While sick
Things seem
Different
My healthy mind
Is not awake
To impose
Its assumptions
My energy
Is focused
On surviving
In a moment
I forget my sickness
And see
A puddle
From the broken fridge
On the kitchen floor
Like
I was seeing a puddle
For the first time
I stood there
For as long
As my shaky legs
Would hold me
July 28, 2021 at 09:25AM
About whether
The tea bags belong
In the utensil drawer
Or the pantry
I have no energy
To argue
It seems to me
Unimportant—
Where things
Should be arranged
In our home
But she believes
In the art of it
July 28, 2021 at 07:56AM
Every new piece of furniture
That gets delivered
Every piece of art
That I help her hang
Every plant that gets added
To my weekly watering routine
Every welcome wine bottle
The neighbors bring
Makes me that much
More certain
I’m never getting out
Of this domestic prison
July 26, 2021 at 04:15PM
On the logs
Along the trail
There are
Fluorescent
Yellow markers
Screwed in
Two per log
So bikers
Can see the logs
At night
And avoid them
Some logs
Have only one
And a few
Have none
But I know
They were there
Because I can see
The screws
That held them
In place
I search
For the escaped
Yellow markers
In the forest foliage
Beyond
The log barrier
But they are nowhere
To be found
I wonder where
The yellow markers
Have gone
And what occupation
They have taken up
Instead of the one
They were screwed into
>>>
On the logs along the trail
There are fluorescent yellow markers
Screwed in, two per log
So bikers can see the logs at night
And avoid them
Some logs have only one marker
And a few have none
But I know they were there
Because I can see the screws
That held them in place
I search for the escaped yellow markers
In the forest foliage beyond the log barrier
But they are nowhere to be found
I wonder where the yellow markers have gone
And what occupation they have taken up
Instead of the one they were screwed into
July 26, 2021 at 09:49AM
Healthy
And already overwhelmed
The door creaking
Barely open
And then shut
Would have been
An unwelcome
Interruption
To the rare silence
I find
In my bedroom
Sick
I was bored
And grateful
For anyone
Who would talk to me
Even a creaky
Old door
July 25, 2021 at 12:51PM
Sick
I sat
On the edge
Of the bed
Shivering
Watching
The workers
Wearing
Orange vests
Outside
Working
On the street
One
With a shovel
In the trench
Sticking it
Into the dirt
And then stepping
With his boot
To drive it deeper
Another
In the yellow
Backhoe
Digging out
The trench
The big bucket
Of the backhoe
Dumped
Into a white
Dump truck
July 23, 2021 at 11:21AM
I am telling you
Exactly
What you
Already know
The wise men
Talk in metaphors
To stay
Wise
All that art
You don’t understand
Isn’t meant to be
Understood
Turns out
You can
Judge a book
By its cover
If it doesn’t tell you
What you need to know
On the back
Then it’s probably
Not
Worth reading
July 22, 2021 at 09:29PM
I do
Have
A scar there
Where
The baking pan
Branded me
With a reminder
Of my carelessness
July 22, 2021 at 09:11PM
Is a fact
Both depressing
And freeing
At the same time
July 22, 2021 at 10:53AM
Every word
Is further
From the truth
The fewer
The better
July 22, 2021 at 10:53AM
I want that word
To hit
No adjective
Need modify
Such a noun
With strength
To say
What it will
On its own
July 22, 2021 at 10:52AM
I’m susceptible to it
Today
To lift off
I can tell because
I take
My first sip
Of tea
And my brain bumps
The top
Of my skull
Like an astronaut
In zero gravity
And when I look
Through my eyes
Like windows
On a spaceship
Everything
That just before
Seemed perfectly
Terrestrial
Now seems
Terribly alien
July 22, 2021 at 10:52AM
In its glass pot
On the marble countertop
In the other room
But I might just wait
Let it cool
And heat up more hot water
A little later
After I’ve done my work
That might not go so well
If my hands are shaking
And my mind is racing
As tends to happen
When I drink tea
July 22, 2021 at 10:48AM
I look alien
In the mirror
In the instant before
I recognize myself
And my preconceptions
Load
Like a computer file
But in the instant
While the pinwheel
Still spins
And I am seeing
Beneath the veil
Splotchy skin,
Lopsided pectorals,
Crooked jaw
Rectangular prism,
Cylinder,
Cube
Color,
Light,
Dimension
Who am I
When I forget?
July 20, 2021 at 10:00PM
Up the crumbling
Stone steps
Next
To the lemon tree
In the backyard
That we can see
Through our window
But cannot access
Because it’s only
For our neighbors
Who pay more rent
Than we do
A black and white
Cat
Crept calmly
As cats do
Sat back
On its haunches
And looked left
Then right
And saw me
In the window
Watching it
And watched
Me back
Still
As a statue
For a while
We watched
One another
Then the cat
Lifted its leg
And licked itself
To show me
How much
Of a threat
It thought
I was
July 20, 2021 at 07:45PM
The knife
Makes a song
Of two notes
As I cut potato
Slicing
Away from me
The angle
Cut through
The gold
Is such that
The blade
Slides off
And bangs
Onto
The board
Then I make
The opposite cut
Down
And towards me
So that the blade
Meets the board
Muffled
On either side
By potato flesh
And so
The note
Is duller
And on I cut
Out
And away
Banging
Back
And towards me
Muffled
July 20, 2021 at 03:42PM
I walk by
A professional dog walker
In the park
Holding the leashes
Of six dogs
And wonder
What the rich owners
Of the dogs
Are doing
Such that they cannot
Walk
Their own dogs
July 20, 2021 at 10:05AM
With my eyes closed,
My legs crossed,
And my hands on my knees
Sitting on a Mexican blanket
Folded and laid atop
A fallen log
I started to hear drops
Falling
On the leaves and the dirt
This
Broke the concentration
Of my meditation
As I worried
That it might
Start to pour
I forgot about it
And remembered
My breath
Uncrossed my legs,
Got a book out of my bag,
And stood up
I felt something fall
And bounce
Off the top of my head
And into
The crease
Of the open book
It was a twig
No longer
Than a quarter inch
It had not
Been rain
Falling
It was pieces
Of the trees
Cast down
July 20, 2021 at 09:31AM
In a nightmare it occurs to me
That I can become the scary thing myself
So I make myself light,
Float up somewhere near the ceiling,
And shriek high and loud
My victims get out of bed, terrified
And run through hallways in their nightgowns
Stumbling against the walls
I don’t actually mean to scare
I never wanted to be a scary thing
I just wanted to not be scared myself
So I try to float down from the ceiling
To tell my victims it’s okay
It’s just me and I’m not scary
But all that comes out is a shriek
And that’s when the nightmare
Became truly scary
July 19, 2021 at 11:18PM
Two burners going on the stovetop
Shelves in the pantry freshly stocked with groceries
Diced onions next to the knife on the cutting board
A shower that runs hot or cold
A sink faucet with as much water as I could drink
My girlfriend in the other room on the phone
A computer with access to limitless knowledge
Shirts hanging in the closet
Pants and underwear in the dresser
July 19, 2021 at 11:28AM
After I had gotten
Out of the shower
Before I went
For a walk outside
I opened the second-
From-the-bottom
Drawer
In the five-drawer
Dresser
And took out
A t-shirt
But considered
Before putting it on
That I might be cold
So I put the t-shirt
Back in the drawer,
Took out
A long-sleeved shirt
And pulled that one
Over my head
Instead
July 19, 2021 at 09:51AM
The water
Got even hotter
As the heater
Heated it up
And sent it
Boiling
Through the pipes
I could not finish
Washing my hands
Without them burning
And so I
Took the handle
And turned it
To the left
To cool
July 19, 2021 at 09:47AM
In a storm
The rain peppers the windshield
Making a rapid
Pattering noise
Under the bridge
There is a moment
Of clarity
As the windshield clears
And the pattering stops
Until we come out on the other side
And the windshield blurs again
And the noise even louder
In contrast to the momentary quiet
July 18, 2021 at 01:57PM
I want it
To pack a quick punch
There are too many people in the world
Too much to read
Too much distraction
People don’t read novels anymore
If you only had one sentence
What would it be?
July 18, 2021 at 10:52AM
My girlfriend told me
That my grandma told her
That black people
Had slaves too
We sat in the cabana
At the rooftop pool
In Nashville
And talked about
Whether it was worth it
To try and convince people
Who are stuck in their ways
I told my girlfriend
I didn’t think
It was worth it
Or even possible
She said she thought it was
Because all people have souls
And all people have depth
She is making progress
In convincing me of this
I am arrogant to assume
That some people
Aren’t worth talking to
I assume they can’t
See the truth
But I am guilty
Of the same inability
If I won’t talk to them
And listen
And really try to understand
July 18, 2021 at 10:45AM
In Nashville sitting at the bar
In a diner for breakfast
After waiting in line for an hour
I got disgusted with the city
All at once
And couldn’t even order
When the waitress asked me
What I wanted
I just had to get out and away
From the food, the alcohol
The obesity, the intoxication
My dad told me
When we were waiting in line
That the wait was so long
Because everyone was still
Collecting their unemployment checks
Once I got out and walked
On the sidewalk
I saw a homeless man
Shirtless in the hot sun
Still not sure
Whether he should be awake
Or asleep
Or what he should do
I smelled the grossness of the city
The vomit from the man
We saw sitting on the curb
Last night
His friend was holding his head
To keep him upright
The leftover food in the trash cans
The sweat
The smells from the street food carts
That would have normally
Incited my appetite
Mixing with the foul smells
Made me want to vomit
More than I wanted to eat
I wanted to purge myself,
The people walking by
To eat, to drink
More
Already eating, drinking
On their way
To eat, to drink
More
I walked faster
To sweat, to move my muscles
To work
To do the opposite
Of eating, and drinking
More
It’s no wonder
How more than half the people
I saw walking around the city
Were obese
Every egg scramble
On the menu at the diner
Had cheese in it
All the tables were full
Of families, couples
And bachelorette parties
Eating, drinking
Smiling, laughing
Talking about where
They would eat and drink
Later that night
Sitting in their hotel rooms
Watching TV
In between meals
And bouts of drinking
July 18, 2021 at 10:27AM
I woke up
Sideways
In bed
Rolled down
Longways
To the foot
And lived
Days differently
From then on
Getting out of bed
On neither
The left nor the right
The right nor the wrong
But an altogether
Other
Escape from morality
And judgment
Through the hatch
At the bottom
Out
From underneath
Tucked-in sheets
July 17, 2021 at 04:42AM
I want to want
What I have wanted before
I know the wanting
Precedes the satisfaction
But I still try to force it
The sandwich and chips
I ate for lunch yesterday
Were delicious
Today, it is lunchtime
And I want to want
The sandwich and chips
So that I can satisfy
The same hunger
But I want something different
I don’t know what
I want to want
What I’ve wanted before
Because it’s easier
I learned to love
When I moved to San Francisco
I stayed up all night with strangers
I want to want that again
But I am comfortable
To hunger for a sandwich
Like when I returned home
From a hike yesterday
To lust for sex
As when I was young
And didn’t know what it was
July 16, 2021 at 03:22PM
After days of drunkenness
Sobriety seems
A more novel experience
Just to change my mind
Which is the same reason
I started drinking
In the first place
July 15, 2021 at 08:39PM
In my mind
My father’s face
Is as young as I remember it
When I was nine or ten
But in reality, it’s older now
More wrinkles
Red cheeks and nose
Visible veins
I didn’t realize until
I look at photo albums
At a family reunion
With his dad (my grandpa)
Who turned eighty yesterday
And see photos of my dad
When he was really young
And had blonde highlights in his hair
And smiled in all the photos
I wonder if my grandpa’s face
Is as young in my dad’s mind
As my dad’s is in mine
And what it will be like
When my dad’s as old
As my grandpa is now
I wonder how my dad feels
About my grandpa getting closer
To dying
It occurs to me only now
As I write this
That I should ask him
And leave nothing unsaid
July 15, 2021 at 06:34PM
P.S. This should be prose, not poetry.
As if there weren’t
Any other way
Of seeing things
My grandpa talked to me
About work and money
And asked whether
What I had been doing
Since quitting my job
Made any
If it didn’t
Then he didn’t
Want to hear about it
Writing,
Especially poetry,
Doesn’t make much
So we didn’t have
Much to talk about
July 13, 2021 at 02:25PM
I pulled back the cue
And held my breath
Playing pool with my brothers
In the basement
For a moment in the quiet
As I held my breath
And my brothers
Held theirs too
We could hear our parents
Arguing upstairs
July 12, 2021 at 07:50PM
My fingers feel
Bonier than usual
While washing my hands
Like lifeless cylinders
Unfeeling as they rub
Against each other
Windchimes
That collide
But make no sound
The calluses
Have calluses
The feeling skin
Wears away
Skeletons hands
Can grab, lift,
And carry as much
As skinless hands
So why not
Peel away
The excess layer
Like wrapping
On a package
July 12, 2021 at 03:50PM
It is this
Which comes on
Only as this can
Fast and strong
Out of contrast
As its opposite
Retreats
With equal speed
In the other direction
Out
As this
Comes
In
July 11, 2021 at 08:40AM
I cue in on
Just one aspect
Of her personality
As if it were
All of her
July 10, 2021 at 06:12AM
A moment
Which was in the future
In the past
Is now
Now
I am not surprised
I knew
This was coming
But it’s still
Surreal
To see the bones
Of an imagining
Dressed
In the flesh
Of reality
July 10, 2021 at 06:09AM
As if I had just seen
My fingernails
For the first time
Pissing
In the basement
Bathroom
Of the bar
On Broadway
For what seemed like
Forever
So what did I have to do
But look at my nails
And wait
To finish my piss
And then go upstairs
To get the drink
They said they would
Order for me
July 09, 2021 at 09:59PM
My pain invites me to grapple with my mortality on a daily basis. For all my life, I have been healthy. More than that, I have been strong and capable. My dad used to tell me, “I was too rough on my body when I was young. Now I’m paying the price for it.” I’m starting to pay the price too. What is life without a strong and capable body? What really is dying is my old way of life. Maybe I’m still a ways away from my ultimate end. But I will die several small deaths before then.
There is no point. First, what does have a point? Survival seems to be the most widely accepted point of doing anything. For a long time, there was no point in doing anything other than what was required to survive because, if we did not, then we would have died and we would not have been able to carry on much longer with the pointless activity upon dying. But we are past that now. Can we now begin to spend our time on pointless activities?
My parents would feel better if I get a job. They would prefer that to me being a poet. Where does this obsession with working come from?
I myself feel a little guilt when I spend an entire day and all I have to show for it is maybe twenty or thirty lines of poetry. It seems like very little compared to the economic production of which I know I am capable from having worked a job before.
The plastic bags
My girlfriend deem
Excess
Are left
In the tall and narrow cabinet
Beside
The dishwasher
July 08, 2021 at 02:30PM
For as long as I
Can lie on my side
Looking at the light
Bleeding in ever so softly
Through the white, wooden slats
Strung together and hung
To face the fury of the sun
Staying in bed until noon
Free from the day’s oppression
Would not be possible
Without their bravery
I yawn, smack my lips,
And close my eyes again
To return to rest
In their honor
July 08, 2021 at 09:42AM
I.
She walked toward me, dressed
She lay before me, undressed
—The only two scenes I remember
Of the girl from my dream
At the moment I was to have her,
I awoke,
Got up, went to the bathroom,
And almost forgot
Back in bed, I remembered
Hurried to sleep, hoping she would return
II.
Scratched my chest,
Sucked on my neck,
And swung her leg over
I stood on the side of the bed,
Laid her on her back,
And pulled her in close
Put my thumb in her mouth
And pressed on her molars
Plunged, as with my arm
Into a car motor
To reach a part, her heart
Unreachable
I was losing my strength
Worn out, but not finished
III.
So I closed my eyes and called
For the girl from my dream
She walked toward me, dressed
She lay before me, undressed
I could see her with my eyes closed
Feel her with my body
And my strength resurged
As in a hungry, hunting animal
I wrapped her hair, like a rope,
Around my hand, and pulled tighter
Galloping like a whipped steed
A horse will run to death, they say
Originally written: July 5, 2021
The crow (or raven;
I can never tell
Which
Is which)
Walked across
The yellow rectangles
In the road
Like a pedestrian
As if the black bird
Had forgotten
Its wings
Which would take it
Up
And along
Aerial highways
Unregulated
The avian nation
Has yet
Resisted
The Fall
Originally written: July 4, 2021
Dug my fingers
Into yellow flesh
Clutched wooden heart
With nails
Sucked sweet strings
Of nectar
Until there was none left
But what dripped
From my chin
July 07, 2021 at 11:41AM
There is no
Expiration date
On my hunger
Only a sign
Like the ones you see
In the window
When a shopkeeper
Goes to lunch,
“Be back in 30”
July 07, 2021 at 10:16AM
Words express the “manifested” world.
When you go deeper into your Self, there is a point when words no longer serve their communicative purpose.
Because communication between two consciousnesses is like this …
Firsthand experience of the speaker –> Words –> Secondhand experience of the listener
If you attempt to communicate the depths of your own spiritual journey to another consciousness, after you have gone deep in your own journey, there is a lot of work involved in retracing your steps and defining terms.
In my personal journey, I started writing as a way to express my questions, discoveries, inspirations.
It was always a spiritual journey. My writing was my ego wanting to bring the unmanifested to the manifested for its own benefit. I am growing to a point in my spiritual journey when I can leave things unwritten.
Other than my ego, why else do I need to manifest the unmanifested in the form of words?
Does there have to be a reason for it?
I am drawn to poetry because it is minimal, in terms of word usage (less words).
It is also approachable for the reader, easier to start reading a poem than a novel.
My emotion about my back pain is more about the future of the pain. Will it ever go away? Is it something more serious than just muscle tightness?
In the present moment, my back pain is just that, pain. And pain is only a sensation, not necessarily a negative one.
I don’t mind living
On rice and beans
If that means
I can think for myself
All twenty-four hours
Of the day
But I grew up
In the grocery store
Begging my mom
For sugar cereal
Learned the capitals
Of all fifty states
Instead of hunting buffalo
On horseback
Went to college
On government loans
Instead of walking
To the water
Got my first job
In a big city
Instead of moving
With the herd
Soared too high
On the dollar
Like a folded
Paper airplane
Even if I ever landed
Back on earth
I would not know how
To live there
July 06, 2021 at 07:40PM
The tag
On the pillow
Rustled
In the wind
Coming through
The open window
As if a bird
Had flown through
And alighted
On the couch
Making the same noise
With its wings
July 06, 2021 at 05:08PM
Why do I deserve
This boredom
This right
To do nothing
Is this the freedom
The revolutionaries
Fought for
Is this the luxury
The industrialists
Worked for
For me
To lie in bed
Until noon
Eat the food
Delivered
To my door
And struggle only
To find new ways
Of entertaining myself
July 06, 2021 at 04:34PM
Like a pool
With a sign that says,
“No diving”
But my hands
Are what really
Limit me
See, the sign
Did not say,
“No digging”
So I could go
And get
A jackhammer
Break through
The cement bottom
Of the pool
Then a shovel
To dig deeper
Into the dirt
There are no
Shallow thoughts;
Just shallow tools
July 06, 2021 at 10:31AM
Flowers, I thought
Were the fancy
Of hummingbirds
But this one
Hovers above
Bare, green leaves
Dewdrops, perhaps
It picks
With its needle beak
To punctuate
Its taste
Of sweet nectar
With dull dew
July 06, 2021 at 09:10AM
A loose thread
In the process
Of escaping
From the hem
At sheet’s end
Wiggles with each
Of my deep breaths
In bed
Blowing it
Like wind, a leaf
July 06, 2021 at 08:46AM
What are you capable of
Ghost
If you are merely
As your name suggests
I will pass on
Through you
Unobstructed
And unafraid
But if you are
More than just
A mirage,
A trick on my eyes
More than
A soul with no body
If you can
Enter my world
If you can
Grab me, stab me
I will be very,
Very afraid
July 05, 2021 at 01:34PM
In the moment
That you meet someone
Who is like
An apple cart
Rolling down a hill
You can see them
Shooting by
Even pick up an apple
And bite into
Its sweetness
But to go along
For their reckless ride
Would be both
To leave your
Present place
And also to share
In their eventual crash
July 04, 2021 at 10:01PM
I lifted my shirt collar
Over the bridge of my nose
To sneeze
Then turned it
Inside out
To check for snot
July 04, 2021 at 07:21PM
I forget
To eat
To give my girlfriend
Attention
To change
Postures
To breathe
Even
When I really
Get into it
I feel like
A kamikaze
Not caring for
My corporal form
If I could just
Get this one
Down
Is a cause
I could die for
Longer lines:
I forget to eat
To give my girlfriend attention
To change postures
To breathe even
When I really get into it
I feel like a kamikaze
Not caring for my corporal form
If I could just get this one down
Is a cause I could die for
July 04, 2021 at 06:53PM
I held onto the metal bar above the doorway into the basketball court, doing leg raises. He stood on the other side of the chain-link fence, behind a storage container to shield him from the wind. He was drawing on a pad atop a tripod. I wanted to know what he was drawing, but I could not decide if I would go over and ask. By the time I finished my exercises, I had decided that I would.
I walked over and asked, “Do you mind if I take a look?” He stopped drawing, looked up, and, after taking a moment to resurface from his deep, drawing thoughts, said, “Oh, yea, sure, it’s not finished, but …” Then he took a step back and lifted his hand, palm facing up, to point at the pad, signaling to me that I was invited to see. I stepped into the studio he had made with a dirt floor and two walls—one, storage container; the other, chain link.
It was a pencil sketch of a tree. There was smudging that made a sort of background and eraser marks that looked like calligraphy—one art form within another. It was obviously a tree. The trunk and the branches were clear to see, but it was still unfinished.
As I was admiring the sketch, I remembered that I was meeting a stranger at the same time as I was admiring an artist’s work—both of which are events normally accompanied by certain manners. I said, “The eraser marks are interesting.” And explained how they looked, to me, like calligraphy.
He then explained how he used the eraser as part of the drawing process. He would erase to create a lighter shade and then wipe across it with a cotton swab to make a purposeful smudge.
We went back and forth about the sketch itself. He taught me about his methods and I asked questions. Lately, he had been using a ruler to get the scale right. Otherwise, he said, he would get carried away with drawing a certain part of the sketch—say, one bough—and then it would end up out of proportion with the rest of the sketch. So his solution for this was to buy a ruler at the art store and make tick marks along the length of the page that corresponded to different parts of the tree. Scale had been on his mind a lot recently. He wanted to draw the tree as it was.
I cannot remember all of what Henry said. I tried to be present in the conversation, rather than just trying to remember. But I do wish to record a few certain things he said that really struck me.
I explained to him that I was a writer and that I knew what he meant about how you can’t be too willy-nilly when you’re getting down your first draft because then you will create a mountainous task for yourself when it comes time to edit. The closer you can get it on the first draft, the more time you can spend getting it even closer during editing. Of course, this is balanced with not being so focused on getting your inspiration crammed so perfectly into what you preconceive as the proper form that you end up choking the energy and vibrancy that gave life to the work in the first place. We agreed there is a balance between form and energy, structure and chaos.
I also told him that sometimes I have an experience and become frustrated when I struggle to write it such that it is equal to the beauty, sadness, joy, brilliance, or whatever I am feeling so greatly myself because I wish for others to feel it too, via my writing, but I know they will not be able to if I cannot fit the writing within a tight enough pipe that it gets to them like a firehose.
And that is really what we were getting at. I may be putting it in different words but I can feel now, writing it, the same as I did an hour ago, talking to Henry about it, so here it is. There is a dichotomy. Many analogies demonstrate it clearly—solid and fluid, structure and chaos, form and energy, wind and tunnel. Let’s use solid and fluid—water in a hose, to be precise. The water is the energy. The hose is the form. Making art is the process of turning on the water and having it flow through the hose.
The water is what the artist feels. It is the emotion, idea, or inspiration. It gets into the artist. A painter beholds a nature landscape. A dancer is filled with potential energy for movement. A comedy writer overhears a funny conversation.
But does the artist have a hose? Does the painter have a keen painter’s eye to see the colors in the autumn leaves and choose the corresponding colors from his palette? Has the dancer trained and flexed her muscles so that her body is capable of the great leap to which her spirit aspires? Does the writer have the skill to translate the elusive rhythm of spoken comedy to the written word?
This is not the kind of hose that can be bought at the hardware store. It is more than just the painter’s brush, the dancer’s body, or the writer’s pen. It is the craft itself.
Many times I have been overflowing with water that I cannot force into my hose; in other words, I am overwhelmed with an experience that I cannot write. I can write some of it, but there are holes in my hose. There are holes because my craft is still of an amateur. My vocabulary has not expanded to the far reaches of the language. I have not read enough to gather a sufficient stylistic inventory. My words don’t sing in perfect harmony with the music of language.
The water wells up in me and I drown in the ecstasy on which I am already drunk and would readily pour out into the glasses of others so that they could be drunk with me. But my hose is holey and all that comes out the other end is a dribble. I cannot spray out of myself strong enough for my readers to be dancing in the water as in a sprinkler during a hot summer day.
On this, Henry gave me advice. He said that my experiences as a young man are ephemeral and I need to freeze them while I can. That means writing down my experiences with the writing skill that I now possess. As I grow as a writer, my craft will develop. Then I can return to my earlier works and raise them to the level of my heightened craft. Henry said that he had done this with sketches from his younger years.
A text from Henry the next morning (07/05/21) at 3:51am:
I can see the distant bay but I cannot touch it or use any other senses to flesh its reality. My awareness of rests on its image in my mind. Without embodiment, reality drifts into fantasm. “Feeling of reality” (referring to a term used by Andre Gide) is a little litmus strip one end is informed by all the senses and is rooted and the other has less sensation and is more ethereal and seems fantastic.
An odd wish
To want
What you already have
July 04, 2021 at 04:02PM
I don’t mind
The bathroom
At a restaurant
Being dirty
As long
As the food
Is cheap
July 04, 2021 at 02:26PM
I did not know
That fish could frown
As those in the tank
At the dim sum restaurant
Do
July 04, 2021 at 02:23PM
Blonde pigtails
Dripping down
The back
Of her wet suit
Stood watching
Waiting
For her chance
Then ran, slouched,
And slid her board
Along
The wet beach
Where from
A wave
Had just retreated
Jumped on
And skimmed
Out to the water
In a moment
Of grace
Gliding atop
The froth
Then slowed,
Stopped,
Waved her arms,
Wobbled,
And fell
Splash!
Belly-first
Into the water
July 04, 2021 at 01:15PM
She waited
Until after
A couple of drinks
At the bar
Before she asked
In an off-hand
Kind of blasè
Way
What street
He lived on
So he
Would not know
That she
Was sleeping around
Rent-free
To see
What neighborhood
She would like
To live in
July 04, 2021 at 01:03PM
The glass
Of the bottle
And the air
Are all that separate
Me
From the molecules
That once
Have trickled
Down the hatch
And had
A second
To take effect
Would make
Me feel
For a time
Grand
And above it
But I think
I’ll have cereal
Instead
July 04, 2021 at 10:01AM
Crackers spill
From the plastic
I look
At how they lie
And consider
They could be
Arranged
More beautifully
Than they happened
To spill out
So I stack them
In a row
But the order
Is even uglier
So I pray
The taste
Will be the board’s
Redeemer
July 03, 2021 at 05:26PM
At the man in the car
Who stopped
For my teammate
To run across the street
And grab the ball
Out of the gutter
I don’t know you
Dear driver sir
But in this moment
We are connected
By my waving
And you’re seeing it
And stopping
July 02, 2021 at 07:02PM
I lie on the floor
Touching
The rug, the floor,
The brick, the wall
Any texture to make
I stand
On my head
With my feet up against
The wall
So the blood will rush
Down
And make
I start a song
And skip to another
That I hope
Will make
I read
The first few lines
Of a poem
And then the next few
Before I’ve understood
The first few
Searching
For what will make
In the fridge
There may be leftovers
To make
In some club
After nightfall
Deep underground
There she may be
Dancing alone
Just waiting to make
I crawl into bed
And touch her
Hair, skin
Look and ask her
To make
July 02, 2021 at 04:14PM
At some point
I’ve got to go
With what I’ve
Already got
And stop the getting
Just
To get on
July 02, 2021 at 04:13PM
Bim! Bim! Bim!
The experiences come
Crammed once
Into thoughts
Crammed twice now
Into words
What is left over for you
My poor dear lover
Who I have not
Yet met
Though I wish to meet
All of you
If you happen
To be multiple
Or just one
Would be fine too
If you really are the One
Having not yet found you
Oh grandmaster God
With more pronouns
Than I can fit on a line
While still maintaining
The rhythm of the words
Broken up
By appropriate line breaks
The music of it
Makes so much sense
That it need be born
Into poetry
Which can be reduced
To oblivion
As long as that oblivion
Is still broken into verse
Because there must be
A music to oblivion
It cannot come all at once
Just bah!
And there it is
No, it must come on somehow
And so
There must be the line breaks
It comes a little
And then breaks
Comes a little more
And then breaks again
You are feeling it, aren’t you?
As if you were here
With me now
Fuck the couplet
Let it be one line
If it wills
The blind adherence to form
Has been the circumcision
Of so much good art
That would have otherwise
Bled on past the margins
Margins, which our boundless souls
Must be forced into
For how else could we survive?
And by “survive,” I mean
For our physical bodies
To persist, in time
Out of sync, I’ve gotten
The words overpowered the rhythm
Which is how it happens
Sometimes
Like back when I said
Fuck the couplet
All so harmonious
And rhythmic
It feels to me now
As it’s all music
On mushrooms
But how can I bring it back
Why
Do I need to bring it back?
But then
What am I to do?
Mushrooms all the time?
Is this life for me?
Or is it for others?
Beautiful, it is, when
By being me
I am for others
In a way they want
And so I wish for it
Crying on my knees
Begging please
But I would jump up
Just so giddy
The very next second
You would say I am crazy
As we are accustomed to calling
Anyone who can experience
Those two very different emotions
Deep serious sadness
And singing joy
So suddenly
One after the other
But I can, I tell you
I can
So much
That it seems most appropriate
To dance and sing
Out of my skin even
Explode into all of it
Around me
Return to what I know I am
But forget, I do
When I am not on mushrooms
And the problem
Is the rawness
How can I shave it down
Real particular
Into a needle that will pass
With little pain
Through the pore
Of a sober man
So the only pain he must endure
Is either
Reading, listening,
Or watching
Into his soul, I must pass
Somehow
How do I get in
Through his body
He has holes
His nose holes
His ear holes
His mouth hole
The pores of his skin
How can I get in?
Not to take you by force,
Dear brother, no
Take me, if you would
Please
I come onto you so strong
With all the desire
That is really my own desire
To be come onto
In disguise
Care not, we need
About who is coming
That we are coming
Together
While we still can
Is the point
But the great song and dance
Is just that
Called so
For a reason
The arts are how
We’ve all agreed
To come onto one another
And really enjoy it
With the ecstasy
That is otherwise only appropriate
Behind the closed doors of a bedroom
Where we have shut our sex
Into such a modern construction
For where did we fuck
Before there were closed doors
And beds with sheets
Out through the cracks
Around the hinges
Through the keyhole
Oozing out from behind that closed door
Our sex learned to define itself
Because getting out of the bedroom
Was only the first step
And then past
The guards at the door
Was the second step
So we disguised our sex
Into art
Song, dance, poetry
We sang to the guards
Danced to the guards
Read to the guards
And they let us go
Out of the doors
And we ran free
And ran and ran
Until we were exhausted and hungry
So we ate and slept
And then woke to run
But to where?
We ran for years
Until we realized
The love we were chasing
Came from the guards
The bedroom was ourselves
They locked us in there
Locked us in ourselves
What a trick!
And all the fucking desire we had
To fuck
Was for the guards
Whomever they may be
Anyone, really
Ourselves, even
The real question is:
Who built this house?
We don’t seek to punish you
But merely to show everyone
That you aren’t so great
So we can then proceed
With tearing the house down
Our sex need not be shut up
Who defined it as it has been?
I have gotten too particular
I do not wish for this to be a novel
Oh blah blah blah
I am back again
I have come back down from the mushrooms
It will continue on for some time now
Along the plateau
But the come up has come
And gone
July 02, 2021 at 03:46PM
Can’t possibly be
An accident
This piece of yarn
On the rug
Or any of
The rest of it
It’s all too
Itself
Each thing
Is
Very much
Itself
But she almost
Has me convinced
That it’s all, really,
The same
July 02, 2021 at 03:31PM
Why is it
The mushrooms
That bring it out of me
Where
Does my exuberance
For life hide
On the days when
Just the thought
Of getting out of bed
Already brings
Other thoughts
Of what I will do
Once I am out
And for some reason
None of it
Seems worth the effort
July 02, 2021 at 03:23PM
How could the industry
Have possibly picked
Diamonds
Over the blue-yellow
Holographic beauty
That is labradorite
What does it say
About our standards for beauty
That we picked
The cleanest, clearest
Rock
As the one of value
July 02, 2021 at 03:10PM
In most of what
Has been written
And deemed worthy
To have been read
By others before me
I can see how firmly
They must have pressed
Their pens into the paper
By the boldness of the font
Even though it is printed
So clear
Their editing
And obsessing over
The punctuation
What is it like
To sit in a room with someone
And watch them be
Who they truly are
Write, like that
I wish they would have
Like they would talk
If they were right here
On the couch with me
So that I could meet them
Instead
Of this castrated form
Into which
They crammed themselves
July 02, 2021 at 02:59PM
Pins and needles
Press into
The palm
Hanging at the end
Of this here
Arm, shoulder
Wooden couch railing
Pressed up and under
My armpit
I let it hang
To feel the pins
And needles
July 02, 2021 at 02:53PM
To tear myself down
From these heights
Up to which
I have built
Thinking to myself
All the while
Sweating, toiling
That I was really
Doing the right thing
Building myself up
To achieve something great
Only to meet
A fat, smiling Buddha
Appearing to me
As a curvy, curly-haired beaut
Who said to me
In her sweet, seductress way
That I had to now
Tear it all down
Brick by brick
I was wrong all along
Or rather
The ones whom I listened to
Were wrong
But it didn’t matter
Either way
I had to tear it all down
July 02, 2021 at 02:48PM
Like all the money
I made
In my short tour
Of the working world
Was for naught
But to buy
As many mushrooms
As our dear grower
Could grow,
Take them,
Trip my balls off,
And write poetry
July 02, 2021 at 02:37PM
More
I can always
Do more
Even
When my mind
Says to stop
I can still go
Until
The muscles tear
If not
For my body
Maintaining itself
For what?
For oatmeal
And cribbage
In a wheelchair
Without the strength
To tear myself
Apart
Even if
I wanted to
So why not tear
Starting with my pectorals
While I still can
July 02, 2021 at 02:34PM
She is my veil
Shrouding me
And my insanity
From the outer world
Which would not know
Why I lie
On the hardwood floor
With the chair legs
Gripped firmly
In both my hands
Shouting,
“Too narrow!
Too narrow!”
Because it is
Of course
Too narrow
But they
Would not know that
And neither does she
But still
She protects me
Like a young fledgling
In her nest
July 02, 2021 at 02:31PM
Unlike her feminine way
Of seeing the world
Soft
And all the same
I plunge
With my mind
The spear
That they put
Into my hand
And sharpened
For reasons
Other than this
Though I broke
From that race
And now fling
My spear
At thought
After thought
Somewhere off
In the neverland
Of my mind
That they built up
So strong
To be for them
It has wrested
Itself free
Not even for me
Does it fling its spear
I know not now
For what I fling
Maybe I will crawl back
To her soft
And feminine ways
July 02, 2021 at 02:26PM
Just to be
Is quite a feat
Which wins
No awards
For we all
Are born into it
But collectively
We might all win
The award together
And this is it
That award
If I might be so arrogant
To don it on us
Myself
Here it is
July 02, 2021 at 02:24PM
It is intensified, on mushrooms, what is normal. Why cannot, when I am sober, chase after, with such reckless abandon, whatever crosses the windowpane, of my consciousness.
I feel high and get too high and then get sad when I fear that the high will not continue. It is intensified, this going up and then fearing the come back down, on mushrooms. But it is no different than it is normally. Like if you took a sine wave graph and squeezed it’s x-axis into a smaller space so that the amplitude of the graph seemed much higher and much lower. It’s the same function, but the perspective has changed.
It can’t all be written. There isn’t any one art form that can capture it all. Modern movies come the closest, I think. They have something for all the senses. You see the movie, hear the movie. You don’t smell, taste, or feel it, though.
What art form communicates what is beyond just the senses?
That is the tragedy, there, that an artist must cram it into her form and the audience must suck it out, as if through a long and narrow straw. The sucking process is not instant. It takes the time of listening to a song or reading a poem. You have to let it get into you through your senses somehow.
Is that the most we can give to each other? What can fit through the long and narrow straw. And only for those with time and energy to do the sucking.
There is a rate at which the thoughts come. The rate is very high during the come up. It is so high that I cannot write them down. One will come, I will start to write it, and then another will come right away. During a period of the plateau, the thoughts come at just the right rate, so that I am just about finishing with the one by the time another comes. When I am sober, and not tripping, the thoughts come so slow—one worth writing, maybe, only once or twice per day.
Peeing in the dark
I stared at
A stack of toilet paper
The dark, inner circle
Around which
The white paper was rolled
Expanded
And shrunk
Expanded
And shrunk
Like it had a slow
And epic
Heartbeat
I finished peeing
And went to look
At the plants
To see
If their hearts
Were also beating
July 02, 2021 at 12:58PM
It may seem lazy, but it’s hard work keeping the world from crashing in on all sides, like being inside a box deep underwater. None of the sides of the box are sealed together and they all have handles, so you’ve got your two hands holding two sides and your two feet looped underneath the handles of two of the other sides, but there are still two sides left. So you’ve got to clench onto one of the two remaining handles with your teeth and still the handle on the sixth side is left free, so you’re always playing this alternating game switching one of your hands or your feet or your teeth to hold onto the unattended side, keeping the sides sealed together so no water gets in.
Oh, and the walls are clear, so everyone else is swimming around like they think they’re supposed to and they can see you inside your box and they say among themselves, “Why is he in there just sitting and not out here swimming like he’s supposed to?” They don’t see your effort just to keep the box together. They only see that you are not like them and not doing what you’re supposed to be doing.
The waters of this modern world are filled up to the brim. The waves are crashing and the riptides are strong, so it’s a real effort just to tread water.
I opened one of the windows
In the second-story bedroom
Of the Baker Street apartment
Locked eyes with a painter
Standing on the sidewalk
With his arms crossed
Smug and unflinching
His stance set wide
White shirt with paint flecks
Tucked in
To his blue jeans
Looking up at me
Like the referee
Of all household things
I was suddenly unsure of how
To properly
Open a window
Pushed out the pane
A little too far
And the ref blew his whistle
Brought it back in
The hinges squeaked
And he shook his head
Went to get some grease
Pushed it out somewhere in the middle
And stepped back
The painter opened his palm,
Flicked out his fingers, frowned,
Bobbed his head
As if to say, “Good enough”
Then walked across the street
To get into his white van
And drove off
With the ladder on top
July 01, 2021 at 09:39AM
A physical therapy article
Say it’s only in rare cases
That back pain turns out
To be a tumor
The investigator writes me,
“I don’t know what will be decided,
But your cooperation and honesty
Will certainly be in my report”
My fears of being stuck in a cell
With another inmate, larger
And able to overpower me
Might subside, if only for today
But I am still stuck in this cycle of thought
Which subjects my well-being
To the ups and downs of the material world
Which I am passing through
Any later than this very moment
Is already further into the future
Than the spiritual book I’m reading
Would recommend me thinking
I am caught in between
Walking out into the Presidio
And lying down next to a tree
For the next rain to wash me away
And continuing this mad existence
That is all I’ve ever known
July 01, 2021 at 09:15AM
I play pretend
I have a friend
Who has told me her troubles
I imagine
We are at the park
And I ask
How her troubles have been
She catches me up to speed
While we watch
Our kids swing
July 01, 2021 at 03:49AM
When you are hungry and tired
You cannot satisfy both
At the same time
Unless you know how
To eat while sleeping
Or sleep while eating
I have tried both:
Once, arriving home after a day
Of foodless travel
I put some chili in a pan
Turned on the stove
And sat down at the bistro table
To rest
While it heated
But I fell asleep
With my head on my arm
And when I woke
There was a burning smell
Another time,
After a long day of work
When I had to skip lunch
I tried to take a nap before dinner
But only tossed and turned
On the couch
With my stomach grumbling
So I had to get up
And play the dangerous game
Of not falling asleep
With the stove on
July 01, 2021 at 03:27AM
To the defender
In front of me:
I have no left
It might as well be a club
Or a phantom foot
One, two, maybe
Three times
I’ll have my glory
Dribbling past you
With my right
But you’ll learn
Like they all do
And then I’ll have to find
A new game
With new defenders
Who don’t know me
June 30, 2021 at 09:05PM
Where can I stay
If I don’t go
In what state
Other than death
Can I suspend myself
While still living
If I could persist
Without eating, sleeping
I would find just one
True true
And chip away
The excesses of myself
To become
A statue of the truth
I am not fit for this life
I am a weak body
A limited mind
A sinful soul
Where can I go
If I don’t stay
June 30, 2021 at 07:53PM
The price of a human life
Has gone up, Brother
There is no more time
In the bank
And survival is cheap
I have made enough
In one year
To live for ten
So what keeps me
From taking the first train
Out of the city?
Money used to buy
All that we ever wanted
Now it just buys
More of the same
But you can’t buy time
June 30, 2021 at 04:20PM
Normally, I count in my head when I hold a plank. “One, two, three …” I’ve been counting in couplets recently, so it’s more like, “One-two, three-four …” I count the first half on the exhale so it ends up being longer than the second half. “Oooooone-two, threeeeee-four …” I wear a watch to double check myself. I’m rarely right on. Usually, I’m counting too slow at the beginning of my workout or too fast at the end when I’m tired.
Counting may do more harm than good for my persistence. I end up paying attention to the count instead of my form. I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that my energy wanes right at the end of the count.
I have to get to the point because my soccer match is about to start and they need help moving the goals. Counting is western, capitalistic. I think it would be better if I achieve the same one-pointed focus in my exercise as I do in my meditation. I focus on one thing and that is holding the form. I focus like this until something else, like pain, enters my consciousness with such vigor that my focus is broken by force.