wet. I’m late for a job I daily dread. Sitting in traffic, hated habit, out my car window I can see a huge mass of birds infesting bushes, trees and drooping power lines. They make the concrete and glass look pale and sick. In a commuter’s daze, blank eyed, consciousness condensed to driving, I’m fascinated by their numbers, content to think about anything that does not involve my progress or my destination, I wonder how so many survive. The birds, in a twisting cloud of black, lift from their wet urban perches almost as one. My commuter eyes track their movement. In detail they have no organization, pure chaos, every bird moving independently, but in mass they are a fluid cloud, like the exhale of some thick tobacco filled lung. I watched them go, watched them dwindle out of sight, before hunting for a way into the right lane.

Pre-Colonization Religious Fragment

2006-03-21T07:46:00.000-08:00

"Good and evil composes each of our lives, none of us is perfect or constant. We often act wrongly and this builds up, like a layer of ash. When we die, the lifeless ash covering us dissipates into the void. The good in us, which we are born with, that had not been turned to ash and that which built up when we would often act rightly, is pulled back towards the earth. Pulled by a spiritual gravity, drawing us down once again into the ancient home of humanity. Earth herself gives you a new body as you meet her again. She gives you a life that fits you. We are humans because we had enough goodness in us to fit this form and these lives. We are on our way, and this is an advanced leg our race. We are close. Some of our faith believes that there is a great sun of purity and peace burning in the heart of the earth and that is what draws us back from the void and into the embrace of life over and over. Others believe that it is the collective weight of the teaming body of life that makes this world pulse that draws us back and gives us form once again."

"What is your opinion teacher, what draws us back?"

"Either way we are drawn back, and that to me seems the superior understanding. As to what draws us back, I believe that the fire in the heart of the earth is simply chemical reactions and that we are life drawn back to life; clinging to each other. How would another planet have enough life in its belly to draw us back? No we are life, and ash covered as we are it is this life that draws us back and gives us form. We take life with us into space, and it is this belief that will give us the courage and faith to settle our new homes."

"When will we reach out, and add life to new planets?"

"When is in the hands of the technologists, we must put our faith in them. Who will go, is another matter. We must send our greatest souls, so that if they meet an alien form of life they will act with wisdom and consideration. Also, they must have enough goodness in them to draw back those of their numbers who will surely die in the harsh new worlds."

"Those of you who train to be an astronaut remain, all the rest are dismissed."

2006-03-12T18:06:00.000-08:00

Chaos Away

When Chaos sits in my lap,
I rejoice—and China
Becomes clear and
The rest is worthless
Drivel.

Days like these come
Every other—Ounce and
My pounds weigh heavily
Burdened with glorious
Me.

The music shouldn’t scream
Celebrate—make it an is,
Isn’t that why by old
And evident ways we
Flee?

Plan and step away from
Those not mentioned—last
At dinner in the fool’s kitchen
Morning sun meeting
To.

Drivel to flee me.

observer observed, security cameras under bridge, mechanical eye in my head

2006-03-11T15:56:00.000-08:00

1. I5 bridge
boring seagulls
murky saturday
geese, a couple of frantics
needing an excuse to jump

nazi disney
mass production
of war machines
manufactured underground
filmed rising from earth like hornets

2. University Park
hang glider view
flocks of birds funnel
ground ward, mocking the immobile
skyline, stout skyscrapers

1.5 how come you
make up silly
songs not about God?
Ms. Stephanie says we should
sing only about God. stone kicked
across asphalt.

Transmissions from Frank

2006-02-26T06:23:00.000-08:00

Frank’s Message to Mrs. Tingier’s Fifth Grade Science Class

There is some seriously perverted shit going on in space. Take away the effect of a basic law of physics and people get very creative. Sure scientists and technicians have made great use of absolute freezing and zero G. “Fusion fuels space™”, right? That’s why I’m up here, that’s why the controlling AI is up here, and that’s why you’ll spend five minutes to hear me grate on your tender sensibilities. All that is fine and good and supports the flaccid utopian time sink, you’re all so enthused about, but the majority of time spent in space and I mean the vast majority, is spent in shameless and unabashed genital stimulation. We are an inventive species. I keep to myself for the most part, but I’ve accidentally ponged my way into one of these low g areas they use. They don’t like zero G, most of them need a little gravity assisted friction to make it work. So they tend to congregate on the outer edge of the stations where there is nearly a quarter of a G. They think they’re so clever, they call these “G spots”, search on that term with “space” or “station” and you’ll get way more hits than you’d imagine.

On the other hand, don’t. It’s disgusting. These perverts live healthier and longer than any other humans in the history of mankind, but their minds are so wet with rot, they must itch like a mother fucker. In space we really have the extremes; we achieved the creation of a sentient AI, which propelled humanity into a peaceful period now in its third century, where the only commodity left, the only currency left to us is time, and how do we spend our precious time, copulation. It makes me want to suck a case of tubes just thinking about our goddamned good luck. There was a moral lesson in there somewhere, find it yourself, I’m tired and don’t think a single one of you will make anything out of your lives that doesn’t involve vaginal fluids.

Transmissions from Frank

2006-02-11T10:04:00.000-08:00

Frank’s Message to Ms. Dowtree’s Substance Abuse Class

Zero G demands that alcohol be consumed in tubes. You squeeze oblivion into your mouth. It’s not drinking. It’s sucking. The tubes are well designed, as you would expect, and quite the collectors item dirt-side. I used to bring them home to my kids after a trip. Other dads bring back t-shirts and stuffed animals. I bring back empty single malt scotch tubes. Always a huge hit at the kid’s show-and-tell. Actually you have to be a bit of a drinker to suck the tubes; most of the normals take their pill in Jello or pudding form, much friendlier in low gravity. The die-hards and the connoisseurs suck the tubes.

I’m a die-hard; just can’t adjust. Yeah, I’m high tech. I’m one of the few people with skills worth keeping in orbit, but when it comes to drinking, or “coping” as my personalized morning psych mantra calls it, I’m old fashioned. I like to get “ping-pong” drunk, and then feel like shit for two days. For those below, “ping-pong drunk” is like stumbling drunk but in zero G its all about controlling your float and managing hand holds. Get drunk enough and that is no easy task. Push off a wall too aggressively and your head is cushioning your shoulder’s blow against a bulk head. Then you spin off and bowl down a hand-holding line of school children. That’s ping-ponging.

Drinking used to be sophisticated. Long after smoking became a shun-able offense, drinking persisted with style. Of course, as my morning brain washing reminds me, that was a very long time ago, and it’s very unhealthy whether from a tube, a bottle or a jiggling cube of Jello.

“The only person I’m hurting is my self.” Every time this unwanted line of reason drags its limp cock through my brain I drop everything I’m doing, yell “damn right” and get disgustingly drunk. The best part is how foul one drunk can make the air on a small space station. Juvenile? Yes, it damn sure is and I’m not proud of it, but it’s my coping mechanism and I’m not giving it up just because you bunch of Nazi fucks make faces at me. I know how important bowel control is on a space station, but somehow you still keep me in orbit. I guess its not that important, now is it?

cherry pit pillows warm

2006-02-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

I received this poem today from AGF. She's a german musician, poet, producer that I enjoy. Check her out.

in between winter and winter
lets make our own
cherry pit pillows warm

break away music
awareness from morning on:
everybody is a disaster

look at me
.what i do. during the time
extract from existing

Take Advantage

2006-02-02T16:54:00.000-08:00

Force can not always be exerted. We must rest, and so we must learn to be contented: Contented between exertions of force, between expressions of power. Constant expenditure leaves only the capability for the smallest changes, leaving the powerful barely potent.

Some men, living without rest, living with constant acts of change, forget what it feels like to be powerful. They begin to doubt they are powerful at all. These too kinetic men begin to feel impotent and weak, irresistibly dreaming of large scale change and just as irresistibly sinking back into the couch to change a channel, or fill a fresh bowl.

Learn to be content in turn with disturbed. If you don’t enjoy what you’ve wrought you’ll soon forget why you fight. A loss of vision is another sign of exhaustion.
--

We are finite. If you don’t respect your limits, you’ll be the fool running into the cell door, bloody smears and pass out.

We are finite, but not as small as we make ourselves. Learn to be content in turn, and you won’t ruin yourself for something less than a great purpose.

How am i not myself

2006-01-31T13:20:00.000-08:00

"I heart huckabees", the movie

If you have not watched this film, I suggested that you do! I haven't been this impressed by a movie in a long while.

My post-movie thoughts: I feel absurd about my life but at the same time more resolved to continue in just the same way, but, fuck it, more of that same way.

How much of my own being do I throttle in an attempt to be appreciated?
--

I've been mixing my paints with way too much water.
--

God - we're absurd. I've never been more proud of us. I hope we become more of what we already are.

Revelations Intrinsic To Response

2006-01-27T06:27:00.000-08:00

When you understand someone you have fewer occasions for emotional response.

When your response to another person's action is emotional, you can be certain that you do not truly understand that person. If you understood them your action would not have been conceptually based, but would have been based on understanding. Conversely, if another person’s reaction to you is emotional you can be certain that they do not truly understand you. Put another way, your action was in contrast with their understanding of you, so their reaction to you necessarily had to derive from the emotional level, exposing the limits or flaws in their understanding.

Do not confuse emotional response with warmth and understanding with coldness. Coldness is a powerful type of emotional response. The greatest warmth and empathy do not infuse emotional actions but those coming from true understanding.

My Daily Forgiveness of Ed

2006-01-15T20:11:00.000-08:00

My Daily forgiveness of Ed
Can begin any time of day,
But it never fails to appear
Once in twenty four.

And I imagine I’m the more
For it—and sustain indignity
Guilt ridden and constant implore.

Wide black ribbons hold blonde and
Autumn hair for a serene ceremony.
Prepare us a list, put pen in our hand.

Mr. Green does come a knockin’
And the rockin’ chair suits him fine.
I’ve never ridden the pine like this,
Rock like the new kid euphoric hangover.

There are no good directions to this place,
But good directions aren’t always good;
The battle appeal, past versus present,
Recognize the good ones.

Ed pulls me aside and shelters us under the
Wasn’t I supposed to and what’s for dinners?
Helpless are we battle strung heroes of Play Satan,
Built fancifully prepared for a liquid languid
Eternity.

Unkempt promises and lost minds are two
Of my own results—less the victories to
Celebrate typical losses, more the
Thwarting of evil begat.

I’ve lost ability to recognize my
Balance point—and three chairs over
Someone knew someone who knew someone
Else, so they probably would think X about me
—they knew me through Y.

Never left the West much,
and cared even less—like
a pissing contest gone bad
exclude the vision.

I’ve no reason to drag you farther,
But here I go—vow of unrest
Wakened only twice today.

Most make useless questions
Not for the asking price of
Woven llama wool on a Peruvian
Street.

We live in the tale of two cities,
Our worst and best times collide
Ominously yet remarked
With polite goodness.

I’m still here twisting on this top
Floor jewelry transaction and withdrawal,
Before I leave the party early in frustration,
and my jacket, regretful in a closed—
forgotten dark closet space.

Admit It, You Understand

2006-01-13T06:11:00.000-08:00

I feel militant this morning. I have a negative energy that I feel absolutely positive about. I want to participate in a well planned killing, command an attack on a respected foe, bleed from a dozen minor wounds, and dig my hands into someone's chest. I want control over more of my life.

Nickie, The Corporate RAH RAH Kid from Salt Lake,

2006-01-10T19:57:00.000-08:00

Was a cracker snacker and a salesman.
I ain’t ever seen one quite like him,
So full of ideas and tapped with self.

He’s the best there is at sale of self;
The constant sale that is,
So constantly disregarding rules,
Comes across so obviously and only
A sale of you.

The believable as possibility
Of your femininity,
Is your charm, from human to human.

Which is why your clients weigh
Repulsion versus eternity.
Again, you’re believable,
Now get away from me,
with false humility.

Things I can't change

2006-01-09T09:57:00.000-08:00

“Realistic expectations make life more attractive”
“A balanced position makes living more comfortable”
Life mumbles these lessons to its distracted student

He’s still standing on one foot
Reaching for the root of things, famished
Stretching for futures not promised

Just a little further out and he’ll touch it
He feels damn good about this one
(And probably the next one too)

--
Across the edge of this moment, lies the future
Unmapped, waiting, open for interpretation
Into this unknown territory we make projections;
Constructing our expectations.

We are all personal prophets ,
Predicting our futures,
protecting our ways.

Hope is no lure, it is an instinct
A mental mechanism, that must be aimed.

Commentary on a Doctrine

2006-01-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

“Sin is that which separates us from God”

Literally, I see no way to be separated from an omnipresent being. Either God is not omnipresent or I can not be separated from him.

Figuratively, I don’t believe Jesus would abandon me when I need him most. Human parents continue to love and care for their children even when they make mistakes. I expect no less of my God.

-- Further Commentary and Thoughts --

I was trained to repeat this phrase as a child at church camp. I have not been able to find a direct reference for this in the bible; it may be there and I just haven’t dug it up yet. I currently believe this to be a direct quote from Christian doctrine, not the bible. I’m sure it could be supported by Christian scripture, but what can be supported by Christian scripture is vast, ranging from the sublime to the grotesque.

I fully acknowledge that this doctrine can be explained in a variety of fashions. The predominate approach, is to explain that sin itself, its very nature, separates us from God since he is perfect. Of course this explanation can not apply to Christians. Their sin no longer separates them from God, Jesus has covered that debt. For those covered by Christ, our sins do not separate us from God in this life or the next – they are forgiven.

This leaves the question: What is the nature of sin in the Christian life? It does not separate us from our God. It does not condemn us to eternal punishment. Sin is left with its inherent negative effect upon our lives. It is the damage of sin in this life that we are left to deal with.

This appears to leave the doctrinal phrase applicable to non-believers only. You may be tempted to hang onto this doctrine in this way, but please notice, the example of Jesus spending time with sinners. He did not separate himself from them. Their sin did not drive him away. He was able to be himself and still be in the presence of those who sin. In fact he talked with, ate with, and loved those with sin. He clearly did not flee from their presence. With Christ as an example, I see no reason to believe that the sins of a non-believer would exclude them from the presence of God, at least where this life is concerned.

This leaves us with a possible common denominator for sin; its real measurable affect upon our lives. This is pragmatic scoping. Both believers and non-believers can communicate about sin at this level. This is not how Paul talked about sin. This is how Jesus talked about sin.

I fail to see how sin can separate people from god when Jesus came explicitly, "not for the righteous but for the sinner." You can't seperate yourself from me, and then come over for a visit.

2005-12-31T15:59:00.000-08:00

sometimes you get help from the unexpected
angels & vermin
sometimes need is the abortion of a dream
kicking in the empty gut & throat ache
life was a dream; a nightmare of God
the ledge over the full river
this is winter, rain, a curse comes from everywhere
a wind, a breeze, a word, “we’re all a little too skinny”
around here; in sickness, in feverish walks
to try to shake it off, “nobody will know if you do it . . .
secrets are a solace & anonymity hits the doorstep
the water flows, the face is pale white fish skin
see the rhythm & become. Cease. A gift, an exit
an accident, a sickness, sharing plagues, bighting
the swelled tongue, stop the projector, throw a stick in the spokes
fall. water knows.

predestined, 5th grade hash, always been my life
old-timer, me too?
before we deliver your pizza we get high in the walk-in
stare at your wife, curse your children, pie hours
nothing feels like work. but the angel arrives in red stocking cap
booming voice. says a prayer & a good night's rest
wake up dripping, take my seat on the bank & watch.

Response to Comment

2005-12-28T11:41:00.000-08:00

A sin might be seen as defining the activities that seperate the broad path from the narrow. The definition of sin, and of the path a man is seen to walk, is defined by the social group he chooses to be a part of, and of his time and upbringing which he could not choose.

That different people call different actions sin becomes clear to the student of history or the well traveled. Christians, like any other religion of man, are not all alike. No matter how hard they try they are not of a single mind. Christians vary from place to place and time to time. Even within the walls of a church you will find great diversity of opinion and understanding. Fools do not understand this, and think all men of the past and present who's lives do not agree with their own are false and not true followers of the fatih.

That a single person changes his undestanding of sin, wrong action, during the course of a life is clear to the experienced man of reflection. This same man will struggle to untangle why his undestanding changed. Was it his youth, was it his company, was it his situation? Many understand themselves to have progressed into the state they find themselves, meaning they see their history as a linear evolution of perfecting understanding. While this may be true we should never be too harsh on our past selves. We thought ourselves wise then too. And there is a good chance that we are no wiser than then even though we can find no fault with our current self and its "unified" mind.

All men change and they do not change in the same way. No single "way" may be defined for all men. Put men on the same path and it will inevitably diverge.

Why is the broad path broad? A path is grown from the soles of men's feet. It will first show to the trained eye after one or two have trod it. The untrained eye will begin to recognize a path when an entire host has walked along the same way. The broad path is broad because so many have chosen to walk in the same way.

Men choose to walk along many paths. And the ever changing minds of men lead us from path to path so that what once was narrow is quickly made broad, and soon will become narrow again as a different way is made broad by the slapping of our soles upon the way.

No path can remain narrow unless is it hidden.

The candles have been removed from the bushles, the city shines, the words spreads, and we are born and bred to sell the truth of Jesus. There is nothing hidden in Christ, he is open to all.

Gnostism, in its ancient (Mithra) and modern forms (Scientology) preach narrow ways to men by hiding the way. Donominations continue to split the coprse of Christ into smaller and smaller pieces so that a preacher can seperate his way from others and thus keep it narrow through greater division.

"The sins we share are sins no longer"

The "we" is pregnant with warning. The sentance with a promise of change. The warning is for those who can hear it; few for sure. The promise is for those who look ahead, aware of what is behind.

What do these eight words elicit? For those who can actually hear anything over the din of their dogma: Fear for many, and hope for the others. Those who have changed more than once, and can admire at least one of his former selves may find a watered wine here where some just find water or wine.

Why Fear? The fear typically comes from any mention that truth is relevant or can change. If something that is a sin today may be a sin tomorrow then it would call into question beliefs. For some a static system of beliefs that are not questioned brings a sense of comfort and stability. A challenge to the definition of sin is a challenge to their world-view and security in it. When they ask of their faith, "How should I live this life", they need a simple definitive answer even if difficult and unreasoned. A sublte or more complicated answer does not meet the needs of security and certainty. Of course there should be nothing to fear from truth, but the truth of our fathers changes no more than they do, so unless a man wants his own truth he will not allow it to change at all.

Why Hope? Hope comes from those who disagre with the herd but fear to challenge or seperate from them. This man is the least happy. Loss of their positive opinion, their estimation of his virtue, has seemed worth more than their estimation of his sin, but these eight words begin to change the balance of the scales.

Those with fear, do not want to make a decision and dread that they may have to.

Those with hope, have wanted to make a decision and have dreaded that they will not.

There is more to say, but the distractions of life pull me to the majority of life, that knows nothing of sin or virtue, but of duty it knows volumes.

Dynamic Nature of Sin

2005-12-20T07:10:00.000-08:00

The sins we share, are no longer sins.

--
Example: How many decades ago would divorsed individuals have been shunned from Christian church?
Exercise: Track the dynamic path of drinking in the christian church to witness the fluidity of sin.

Dynamic Nature of Virtue

2005-12-20T07:05:00.000-08:00

The goals we share, spawn virtue.

--
Example: Two decades ago being a geek was a definite negative. Today my wife where's a t-shirt that declares "I love my geek!". Introspective personalities, long seen as something to correct, are becoming more and more encouraged and virtuous. Why? The following exercises may illustrate.

Exercise 1: Identify three dominate, realizable, goals common in your culture.
Exercise 2: Identify the vitures that these are likely to spawn over time.

I Might Mean

2005-12-15T20:42:00.000-08:00

I hear myself and others beginning
many phrases with “I mean…”
And it sticks out to me,
now that I’ve unwillingly
isolated it.

What do the means mean,
when we say, “I mean”
before far too many phrases
than necessary?

In defense of language,
that is in her nature—
to follow some arbitrary
path of cultural change.

I mean to know not
All that I could
In an effort for
Gain of contentedness
Failed.

Mean to spread Joy—I tell you again.
Inch the rain out the way of marina platform.
Harbor nine made fire found fibers
out of those meant.

I go nonsense for you joyless maidens.
To land go you eerie old creatures
past.

Say what you will about
motive—one and the rest.

“I mean” sticks out
like a cautionary neon
translated:
Just know—I’m mean.

And I am.

Life After Deaths

2005-12-03T09:43:00.000-08:00

"Teacher, if there is evil within me, does it come with me when I am born again?"

"We are all good and evil, none of us is perfect. In life we often act wrongly and this builds up like a layer of ash. When we die, that in him which is evil, the ash that covers him, dissipates into the void like the fuel of a puctured space craft. That which is good in him, that which he was born with that had not been turned to ash and that which built up when we would often act rightly, is pulled back towards the earth. Pulled by a spiritual gravity, drawing us down once again into the ancient home of humanity. Earth herself gives you a new body as you meet her again. She gives you a life that fits you. We are humans because we had enough goodness in us to fit this form and these lives. We are on our way, and this is an advanced leg our race. We are close. Some of our faith believe that there is a great sun of purity and pease burning in the heart of the earth and that is what draws us back from the void and into the embrace of life over and over. Others believe that it is the collective weight of the teaming body of life that makes this world pulse that draws us back and gives us form once again."

"What is your opinion teacher, what draws us back?"

"Either way we are drawn back, and that to me seems the superior understanding. As to what draws us back, I believe that the fire in the heart of the earth is simply chemical reactions, and that we are life drawn back to life. Clinging to each other. How would another planet have enough life in its belly to draw us back? No we are life, and ash covered as we are it is this life that draws us back and gives us form. We take life with us into space, and it is this belief that will give us the courage and faith to settle our new homes."

"When will we reach out, and add life to new planets?"

"When is in the hands of the technologists, we must put our faith in them. Who will go, is another matter. We must send our greatest souls, so that if they meet an alien form of life they will act with wisdom and consideration. Also, they must have enough goodness in them to draw back those of their numbers who will surely die in the harsh new worlds."

"Those of you who train to be an astronaut remain, all the rest are dismissed."

The Ways of Men

2005-11-29T06:31:00.000-08:00

Q: "Why don't you respect our customs?"

A: "Our customs, have never respected me."

Q: "Why should our customs respect you?"

A: "I see no reason why they should not. Devotion without respect is gained by fear and force. I will reserve my devotion so it may be given freely."

Q: "Even if it is never given? Do you really expect all of our customs to change for you?"

A: "Isn't it better to be alone, than to be abused by a spouse? The same is true for customs, religions and all ways of men."

A: "And yes, I do expect everything to change, but not just for me. No one is that unique. I await changes for myself and all those like me."

Mutual Respect

2005-11-27T10:33:00.000-08:00

I was a lonely child and young adult. Now that my parents are older they want my company, forgetting how they raised me. I will not adjust who I am to meet their changing needs, I will continue to respect myself.

I will raise my children to be rational and I expect them to continue even in my age when I desire some level of foolishness from them. I hope they understand enough to not change for my need, but to love enough to provide what is natural for them to provide. That will be a validation and a pleasure for me.

--

I strive to do unto others as I would have them do unto me. This is the same as saying, "I work at acting honestly." Realize this can be true, even when you would not do as me.

--

The religion of man should be a comfort and a service to him as well as a guiding and illuminating light. Different men need different comforts and service. These also differ at different times of life. A religion should be big enough to handle difference.

2005-11-25T10:55:00.000-08:00

“Jesus, the Son of God” say, if they cannot hear
but she said, “He did it because he loves Jesus.”
a thankful nod, that God rumbles & roars over flower
petals, drives the hot rod.

overflowing dishes crowd the hot table
cloth for napkins for slipped up spills

ripped up & honest beyond expectation
did not understand that honesty & truth are
not always the same thing

she runs off
if the pack exists
we should be ready

the pact is this
water & blood
sweat thinking

separation & unification,
nights blown apart
drenched cardboard huts
the city hermit smokes
only apple mint

conscientious hours
spent in little dens
at prairie’s end clocked
in & out, the fire of life

the game is forfeited to truth.
hesitant glow above red coals
maybe Thanksgiving always
make me miss the dead.

Little Main

2005-11-20T11:18:00.000-08:00

On Main Street I was thinking about wine. Maybe it was because I parked near “The Winery,” but maybe it was just because I love wine. I used to take the unofficial wine tour of the Grand Valley every other week. I did it to get soused for free back when I was a real drunk. Every winery offered free tastes of their wines. By the time I had tasted five wines from eight different wineries, I eagerly wanted to do it all again. The proprietors never became tired of me, because occasionally I bought wine. And wine makers never tire of talking about their own wine to someone who cares about the subject.
In sentinel square I sat and wished the wood signs suspended by delicate chains were making their noise. An old woman across the court yelled into a cell phone. I refused to listen to her words because of the attitude in her voice. I joined passers at the urge of the concrete worm designed to guide the humans where to go.
Bodies sat square in my path. A resurrected torso fragment by a Mr. Meastas felt the chilling bronze as its skin. I put my hands on her. In the windows are photos of other peoples homes—a meaningful display of character. A much too lengthy process to detail, and I don’t care any way. Off The Wall sent me out the door when I thought eight ninety five meant nine dollars. For horses. That’s what I get for caring.
A clever name tag on the woman at Main St. Bagel made me chuckle. “Patience” in big letters was underscored in fine print with, “I’m in training.” And then I realized she wasn’t Patience and she wasn’t patient. I had a muffin and some coffee and tried to quit thinking about wine. I imagined eating tart dusty wine grapes off the vines with no hands, as I had done as a kid in my grandfather’s fields. Sometimes a wine can bring back a certain flavor I haven't tasted in forever. It’s a weakness. I sat and knew I should read Young Men and Fire and not just some or most of it. I sat in a window and worried about time, because I’m always some where prearranged. And there’s only a few moments left.

Exercise Truth with Questions (Fourth Part)

2005-11-11T12:28:00.000-08:00

Truth can not be directly communicated by man. Truths must deconstruct into conceptions before transmission. Neither can truth be directly received by man. Truth is born of shifting understandings, finding fresh balance.

It is the deconstructed components of communication, conceptions, which have the potential to change the dynamic of our understandings. These are the tools of the “spiritual” orator. He has always used poetry, parables and the tools of myth to communicate his message.

Exercise Truth with Questions (Third Part)

2005-11-03T06:14:00.000-08:00

Truth is restrained by language; handcuffs marring the wrists of understanding. Our deepest understandings and their composite truths are bound, gagged and tied by our ability to communicate. This is not a hurdle that can be leaped with increasingly direct language or stricter symbols. The particular duct tape we are dealing with is innate to man, it is in our tongues, our ears, and the primordial levers that make our mouths form speech.