||[06 May 2006|10:18am]
Coming over unannounced into my little dreamlet dream
What with your long hair and smoking cigarettes like you do
Which I hate but didn't seem to mind at the time
Inconsiderate all the same--
Did you carelessly think at all with any hesitation spent?
That I'd be left here distracted while off you went?
Unheeding completely that the fleeting twinkling of a moment
Is gone before you can replace your next carburetor.
The long-haired ones always seem so casual with their loping strides and empty calendars.
Long hair caught up with wafts of cigarette smoke and new shampoo.
Here and gone again,
To return who knows when,
And a glance and I'm soup again
In another day I'm stewed for sure
But your arrival is always green like morning air
Ripe with promise untouched by mortal's care--
You don't belong in my life of broken dryers and pasta boiling over and bills-past-due
What were you thinking to even show up
And how did you find your way without a map?
And what was I thinking (never you mind) to let you in?
Careless, and full of care.
Don't speak to me too suddenly
I may wave you off dismissively
If the others knew
I'd never even catch a glimpse of your god-awful boots as they strode away.
I'd only catch the passing of a cigarette scent and know that you were gone
|maybe not finished
||[12 Oct 2005|12:03pm]
A serpent twists inside me now
Never resting nor letting me rest
Writhing slowly, asserting its presence
Hiding its purpose and desire
I do not know its meaning.
I wait for clues, and rock it to sleep
But still it moves among my bones
Its restless waves waking my thoughts,
keeping me on the watch for…something.
It is in my belly, restlessly quivering
It is in my head, aching dully
It is in my skin, pinching with claws
It is in my muscles, subtle shock therapy
Speak to me
Tell me what to do
Point me north, or east, or west
Give me a push
Show me a sign
Give me a boat and an oar or an omen.
Block my path
Or open a new one.
Break the clouds
And show the sun shining.
Let a tree fall
Or a day end
Or a skin be shed on a branch
In a cool, dark place.
||[09 Sep 2005|01:43pm]
Having a nice day.
Disturbances frazzle in to remind me
the clear blue sky is a dome of nothingness that will reverbate
with supersonic changes all too quickly
of what I don't understand, where there, sarcasm is a rough plum
and I have gagged enough.
Still, I won't just have a nice day, it is not given, I make it so.
You don't know how much strength it takes-
the stance, the eyes, what the created smile means
unless you admit you felt the weak drain of energy as the taking and the takers draw out the blood slowly,
filling the bag, and then another.
What the takers do not know is that all my friends are geniuses along with me
-It is not given, I make it so-
and I never again fight a battle alone.
||[09 Sep 2005|09:34am]
||wide eyed and exausted
el oso seloso el ultimo del mundo he is walking out of cailforniA
strutting in fact ;in deed
out of cali into el fuego;el horno
at the sky he growls beseachingly
califas aeudame help me califas
porque todo los gueros diga me nada nunca
except menteris in tiearies
that sparkle brillamente
||[07 Sep 2005|09:09am]
A friend of mine passed on this poem of novelist-poet Laura Kasischke:
All night I ride my motorcycle up
and down the dirt
road between your house and town. Just
as sleep’s about to slip
its loose white sack
over your nose and mouth, I’m
up the gravel with my tires—for
I am dust and sound, and nobody
fucks with dust, and silence
has a price. I
have a long grey pony-tail
and a jacket
with Meet Your Maker embroidered on the back.
For now, you can’t quite fathom that, though
you think hard, late at night, when
sleep won’t come, and know
in the empty notebook
of your heart that
where thought ends, there’s God. And
you’re no longer young. The night
sky’s a big mouth,
opened wide. At least
two times you would have died
if it hadn’t been for my rough kindness. That
time in Vegas with the gun, and
what was that other one? Passes
doesn’t it? Or
maybe I’m just out here having fun. Maybe
if you lived
on a little lake, I’d
ride my jet ski on it every night. I’d
wear a Hawaiian shirt, and I’d
be young and blond. In any case, sleep will come
soon enough. Tonight
you can lie awake in the dark
and thank your lucky stars
that I chose your dirt road
to ride my motorcycle on.
|a philosophical puzzle
||[06 Sep 2005|09:07am]
Does it matter that I have tons of company in my addiction?
Wanting to go on here first thing in the morning reminds me of when I’d reach for a cigarette first thing in the morning, because waking up without one just wasn’t worth it.
What’s neat about working with an audience, is that things change— like the mouse in the maze whose observers were told that this mouse was an exceptional mazer... the ordinary mouse repeatedly was clocked as faster. The actors in a play with a fascinated audience become an even better ensemble. The writer with an audience writes more sincerely, thoroughly.
I remember when I journaled in my youth— you know, the old-fashioned way, whether with leather-bound blank-paged books, or spiral-bound notebooks... When I began to write more and more about what I insisted could never be shared, that’s when the writing became confused, muddled, and filled with so many circular arguments that an acrobat who could hula hoop 50 hoops at a time would trip and fall rapidly if treading upon those pages.
A different sort or art was Poetry. Part confession, part detached observation. Show and conceal in absolutely equal parts. Give an definite image, but take away certainty that the image was truly given—The poet could never be sure who they were presenting material to, after all. If you showed too much and the audience said, "What the hell is that?", could you answer without fear of favorable or unfavorable reception, "This is in my heart."?
Often, the poetry I used to write stepped me away from a situation to a good spot of detachment, a good lookout point. But then I’d sweep evidence of my tracks so no one would know how I’d arrived to a conclusion, lest my reasoning should be questioned. This way the poem stood alone. Unfortunately, so did the poet, because, often, they were written extemporaneously and sent away into clear thin air with the magic of email, with perhaps an audience of one. So not only could my conclusion be lost upon the one person, but also, it was lost to me. I cleared my tracks so well, I couldn't even find where I'd gone to!
Were the moments that led to the poem resolved? Was the poet absolved? Without evidence of the looking point observations, did anyone know this was a mouse who was experienced with mazes? I knew in a way that resolution or absolution were but temporary cheeses: There would always be another reason for resolution or absolution.
But, having mastered the maze, did I also begin to build my own confounded mazes- with every success necessitating a greater build, a greater more monstrous maze?
Is there a memory of a permanent cheese that can stay in your pocket?
|0,000 miles in millimeters by my stopwatch
||[02 Sep 2005|12:31pm]
||chugging along corrodid
these thoughts are from a train
.as i was riding
i was writing
i was writhing.you are the female him /franticly trying to keep the pink spiked heels from perforating the time you spend on being me./the flesh and mind concern themselves with the
click click clack click
stillettos that prick and stick the bricks that line the upscale
squares and common spaces of my rental mentality/. the sun warms my
back and legs but does nothing to touch the frigidity
in my groin even as i manicly masterbate unproductively/ who am i ? who
is that woman man imp imposter that i picture going down on my shameful
prick? he is so fascinating as she is fastining her masclinity that no
one can resist the pull towards my morbid sexuality. it is like a dark moist toroid containing to the recollection that no one remembers the point of conception is the place where sex and death hex each other and the hate and lust debate and thrust my friends toward incarnatio carnations at our wedding to the igorant budda.
the geometry of fiction occurs to me as i decode the olfactory data
that assults the atmosphere makes the sky cry like the factory that
harvests onion products for the oblivious american to consume
at some road side stand or some fictionally elegant elitist dining room
/the clink of glassware and the scrape of fork on fine china invades my
dreams as well as waking life / go ahead and discard the uneaten tenderloin of jesus christ
a cow or a carrot into the trash compactor/ a special machine developed
exclusively for the tourtoure of our tragic trash. help! the wires are frayed the inputs corrodid and sparking/ flames come leaping out of the grill like speed fiend bagpipers /yet this thing we are all riding in keeps chugging along and plowing the soil of common sense under the dust that blows away and clogs the pores of starving families
have a nice day.
|The Woods Of Fate
||[30 Aug 2005|11:15am]
The moon ponders the red tragedy of it all.
Refrigerated dew drops feel tragic oppression.
Will the moon linger in the sun’s laughter?
Sullen weeds are the blight of the tombstone.
A banshee stands on a hill, whispering into the wind.
Frozen water waits beneath the pointless fear.
Heavens delight is a forest of destiny.
Angels hover over the twisted tree of time.
||[26 Aug 2005|03:08pm]
A little something from a couple years ago (previously posted in my journal)---just a little thing I wrote when I was upset :D
Shooting first, leaving questions
A cruel imp
Aiming with one eye closed
The other blind
Poisoned steel bolt
Finding the smallest chink
Tightly woven over a lifetime, but not enough
Not a clean kill
But a slow bleed
Like a doe on a frozen morning
Pursued by dogs, she screams
And puffs hot dragon's breath
They bite at her flanks with dirty teeth
And mindless hunger
Scattered by one who should have finished her off
Who instead leaves her to struggle,
Suffer and die slowly
Alone in a frozen field
The world receding to a point of light
|The end of the beginning
||[26 Aug 2005|01:58pm]
Thunderbolts explode around the apologies like fireworks.
Spare me the retrospection of your viewpoint.
Those elated eyes became distorted.
Silk handkerchiefs, pale blue and lovely, were dropped to the mud.
These emerald eyes perceive the reality.
Flower petals plunging to the floor.
The sky erupts with sorrow.
It is the end of the beginning.
I joined this community and have posted for my friend, roma_ann
||[26 Aug 2005|12:35pm]
Good day all, I'm new here, thought I would make an introduction. I'm a writer and painter. I stick mainly to poetry and short stories in the writing department, and stick mainly to acrylics in a surrealist style in painting.
Below is a poem in progress, any comments would be welcome...
Rises like mist from the water
Floating in each glance unseen
Each bite uneaten
All these missed things
Falling from the sky in multitudes
Time casts shadows over you
Casting your face in failing light
||[25 Aug 2005|10:13am]
... to be continued ...
|MOD POST OMG
||[25 Aug 2005|12:42am]
alright, this community is officially dead. thanks roma_ann for post whoring and being a douchey writer.
||[24 Aug 2005|08:43am]
Rotundly he sat and slept
Children’s worries have long ago left
The dollars fell in place and lay still in profitable piles
No longer stretching through the week like recooked lentil soup.
One midday he awoke with a sort of snort-
Something he almost remembered
Lay just to the side of his mind
Like a piece of cheese fallen behind the stove:
Someone to call, something urgent, some appointment?
It was not the same as before when his authority could strike
The gears in motion, the machine well-used to knocks and shoves
In order to remain on track
In working order as God intended
The structure well-defended.
But various units of the structure fared not so well:
A heart here, a distance there,
A link ignored, a love implored-
A potent patriarch had best not let soft senses consort
With soft entreaties…
Tender mercies called submission.
Dollars could a fortress build.
And measured dollars doled could
Silence whiny soft appeals.
Appointments absent, no calls coming,
And the someones who sometimes came now vanished,
The thickset man imagined the thought not quite recalled
Indeed must only be another stomach grumbling
Which too should be silenced.
And having eaten his meal, he sat back down, and soundly slept.
She turned the volume louder on Judge Judy to silence the snores.
What she had wanted to say, she too, had forgotten- "I love you."
||[24 Aug 2005|12:15am]
Once the burgundy bruises fade to green and yellow:
Sometimes a partner too long will follow.
Once the yellowish cast fades to tired gray:
The walls, the silence, the blindness to the disarray.
Once skin heals, eyes' true clarity recommence
And watch it fail- the torpid chronic mediocrity
Fades like a bruise
Faced with something so immense
As your heart, your strength, your clear, untouched desire.
||[23 Aug 2005|11:47pm]
Something elfin-like in wisdom untold
alight in those eyes of hazel-green-amber-grey!
My pictures do not divulge your secret, young Lil—
Your image will be your own to fill
Your own determination.
||[23 Aug 2005|11:40pm]
You must tell me stuff.
My curiosity burgeons, swells like a pie in the oven,
Fairly seething to burst.
What stuff? -Any stuff...
Even what did she do when you did this to her?
||[08 Aug 2005|12:37pm]
A shocking discovery had the warmth of recent days draining quickly from her face.
no- no, no, no, no...
But it really could be.
And who wanted to be ignored? Least of all, she. Vanity was not just a mirror on a bathroom wall to her. Vanity upheld her. The response she craved not-forthcoming, she felt unsteady- ready to topple any moment like the scratched coffee table in the antique store whose fourth leg had come unscrewed which everyone neglected to notice.
"I thought he was really nice," but the plaintive thought never voiced itself- because, impossible though it seemed, truly, nice people don't do that, now do they?
Let this be known though: Vanity prevented her from desiring a mere sycophant. This was not about her wanting a nice guy: a sweet acquiescent somebody who would compliment her at regular intervals, always about the visible shallow things, like beauty, or her skin. It was fine to be out and out fucked. No simian-smiles, no pleasant platitudes, no niceties filled with nothing.
Straightforwardness was a gift:
"Yes. Only this will do."
But perhaps it wasn't so, perhaps a singular desire was too much for mere mortals. Still-- how unbearably shocking to remove straightforwardness, and leave in it a void, a hole like what she felt in the pit of her stomach now, a hunger unannounced, unrelenting.