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LAUNDRY LADY
A pair
Of worn, white socks
Encircled
By dark, dirty clothes
In a heap
Of laundry
On the floor
Look like
An old lady’s face
Wrapped in a shawl
MEATHEAD
Oh here he goes
With heft again
Heaving as he may
Huffing and puffing
His big chest for something
But still, he holds no sway
For strength aside
His muscles try
To make up for his mind
That door would budge
With just a nudge
If the knob were so inclined
ON THE CORNER
Pedestrians walk across the yellow rectangles
Two men drink their coffee under an awning
The tree branches bob gently
One of the men holding a coffee cup
Gestures vehemently with his other hand
A man with a dog on a leash
Stops to look inside a shop window
While his dog sniffs at a light pole
Blue and green trash cans stand by the curb
Cars continue to make their noise
And barely avoid crashing
One of the same pedestrians from before
Walks back across the yellow rectangles
IN SEARCH OF A BATHROOM
When any bin,
Bucket, basin,
Or brick wall
Would do
DEAD BUG
Cutting a green pepper
On a wooden board
I saw a little black speck
A piece of peppercorn
That I almost just tossed in
With the tacos
But I’m glad I didn’t
Because I slid the point of the knife
Underneath the speck
Brought it closer to my eyes
It had legs
A little creature, dead
With its legs curled up
Underneath it
But it must have had its fill
And thought itself lucky
To have made its way
Inside the pepper
Until it realized
It would be a coffin
Albeit, one fit
For a Pharaoh
So maybe, all in all
Life wasn’t so bad
For the little dead bug
HER HONEY
Some would say
That the beekeeper
Brings us honey
But, really, she
Is the artist
Like the bees
Bring the honey
And I am only
The collector
Like the keeper
Who stands idly by
Patient enough
To collect and deliver
Their sweet creation
LEFTOVER LOVE
I try to drink it in
Eat it
Consume
And digest
All of this moment
That taste, smells,
And feels like
I wish it always would
I want it so much
That I miss it already
Even though I still have it
I breathe in deeply
As if I could inhale some
Seal it in a container
And put it in the fridge
To save for later
THE SUN COMES UP
So early
In the summer
That I wonder
If I even
Got to sleep
OLD MAN #2
Another old man
With a gray mustache
And glasses
Eats a biscuit
And drinks a coffee
By the window
Picking up crumbs
Delicately, slowly
Between his fingers
DRINK CART
The attendant came down the aisle
Rolling the drink cart
With her gloved hands on either side
Looking down
To the left and to the right
Shouting, “Elbows! Elbows!”
PHOTOGRAPHER #2
Stood on the path
In everyone’s way
Looking up at the sky
At a trail of smoke
Left by a plane
Some of the passersby
Stood for a second
And tried to find
What the cameraman
Was seeing
He pointed and explained
But they couldn’t see
Or just didn’t understand
What the big deal was
About a trail of smoke
In the sky
NAKED IN THE TREES
I stand among the trees
Welcoming back the nature
That got poured over in the city
With cement streets
And concrete buildings
A few trees remain
In square-foot sections of sidewalk
But not enough to stand among
And be surrounded by
Like the forest out here—
The grass is overgrown, as it should be
Some trees lie knocked down, but not by man
Most trees still stand, as they should
And I stand with them, at peace
CROOKED EAGLE (this would be better as prose)
A desert eagle landed
On the roof across from our balcony
And James explained
How the falconer
Brought the eagle everyday
To chase away the smaller birds
We watched the eagle
Pick at its plumage
As one small bird
And then another
And another
Landed
On the roof next to it
The eagle must have
Been getting more
From the small bird mafia
Than from the falconer
MARCUS (this would be better as prose)
I got the chicken
With brussels sprouts and pumpkin purée
The chicken was perfect
But the brussels sprouts were undercooked
I wasn’t going to tell him
Because you don’t tell strangers
What’s wrong with
What they love
But he told me his story—
Made his way over to the U.S.
From Germany
And sold automation technology
To auto companies
Even though baking
Was always his passion
He would take the executives
Of these auto companies
Out to dinner
At the nicest restaurants
And that is when he promised himself
He would open his own someday
It started as a bakery
And then expanded to
A dinner menu
And I told him I believed in him
And I thought his restaurant would be big
And then we weren’t strangers anymore
So I told him
The brussel sprouts were undercooked
And he shook my hand
And said he would tell the chef
TELLING STORIES (this would be better as prose)
When you talk to someone
And listen for a while
You get restless at some point
And wonder when it will be over
But you get past that
And forget about yourself
And actually start to live in their story
And be interested in it
You ask them questions
Really wanting to know
What it was like
At the twists and turns
It’s their eyes
That always get me
When I am as close as I can get
To leaving my own life
And living theirs
Their eyes
Are the last door
I look
And then fall
Completely into them
>>>
When I listen to someone
Tell a story
It’s always their eyes
That finally get me
Out of myself
And my own worries
And into them
And their story
I leave my own life
And live theirs
AN OLD WHITE MAN (this would be better as prose)
With gray stubble on his face
Wearing a tattered cowboy hat,
An oversized button-up shirt,
And oversized khaki pants
Slouched
In a straight-backed
Wooden chair
His head leaning forward
He looked out from under
The lids of his half-closed,
Bloodshot eyes
Raised his veiny,
Hairy-knuckled hand
Pointed
One of his long skeleton fingers
At the flamenco dancer
In her festive
Red-and-black dress
Stomping on stage
Putting on a show for the gallery
And said something
To explain
Why he was pointing
But it was incoherent
Maybe because
Of the empty bottle of wine
Next to him on the table
But for a guy of his size
He would have needed
More than just one bottle
To get to that point
By his demeanor
I guessed that he was either
The proprietor
Of the gallery,
The artist who made
All the pieces,
Or otherwise the man
In charge of the moment
In some way
Or another
As we all watched
And waited for him
To take the lead
THE OLDEST GAME
The girl whom he
Was trying to get
Danced
While he pretended at it
And mostly
Just watched her
WHERE ART THOU, HANGOVER
I woke up confused
By not feeling worse
And confused also
About what to do
Other than whatever
Would make me feel better
Eventually
I went down to the pool
And so started
A day full
Of what wasn’t planned
But just happened
One carefree accident
After another
FORCE
I carry with me
Force
Walking
Through the hallway
I bump
The door frame
With my hip bone
And almost
Knock
The house down
>>>
Apparently
I don’t know
My own strength
When I bumped
The door frame
With my hip bone
The structure
Shook so
I thought I almost
Knocked
The house down
CONSTRUCTION NOISE
At the job across the street
The construction crew
Must have taken off today
I can hear the leaves
Blowing down the hill
Scratching on the cement
The soft wind
Whistling around the edges
Of our bay window
And even the light buzzing
Of complete silence
For brief moments
—Sounds that,
For as long
As the construction
Has gone on,
Have been drowned out
By hammering, sawing,
Nailing, shouting,
And other sounds
Of industry
Which usually
Make me feel guilty
For lying in bed
Today
I can take the day off too
A SPACE IN TIME
The hot sun
On the back porch
Bakes into
Bare legs
Crossed over
Eyes closed
Head leaning back
Lungs exhaling
Here is where
I’ve needed to come
Less of a place
More of a space
In time—
A moment
Like this
BIG DENTURE
Bright light
Breaks through
The mouth
Of the tunnel
Like the face
Of the mountain
Is missing
A tooth
MENTAL
I can never
Get my mind
Out of the way
Fast enough
To get
To the visceral
I’ve already
Abstracted
Clouds to heavens
Blood to war
Food to hunger
Described it
To death
Pondered every
Possibility
Made it
Mental
>>>
I’ve already sent
My mental assistant
Running down the hall
To pull the file
Of past memories
LAST BEER
Beer bubbles
At the bottom of the glass
Make me sad
Because this
Was the last one
In the fridge
And I’ll have to switch over
To white wine
After these last sips
RESORT NEIGHBOR
Drinks in hand
Forearms resting
On the railing
He said, you are young
And full of energy
What do you mean
By “energy,” I asked
He pointed out at the lights,
Boats, roofs, roads, water
And asked me
What do you see out there?
He waited patiently
Like a teacher
For the right answer
I said I saw lights,
Boats, roofs, roads, water
He said there are
Protons and electrons
It’s all energy
I could see in his eyes
When he said it
He meant more
Than the physics lesson
I learned in high school
I wasn’t sure
Exactly what
But still
When he looked at me
And asked if I understood
I said I did, sincerely
THE SOUND OF BEING UNDERWATER
Treading water
With my ears above the surface
I heard
Squeals of children
Music from the beach bars
Waves crashing
Vendors selling
Underwater
I heard
What I try to remember
How to describe
Back on the beach
It was
Not silent
I’ll have to
Swim out again
And fish
For words
So you can
Bring it back to shore
Inland
To wherever you are
Grill it, bake it
Or however you like your fish
To taste, hear
And be there
Underwater
And at peace
ORNERY FUTURE
I get into a moment
And think that this
Will be forever
And start to plan
Accordingly
Setting up expectations
And parameters
For the future to fit into
What I’m experiencing
Right now
But of course
The future
Is an ornery child
That never obeys
Its present parent
LOOSELY
I can close my eyes
And escape from where
My sight says I am
But my other senses
Still tether me
To what I can hear and feel
So I plug my ears
And lie down
On soft cushions
I still remain myself
Albeit
A little more loosely
DEEP BREATH
I was so worried
That I wasn’t breathing
I realize now
As I’ve gotten the news
That what I feared
Isn’t true
And I take my first deep breath
In a while
PARK POEMS
A baseball
In the grass
As the sun sets
On the skyline
I pick a poem
Like a leaf
Or a lyric
From a bird’s song
Then run home
To write it down
MOMENTS
If I could just keep in
To each for its own sake
Not always looking later
Longing for the next
They would come and come
Countless
Each for itself
As all things are
Eased into being
And then back to nothing
Without my meddling
To make moments
More than they are
BROKEN BLENDER
Melted the rubber
Wedged between
An engine that had
All the strength
And a blade that had
All the ambition
It was obvious
That the rubber
Was already
Worn out
But the engine-blade
Industrial complex
Didn’t really
Seem to care
LIKE THE HARE
For what do I wait
While wanting wanes
Though I may be
Strong and swift
At the start
Rejoicing
In the sprint
Stretching
Straight ahead
Until the end
Seems farther
And farther
And the wanting
Which at first
Burned bright
As a fire
Turns to ash
And cools
GRATITUDE
I close my eyes to remember sight is a gift
I sit in silence to remember sound is a gift
I fast to remember food is a gift
I catch a cold to remember health is a gift
I spend time alone to remember friendship is a gift
I stay in one place to remember travel is a gift
I go to sleep to remember life is a gift
SOOTHING SHEET
I laid my ear
On the sheet
And listened
To the silence
That softly
Said, “Shh
All else
Is outside
Far away
From here”
ONE BOAT
With my forehead pressed
Against the plane window
Leaving a greasy smudge
On the glass
I looked down at the ocean
And spotted a solitary boat
Reclined in my seat
To see all the ocean ahead
And then leaned forward
To search the blue behind
But there was not
A single
other
one
September 03, 2021 at 10:48AM
September 03, 2021 at 10:48AM
September 02, 2021 at 07:46PM
September 02, 2021 at 04:26PM
September 02, 2021 at 04:21PM
September 02, 2021 at 04:10PM
August 30, 2021 at 07:01PM
August 30, 2021 at 08:55AM
August 30, 2021 at 08:49AM
August 30, 2021 at 08:49AM
August 30, 2021 at 08:49AM
August 29, 2021 at 05:48PM
August 29, 2021 at 12:14PM
Cole: I am really attracted to moments that are impactful yet brief. Like how could I give the reader all the necessary context of a novel but really just have them read something the length of the climax?
Lake: I think (unsurprisingly) that there is much to be learned from short stories, especially by really powerful authors, in as far as the information they choose to make explicit and that which they let/force the reader assume.
Cole: The letting/forcing the reader to assume is important. With my poetry, some of the editors want me to come out and say the point. They don’t want me to just describe the physical moment. They want me to explicitly state the metaphysical message. It’s a balance, getting the reader close enough, but then letting them make the leap themselves.
Lake: Yeah, and constraining the conclusions the reader can jump to.
Cole: It’s not so much what you say but what you don’t say, not what you write but what you don’t write, not what you paint but what you don’t paint. The impression that any word makes on the reader depends on the words around it. The impression that one splash of color makes on the viewer depends on the colors around it.
The most obvious negative space is silence in song, monochrome in painting, blank space on a page of writing. But negative space is really just one end of the scale. We might say positive space is on the other end. Between them, there are pixels of subject that each participate to varying degrees in subjectness.
Now, is there really such a thing as purely negative space? How can we make such an assumption, on behalf of either the creator or the consumer? How can we decide for them what parts they will consider subject and what parts they will consider background?
Like a little girl who holds her father’s hand while waiting in line for the train. Everyone else is leaning side to side, jumping up and down—trying to get a glimpse of the train, the door, how full it’s getting. The girl is crouched down playing with an ant. Who could have seen the ant in a painting titled “In Line For The Train?”
Some writers talk about “filler.” In the middle of a novel, there may be pages that are not the writer’s best work, but they get the book to a total page count and they progress the story along. Filler is still positive space. It’s words—the main medium for the art form of writing. But might we say that filler is closer to negative space than, say, the climax?
As a writer, what am I letting the reader assume? How much relatively negative space am I giving them to fill with their own imaginations? The reader is not completely loosed. Even blank white pages will confine their thoughts and feelings to a certain section of mental-emotional possibilities. How meticulously can I reduce the number of possibilities?
If I have written a poem to twenty lines and there are three possibilities for the conclusion at which the reader will arrive, should I write a twenty-first line to reduce the possibilities to just one? How does it change the experience of the reader to make the leap on their own? To solve it like a puzzle. I would say there is some joy and sense of achievement to be derived from this independence.
Lake: I agree with some of the things you said. When I was talking about negative space with writing I was not thinking about physically, but more so negative or empty space in the environment you build for the reader, i.e., when you have a 20-line poem that leads to 3 conclusions or a 5-line poem that could lead to the same conclusions, the 5-line poem has more negative space and also more power because it focuses the reader to the same point with less filler. And I think that is what skilled short story writers excel at. Because then you can think of it the other way: what is the most cohesive and specific, even if not well-defined, environment that you can create in the space of a short story? Whether that is like geographic depth, visual detail, character development, plot texture. Imagine a surrealist essay. They paint a very cohesive and specific picture, but not necessarily one you could describe neatly in a few sentences. Like Kafka can make you feel a very specific way, even if you can’t really put your finger on how you feel.
Cole: Yes, but that seems separate. Can Kafka make you feel that specific way using less words?
Lake: Maybe, maybe not. The point I was making was that you can know something without needing words to represent it, which means you can make someone else feel something without making it explicit. And I think that by properly choosing words you can be very precise with the atmosphere you create and what feelings you grow in the reader. And a large part of that is what you allow the reader to assume based on the information you provide and the info you don’t provide.
Cole: Ah, I see more clearly now. Let me regurgitate back to you a bit. Premise: I can feeling something without words to represent it. Conclusion: You can make me feel something without using explicit words. Whence, then, does the feeling come? What DO you use to make me feel it? Maybe just other words. Not the explicit ones that say what I should feel exactly, but other words that make me feel it by some other means. Maybe these means are something like the subconscious, logical conclusion, or imagination. It seems the minimalism / negative space conversation is unessential to this one.
Lake: I don’t think so! The negative space is where the mind is able to make connections between the words you do use that then lets it feel something greater/different than what was explicit.
Cole: Hm, so negative space does not exist only in the art itself. It exists also in the viewer’s mind?
Lake: What is in the viewer’s mind is a function of the art, like if you only give someone 5 words on a blank page, they twist and turn mentally until they figure out how those 5 words all connect to make sense.
Cole: But the reader already has words in their head. Words that didn’t come from the page. The viewer’s mind is a function. But the art isn’t even a variable in that function. It’s just an input.
Lake: A function takes an input and creates an output. Mind is the function. Art is the input. Feeling is the output.
Cole: I still don’t think the negative space exists in the mind. The negative space exists in the art.
Lake: Okay, but I think that’s wrong, or rather is missing the point. Let’s say negative space exists in the art. What impact does that have on viewer?
Cole: It has an impact on the viewer’s functional mind via the input of the art.
Lake: Yes, but like what does it mean. Why is negative space helpful?
Cole: Now we’re back to square one.
Lake: Humor me.
Cole: Negative space is helpful because … (A) It allows the viewer liberty to draw their own conclusions, which are not explicitly concluded by the positive space in the air itself. (B) It preserves the energy and attention of the viewer so that they can focus with more power on the positive space. (C) It allows the positive space to exist. Without negative space, there is only positive space; there is only space, general space, without an opposite, without contrast.
Lake: Yes, so really what we are saying is don’t give the viewer all the pieces to the puzzle and let them find some on their own. If the input is sparse the function has to make more assumptions, yielding a more interesting output.
Cole: I disagree with the word “interesting.” Maybe the output is more personal to them. Or maybe the viewer feels a keener sense of accomplishment.
Lake: I would say “interesting” is correct because it’s actually just a conclusion that isn’t handed to you therefore you have to think a bit therefore you focus more of your active interest in it. But whatever, not gonna die on that one.
August 27, 2021 at 12:08PM
August 27, 2021 at 11:47AM
August 27, 2021 at 11:44AM
August 26, 2021 at 08:54PM
August 26, 2021 at 03:15PM
August 25, 2021 at 02:28PM
August 25, 2021 at 02:28PM
August 25, 2021 at 02:28PM
August 24, 2021 at 09:34AM
August 24, 2021 at 09:34AM
August 22, 2021 at 07:28PM
August 22, 2021 at 07:28PM
Keep a journal. Date entries. Record your actual daily experiences in narrative form. Write well, not just to get it down. Include dialogue.
Then, I can return to the journal and make a book out of it. Maybe some day’s entries were no good—they don’t have to be included. Even whole weeks, months could be cut, but I won’t know what’s good unless I write it all down.
I already have a notebook in Evernote titled “Personal Diary.” I can put the entries there. The title of each note will be the date and a detail from the day.
Currently, I am writing moments—just small snapshots, unrelated to each other. If I’m going to write something longer form, there needs to be continuity, characters, dialogue. I can achieve this by writing in narrative form in a journal, like I’ve said.
There are
Three parts
Of OM
AHHHH
—Open mouth wide
Release fully
All breath
OHHHH
—Narrows lips
As if to whistle
Focus sound
Drop pitch
MMMMM
—Close lips
Smiling, similar
To satisfaction
After eating
Then silence
Before repeating
>>>
My back starts hurting, usually, when I am seated or standing for a long period.
Why am I seated or standing for a long period? To work.
Why am I heeding the call to work and ignoring the pain in my back?
>>>
Self-conscious
I do
Or say something
As I would
Alone
Without realizing
I am not
>>>
A handle pokes out from under the blanket draped over the daybed. I put the pan beneath the bed before I went to sleep last night, in case of an intruder.
Usually, I write well when I take mushrooms, or at least more creatively. I lie here, on pillows on the floor, having taken them once more, waiting for something to write about.
When I take mushrooms, I sit, lie, lounge, walk in circles, but mostly just wait in between bouts of writing. WHY CAN I NOT DO THIS SOBER?
Mushrooms remind me how to live like a child, but then I go back to living in the adult world. They treat me like one of them because I look like one of them. I often want to do things that are not customary in the adult world, either because they are just not usually done or because the law explicitly forbids it. When walking on the sidewalk the other day, I was curious about a shrub. But I could only see its leaves. I was interested in the trunk and the branches. I thought to get down on my hands and knees there on the sidewalk to have a look, but then these other thoughts came marching one after another into my mind like soldiers. One of the soldiers said, the sidewalk is dirty. The next said, someone will see you. The next said, you are not dressed like a gardener. And so I went, walking on down the sidewalk, not knowing what I would have seen if I had lifted up the skirt of the shrub.
I finish one piece of writing. I want to continue on. I have more to say—things I thought of while writing, but they were unrelated or otherwise wouldn’t fit in the prose, because of the technicality of it, and at the moment I was writing, they wouldn’t fit presently, so I carried on with whatever else and my other thoughts waiting in the queue were forgotten. But I have now remembered some of them! Alas, they are only parts. Their beauty was, and still is, in their belonging to and being placed in each of the appropriate stations inside of the whole. Now, I must forget them, maybe forever. Whether they will return to me, in my mind, is up to forces greater than me. My only choice in the matter is either to hold them and have them as they are for me now, or to let them go and know, twofold—that they may never return to me, but also that new and different others may come to fill their absences. Consistently faced with his choice, how deep shall I go with any one thought? How much time shall I spend with her? Does she have more to teach me, more to say? Or might I learn more from others—different, younger ones? Are my wishes the only ones to be considered in this matter? Now I am thinking no longer of thoughts, but of my relationship with my girlfriend.
On my knees, on the rug, I become aware of the classical music playing. I close my eyes, raise my arms in the air above my head, bend them at the elbow, twirl my fingers, curve the side of my body into a bow, and dance to the music—slowly, softly. I had a thought that someone might be watching. The possibility that someone might be watching made me ask myself, should I be dancing in this way? And now other thoughts come of this. First, we are at a cabin in the woods, just my girlfriend and I, and it is unlikely that anyone is watching. Second, if someone were watching, why should I dance any differently or stop? Third, why is it that someone else watching makes me consider whether I should or should not be doing something? Not even them ACTUALLY watching, just the THOUGHT that they MIGHT be makes me second-guess the way in which I am dancing, alone in a cabin in the woods. Perhaps it is too feminine—the way my side bends into a bow and my fingers twirl. I am a man. Should I, therefore, not be dancing like a woman?
As a writer, I think of myself as such—as being one, a writer. When I write, if it seems like it might be becoming a piece that will be well-received—like a young boy shows early athletic promise and might grow up to become a great baseball player—then the thought that it might be so interrupts me while I have not yet finished with making the piece whole. I think to myself, what if so-and-so reads this, or if they publish me in such-and-such magazine? And then what will that mean for me? Riches, fame, and all the other gifts that are usually given to the main character in a story that ends well. But it interrupts me, this dream of glory, as I am still in the act of making the darn thing.
I worry that I can only write well when I have eaten mushrooms. I don’t believe this is true. I think I write well even when I have not eaten mushrooms. It is the READING that is different after having eaten mushrooms. Everything I read seems to be right and true, fantastic and new. It seems this way whether I have written it or someone else has. When I am writing, I am also reading what I have written. On mushrooms, what I am writing sounds wonderful. I have had this experience several times—eating mushrooms, writing, deeming it well-written. Thusly must the belief, first, and worry, next, have arisen.
Now, as an aside, being an aside because I believe my previous thought has concluded well where it has, still, I might add: I have read, while on mushrooms, what I wrote, while NOT on mushrooms, and found it to be the work, not of a genius but, of one relatively advanced in their craft. I have also read, while NOT on mushrooms, what I wrote, while on mushrooms, and found it to be the work of a lunatic who aspired to write, discovered mushrooms, thought they might aid in his writing process, ate them too often, and never stayed sober long enough to master the intricacies of the craft, which can only be learned by long hours of bored, tedious, and frustrated trying-and-failing, interspersed with reading the greats and wondering—of some of them, why can I not write as well as this myself; of others, are they really as great as everyone says they are?
While writing on mushrooms, many thoughts come to mind while I am already engaged with writing a specific one. Some of these I can forget easily, as they showed a little promise of extraordinariness. Others, those that show more promise, make it difficult for me to decide—between cutting short my current engagement (writing a thought that, before, what the same as this other one than I now consider, a question mark) and ignoring it to delve deeper where I am already standing, up to my knees in disturbed dirt, digging deeper still, to find any stones unturned. They linger, like a first taste that forbids a full bite. With one hand they wag a finger in front of my face that says “no, not yet.” The other hand they hold out, palm facing up. They are asking for something. A price. The price I must pay if I wish to bite into, chew, and mull over the thought to which I have not yet committed. The price is the one with whom I am already. Both, I cannot have. I must place the one I have, still an infant, into the upturned palm. I will never know what the youngling might have grown up to be. But, oh! Here is another, newer, brighter. If only shining its light to attract, if the flame cannot stay lit, if it proves to be no better than the one I had before, then I will go searching once more, and again—the two hands: one, wagging its finger; the other, an upturned palm.
I feel that one of us will win, and the other must then lose. Why must it be this way? I read recently that, based on our evolutionary predispositions, the man desires to spread his seed far and wide, while the woman wants to retain a man to provide for and protect herself and any children they may have together. Is this true? How can I say? But let’s pretend that it is. The desires of the man and the woman are opposing. The women cannot retain the man while he continues to spread his seed. Or, maybe … Already I see margins of possibility in which the man and the woman, in the context of a monogamous relationship between them, must not necessarily be opposing forces. Alas, here I am on the ground floor, writing my own thoughts, while my girlfriend is upstairs writing hers (I can hear the keys clacking on her keyboard), and we are breaking up. It’s not a surprise. We’ve been talking about it. At one point, she wanted me to pack my things and leave that same day. Somehow we ended up here together in this beautiful cabin nestled in the forest of Northern California outside of town called Elk. And I return to my beginning question: if we are to separate, why must it feel like one side is winning and the other is losing? Because one side chooses to end it while the other wants it to continue. There is the opposition: one wants it to end while the other wants to continue. In this situation, both cannot have what they want. Unless, maybe the relationship can transform. One wants it to end, but maybe it doesn’t need to end on the whole. Would the other be okay with a few modifications, in part? Could the relationship still live on, after the modifications? This makes me realize: relationships are always transforming. Because they involve individuals who are always changing. What happens when one changes in a way that the other doesn’t want them to? Then it becomes complicated. She asks, were you this way when I met you? How could I not have seen it? All my other relationships were the same way. Blaming—me, herself, past boyfriends. But the facts remain: people change, relationships transform. Now, the question is: how do we navigate the transformation?
I thought I heard her crying. I couldn’t tell if it was just the music or if she really were up there whimpering, sniffling. I got up and walked over to the steep steps (almost a ladder) of the old-water-tower-turned-cabin. I grabbed the railing and climbed up. There she was—her caramel skin in contrast to the white sheets, her curly hair slightly frizzy (as it gets when she’s been rolling around in bed). I asked how she was doing, if she was okay, or something like that (I forget exactly what I said). We skated, as we tend to, like those water bugs, along the surface, before descending. Then she told me that she HAD been crying. I told her, oh, I’m sorry, well, that is why I came up here. Then she said oh, did you hear me? You couldn’t have. It was only a tear. I wasn’t sobbing. I told her about how I thought I had heard crying in the music. We marveled. I must have FELT her crying, somehow, even though I wasn’t actually hearing her. She was crying because she read a few pages out of a book she found on the steps by a Vietnamese author about how he was thankful for his mother and for memories of when she would take him to the mall. My girlfriend’s mother is Vietnamese. I suspect that is why she felt a closeness to this particular book. She said, “I realized I want to cry more. I want to have things in my life that make me cry. Not just shallow melodrama. You know? Like (and she preceded to describe what she meant and how she felt in words that were perfect, but all I can remember is …) things that make you feel like you’re on the brink of being alive.” The moment was sublime, terribly so. I, knowing our relationship was ending, one tear already on my cheek and more welling. Her, being beautiful in her body as she always is, but then also the depths and intricacies of her emotions, as well as her lexical prowess to communicate them. The trees through the window behind her, bending in the wind, a glint on the glass making their green look red. Ah! What is a man to do? Other than audibly call for his deity, cry more than he already has, and shield his eyes, only to pry them back open, unveiling the portal to his heart, inviting in the moment that is more than can be captured by any artist, no matter how skilled, nor how numerous his forms. Only I, as I was in that moment, the material world as it was, chakras balancing, energy fields in opposition, formless feelings floating, angels singing—all conspiring to torture me, as if all the potency of life were distilled down into one drink, one swallow. As soon as it touched my lips I sputtered and spat. If it were spread out and watered down, so that I could have had time to process, make rational, cram into my own understanding—then I could have taken it. As it was—me, her, and the trees through the window behind her—I had to run. In this case, I slowly descended the steep steps, holding onto the railing. It took some willpower and a great deal more conditioned concern for my bodily well-being not to suddenly fling myself down them as fast and as recklessly as my heart and soul were fleeing. But no matter the manner in which I did, I ran, nonetheless. I ran like I always do. I ran like a thief into a field clutching above my head the bouquet of flowers she had given me, petals flying off of them as I went. See, I’ve never been able to stay put there and just listen to her. As soon as she starts being beautiful (which is immediately, and always) I run away with derivatives, hand-me-downs of her to render into my heart, so that others will pay me, praise me, or whatever will validate the male equivalent of female beauty. I do this, even as I am somewhat aware that I am running in a wide circle, the path of which is laden with obstacles, deceits, let-downs, repetitious exhaustion, self-loathing, and various other trials which must be faced by a man working his way up through the world to be worthy of a woman at the top—all of this, I persist in putting myself through, even as the woman of my dreams lies here in bed asking me, why will you not listen to me? Why will you not come to bed? Why will you not stay?
*** This prose above has the same idea as the poem, HER HONEY. I need to return to that poem. The idea is there. It is true. But it is not yet well-written.
When I forget to breathe, I cannot make up for it by taking rapid deep breaths, which is my habit. I failed, was resultantly worse off, may even suffer lasting damage, but there are some mistakes in the past that I can’t set right presently. I can only learn from them and avoid making the mistake again.
I am realizing, now that I’ve come down from the mushrooms high but still writing, that STAYING PRESENT is important for writing well. This is a partial answer to a recurring question: why do I write better on shrooms, compared to being sober? When I write sober, it usually goes like this: I am inspired by some sensory input, thought, or feeling, and then I formulate an IDEA thereof. I thus interrupt the otherwise seamless flow from stimulation to words, by having an IDEA of the stimulation before I begin to write. I end up writing about an impostor, the intermediary idea. While on shrooms, I stay present. I write about whatever comes up. And I write honestly, rarely second-guessing.
I am too eager. I claw at the earth with my bare hands in search of precious stones. Who said that the stones are precious? Why do I care that they said so? What do I seek by acquiring the stones?
If I would wait, the stones would unearth themselves. A river would divert its course to flow over this land and move away the sediment. The wind would blow away the layers of sand. But I do not have enough time. I have only a lifetime, and I do not know how long even that will be.
If I am to have the stones for myself, I must act quickly. I cannot wait for the forces of nature to do my work for me. I will not live long enough to take possession of the fruits of nature’s labor. So I go to the toolshed and return with a shovel. I start to dig more effectively than with my hands.
Why must I have the stones? Why am I not satisfied that someone else should have them? Why do they need to be had by any human? Why can they not stay in the earth where they are?
I am selfish on two levels. First, I think only of myself. Second, I think only of those who are like me; I think only of the human species.
When I remember that I am one with this world, then progress and development, especially economic, seem silly.
There are two wills at play. There is the collective will of humanity and there is the will of the natural world. As a species, we have grown strong and capable of bringing our will to bear, to great effect on the natural world. In many instances, the will of man overpowers the will of the natural world.
Then again, maybe this is the way of things. Maybe the surge in humanity’s power is not at odds with the will of the natural world. The will of the natural world will curtail man’s power in time.
Originally written: Friday, July 9, 2021, 11:28 AM
He would say the name, then he would pause for a long second to see if I had met them or been there, or at least if I knew of the person or had heard of the place. He talked like an encyclopedia. Every twentieth word was a proper noun. He enunciated the first letters of the names to remind me they were capitalized.
When I didn’t know of the person (which was more often than not) and confessed that I didn’t (which I only did a few times when his pauses were extra long and accusatory of my ignorance) he would say, “Oh, they are important, you must read about them.” Of a place, he would say, “Oh, it’s beautiful, you must go there.”
Afterward, I thought of a couple of possible reasons for my conversational partner’s manner of speaking. Either he had learned in the past that bringing up names was a way to seem intelligent, or he just wanted to be anyone other than himself, somewhere other than where we were.
There are faces
In the clouds
They fade
As have those
Of people
I have known
The clouds shift
And different faces
Take form
As do those
Of passing strangers
On the sidewalk
The clouds stay
For an ephemeral moment
That lasts forever
As does the face
Of my lover
Looking down at me
Originally written: Sunday, Jul 18, 2021, 7:49 PM
You don’t always think what you think that you think. Sometimes it’s actually an emotion and not a thought at all.
When you have a thought in mind, try putting it into words by either explaining it to someone in a conversation or writing it down on paper. Then you will know if you were thinking precisely what you thought you were thinking and, further, if it actually makes some bit of sense.
When you have an emotion in your heart, do the same thing—try putting it into words.
In my own experience, I have had thoughts that I believed to be strong and true, but when I tried to explain them to someone else in a conversation I realized either that my thought was still incomplete and/or tangled, or that there were gaps and inconsistencies in the thought, pointed out to me in conversation.
I have had emotions that I felt deeply and passionately, but when I tried to write them down the passion faded or seemed irrational. This has been especially helpful when I have experienced emotions that can become negative, like sadness or anger.
As we grow old
Our hope wanes
And we attempt to birth
What we ourselves
Failed to become
August 17, 2021 at 11:54AM
I don’t think I added any content to The Art of Sidewalking that was written any time after June 10, 2021. The last content I added was “Drench warfare,” I think.
It was basically after my trip to Big Sky, Montana with Kyle, Lake, and Krys that I stopped adding new content to The Art of Sidewalking.
As I’ve gone back through a lot of my content from the past two years, I realize my next book should be SHORT PROSE. I have a lot of good content in the format of 50-to-200-word prose pieces.
At the library
I learned a little
About meter
This morning
I put my ear
On her chest
buh-BUM
buh-BUM
buh-BUM
The heart
Is a poet
Beating on
In eternal
Iambic
August 15, 2021 at 10:27AM
I can
Only taste
The first
Few sips
Of wine
In sips
Other than
The first
There is
Only a
Vague sense
That the
Liquid is
Alcoholic
Whether it
Is because
I am
Drunk, or
My taste
Buds have
Become bored
In either
Case, I
See little
Point in
Finishing
My glass
August 13, 2021 at 09:13PM
No matter how long
The darkness
Seems to be stretching
At night
A day
Will surely come
With its light
Once again
August 13, 2021 at 03:44PM
How high
I dream
Until I wake
In a body
Unprepared
To jump up
To the heights
I dreamed of
August 13, 2021 at 03:41PM
As if her being naked
Were not already enough
She got up and walked
Past the window
So I could see
In the light
The beauty I’d felt
In the dark
August 13, 2021 at 03:39PM
How sincerely
I wish
For what
When given
I forget
So easily
To be grateful
August 12, 2021 at 03:31PM
I am writing
The way
I know how
Which has changed
As I’ve
Gone on
When I read
And enjoy, a writer
Who writes differently
I think to myself,
“Gee, maybe
I should write like that”
But then I read
Another writer
Who writes like me
I think, “Well,
The way I write
Is just fine”
But neither
Should affect me
I know
I should just write
The way
That I do
August 12, 2021 at 12:14PM
Summer
Used to mean something
When we got off school
Now
It’s just the hottest
Of the seasons
And we work
Right on through
Sweating
August 10, 2021 at 02:42PM
I am almost finished with “The Art of Sidewalking.” As of now, it is a book of about 110 poems.
Next, I want to work on a book of short prose (or flash fiction; I’m not sure of the correct term). Part of the reason I am drawn to poetry is because of its brevity. According to a study, the average human attention span decreased from 12 seconds to 8 seconds. I feel my own attention span decreasing. I don’t have the patience to read, or write, anything that is too long.
When I was in Cabo on vacation with Greg and Devin, I started to write short narratives about people—the lady shop owner in Todo Santos, the young pianist in San Jose. Originally, I wrote them in verse. I think they would be better written in poetic form. This tells me that my writing style is naturally stretching toward short prose.
I would like to take these narratives from Cabo and transition them from poetry to prose.
Once I finish “Sidewalking,” I will post all the last-minute deletes and additions to the collection. This will help me remember what was included in the collection.
Generally, I stopped adding to the collection after the end of my trips to Cabo and Big Sky. I got back from Big Sky on June 12, 2021.
After I
Have gotten drunk
And danced
I remember
There are things
I’m supposed to have
And I check
My pockets
In a sober moment
For my wallet
And keys
August 08, 2021 at 04:37PM
Is seeing young people
And discerning them
As different
Than yourself
August 08, 2021 at 04:28PM
Is it too obviously
Ironic
When fat people
Embarrassedly eat
More food
Than’s normal
August 08, 2021 at 04:22PM
Is the aloneness
A musician experiences
On stage
Performing for a crowd
Any different
Than the aloneness
They experienced
When they played
Just for themselves?
August 08, 2021 at 04:17PM
Three-legged dogs
Are heroes
Because having four legs
Seems to be such
An integral part
Of a dog’s life
It’s like a person
That has lost
One of their senses
It’s so sad
Because it’s such
A human thing
To sense
But then it’s inspiring
When despite
Their loss of humanness
They carry on
As humans nonetheless
August 08, 2021 at 04:04PM
Along the walkway
I’ve watched
At least a thousand different people
Walk by
While I’m supposed to be watching
The musician on stage
So far away
I can barely see
But I honestly enjoy watching
The people on the walkway
Much more
If I could pay admission
To somewhere I could sit
And unabashedly
Watch people walk by
I would pay that admission
As happily as I have
To any other show
August 08, 2021 at 04:01PM
It’s not that complicated
The emotion is real
Complicating it with words
Won’t get you any closer
To the original emotion
If these authors
Of thousand-page volumes
Were honest with themselves
About why they write
In the first place
God, I don’t know what they would do
Maybe they would just kill themselves
So maybe they are
Better off just writing
And maybe someone will read it
But it doesn’t matter
What matters is the writer
Did something for a while
Other than kill themselves
August 08, 2021 at 03:32PM
Have we done enough
In the meantime
To earn our right
To eat and sleep
Again
God damn
That’s all we do
Eat, sleep, eat, sleep
Try to fuck
With a semblance
Of the passion
That some great great
Grandfather of mine
Who I will never know
Fucked with
The passion he fucked with
That birthed
All the generations
That fucked with
Gradually less and less passion
As certain men and women
Fucked with such passion
To birth, not more
Men and women
But advances in science
That established so strongly
Our position on this earth
As a species
That those of us now
Don’t know what the fuck
To do with ourselves
It’s all a big sham
In these modern times
The only life that’s real
Is the surviving
The eating and being eaten
The sex and reproduction
And these originals acts
We still perform
But we are only
Going through the motions
There are no
Noble professions left
Other than
Being a burnout
Our species has burnt out
The only generations
That had to fight
In order to survive
Have long since died
Everything we do now
Is just killing time
Literally thousands of people
Over thousands of years
Have spent their lifetimes
Trying to come up with
Some meaning for our existence
And they can’t fucking do it
We’ve taken over the whole planet
And now we just want it to mean something
In the meantime
As we continue to exist
On the planet we’ve conquered
Each of us as individuals even
Want our individuals lives to mean something
Fuck me man
For once I should publish a poem
With all the expletives
And the rawness
As I wrote it
Because god damn
Of course I’m going to edit out
All the curse words
When I’m sitting in the apartment
And not feeling a damn thing
Other than the desire
To make the poetry good somehow
August 08, 2021 at 02:58PM
The stage is set
For the band to come on
The musicians
Are doomed to play
They could not
Walk out onto that stage
And do anything other
Than play
Their instruments
Are already set out for them
The opener has already
Come on and gone
The crowd has waited
For long enough
They could not come out
And take a nap
They could not come out
And eat lunch
There is not a single other thing
They could do
Other than walk out
Onto that stage
And play
Like we all expect them to
August 08, 2021 at 02:53PM
Did I capture
Consciousness
In its rawest
She asks me
Sarcastically
After I’ve written
I know
She really means,
“Pay attention to me!”
She won’t admit
She doesn’t like when I write
When I’m with her
But her question
In the first place
Was rather apt
I go back
And read what I wrote
To give her an answer
August 08, 2021 at 02:14PM
I always want
Want, want
When will I
Be satisfied
Even when
I am, after
Having gotten
What I wanted
It lasts
Only briefly
Before another want
Assails me
I know
Or, I have heard
There are ways
Not to want
Most of them
Eastern
America wants
Not to want
But we fail
Before we start
Because wanting
Not to want
Is still
Wanting
August 08, 2021 at 02:05PM
With my fists
Half-heartedly
Balled up
(Without vigor
Enough to make
My knuckles white)
And stuffed
Into the pockets
Of my jeans
I lean my bony hip
Against
The marble countertop
And wait
For the hot water
In the kettle
It does
Eventually
Bubble audibly
I look up
At the cracks
In the ceiling
And exhale
In the dark
Of the kitchen
(We leave the lights off
To save
On electricity)
Before I can
Pour the water
Into my mug
I walk away
To write
This
August 08, 2021 at 09:37AM
What crazy things
We wonder
When we are alone
In our minds
What impossibilities
We figure feasible
For the satisfaction
Of our fancies
What horrors
We conjure up
Only to have
Fodder for fear
What dreams
To hope
Especially
When we have none
August 07, 2021 at 09:53PM
To the thorned
Blackberry branch
Overhanging
The path in the park
Of those walkers
Unaware
How many
Naked shins
Have you cut?
August 06, 2021 at 04:19PM
At first, it was only
To remove a bit of soap
From my eye
That I held its lid open
Under the direct spray
Of shower water
But even after blinking
And feeling the sting
Had been banished
I opened my lid again
And looked back up
Into the waterfall
Just to feel something
Even uncomfortable
Is better than nothing
August 05, 2021 at 06:23PM
The heat
From the oven
Warms my face
Almost to the point
Of perspiration
As I reach in
To carefully place
Slices of bread
Without burning myself
On the baking sheet
That I should have removed
But forgot
Before I turned on
The oven
August 05, 2021 at 12:02PM
I struggle with my work
And feel sorry
For myself,
But then I see
A fallen leaf
In the soil
Of the potted plant
Atop our dresser
A construction worker
With dirt and sweat
On his shirt
Leaning over, exhausted
And I realize
I’m not the only one,
Which makes me feel
A little better
August 05, 2021 at 10:36AM
Walked
To the window
In the bedroom
Looked down
At the sidewalk
Just in time
To see—
Running out of sight
Underneath
The bay window
Next to ours—
A pair of legs
Not-too-skinny
Dressed in denim,
A hand
Holding a grocery sack
Blowing in the wind,
And sneakers
With lime-green
Stripes on the sides
August 04, 2021 at 10:02AM
A fly crawls up
On the rose quartz
In the crystal grid
My girlfriend arranged
Atop the dresser
The fly takes flight
And buzzes
Over to the light
Of my laptop
Open next to the grid
Now
I feel good enough
To find this
Fantastic
Other times
I would swat the fly
For disturbing
My work
August 04, 2021 at 09:46AM
Our love’s
Not the only thing
That’s been dying
Around here
The bananas
In the fruit bowl
Have black spots
And flies
The arms
Of the cactus
In the window
Are discolored
The leftover chili
Has been sitting
In the back of the fridge
For weeks
And now
The construction men
Have knocked out
The power
August 03, 2021 at 11:45AM
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.
On a silver, metal
Hook
In the shape
Of a “U”
Stretched out
Shallow
More like a bowl
Than the tall letter
A white towel
Hangs on
Just barely
To one end
June 30, 2021 at 02:06PM
Beads of moisture
Burst
Into individual life
On the underside
Of the concave glass lid
At first, each bead
Is not even
Itself
In the pool
Of hot water
In the pot
Then the water
Evaporates
And travels
Through the air
From the hot pool
To the lid
On the lid
The bead is born into
Its individual life
Which it lives
In community
With the other beads
Thin borders of dryness
Separate them
Gravity pulls them
From the apex
Of the lid
Down toward
Whatever side
Is nearest
On their way
They cross the borders of dryness
Join
With other beads
And lose
Their individuality
Larger beads form
And grow
Even larger
With each bead added
To the mass
Until gravity pulls it
Down to the edge
Where it drops
Back into
The pool
Of hot water
Below
This process
Repeats itself
I am like a bead
Addicted to my ego
But I will join the others
In a suicide dive
Back to the water
Eventually
June 29, 2021 at 07:46PM
With the metal bar
Pressed down upon
Its broken neck
The mouse died faster
Than its little mind
Could get from
The satisfaction
Of the cheese
To the pain
Of death
June 29, 2021 at 07:37PM
My forearms are flat
On the table
On either side
Of my bowl of chili
The wind blowing the leaves
And the sirens outside
Are too obvious
(But you have to understand
How constant
Those two sounds are
In the city)
I can hear her sighs
Coming through the open door
Of the bedroom
Across the hall
The dog upstairs
Runs back and forth
But doesn’t bark
The wind sounds like
A rainstick
Full of waves
The kitchen light
Makes a buzzing noise
That I’ve gotten used to
This bowl of chili is so big
I’d have to write for hours
To work up enough
Of an appetite
It’s quiet in a way
That makes that book
The Lightness of Being
Make sense to me
Even though I’ve never read the book
Just me and my chili
And the metal spoon scraping
The bottom of the bowl
There are moments of silence
In suspension
What makes them jarring
Instead of peaceful?
Knowing there are other parts
Of the world
That are loud
Even right now
And parts of my world
That have been loud
In the past
Is it only in contrast
That the silence
Strikes me?
Like the hardest
You could ever hit
A stone statue
With a pillow
The waves wash over
The sirens come for
The dog runs toward
Someone
Somewhere else
June 29, 2021 at 07:18PM
Remember when
We woke up early
To drive to that tournament
Out in the farmlands
You opened the garage
And we stood
Behind your truck
You breathed in,
Sighed, and said,
“The morning air
Is the best air all day”
You played rock songs
On the way
To pump me up
Slammed on the mat
And shouted, “Squeeze!”
When I had the other kid
In a headlock
I wish I would’ve won
Every match
You ever saw
If I could go back
And squeeze tighter
I would
June 29, 2021 at 05:08PM
They’re not
Who they are yet
Some of them
Think they are
But they’re still
Just
Playing the part
Others have no idea
Who they are
But these
I like better
Because at least
They’re not so sure
And still wrong
June 29, 2021 at 01:33PM
You chomp
With confidence
Until
There’s a rock
In your food
And then
You chew
A little more
Softly
June 29, 2021 at 12:41PM
It is hard to think of her
As being anyone else’s
Now that she is mine
And has been, for so long
It would be like
Someone telling me
That my mother
Is not my mother
I would tell them
They are wrong
Of course, she is my mother
Of course, she is mine
As if by blood
June 29, 2021 at 12:18PM
I want
What I don’t have
When I get it
I am overjoyed
Nothing else
Could possibly be better
Eventually
I get used to it
I can’t taste it
Anymore
I eat so much
That I get fat
And then I want
To be skinny
When I get skinny
I am overjoyed
Nothing else
Could possibly be better
June 29, 2021 at 10:23AM
Farmer Jim’s wife
Lynn
Always let me
Eat their frozen
Country-fried steaks
Out of the freezer
It was the best part
Of my day
After picking cherries
Tying up tomatoes
Mowing the lawn
One day
I microwaved a steak
Put it on the bread
And sat down to eat
When I saw some customers
Through the window
At the shed
Out on the driveway
Which was another part
Of my job
To take their money
Bag their fruit
And be nice to them
So I left my food
Ran out there
Helped them
And came back
But my steak was gone!
I spun around
Looked on the floor
The plate was there
Had I not
Even made it?
I checked the freezer
But the box wasn’t there
I looked in the garbage
And there was the box
It was the last one
I looked down
And there
Was the old terrier
Named Pete
Looking up at me
As guilty
As a dog can be
June 26, 2021 at 06:20PM
Used to drive
A trailer-full
Of watermelons
Back from Georgia
He paid my brother and I
Cash
To wake up at 4am
And help him
Move the melons
From the trailer
To the cold truck
He’d stand in between
The trailer and truck
And hold each melon
On his knee
While he wrote a price
In permanent marker
“This is a biggun”
Holding it
On either end
Sizing it up
With a satisfied smirk
Squinting
In the shed light
17.00
He wrote on it
And he always underlined
The two zeroes
But nobody could read
His writing
At the market
Shoppers would ask
How much for this one
And they’d point
I’d look and
Make an attempt
To decipher
The markings
I already knew
Were illegible
Even if they hadn’t
Smeared
From the moisture
In the cold truck
I’d do my best
Farmer-Jim impression
Size it up
With a satisfied smirk
And say,
“That one right there
Is 20,
But I’ll give it to ya
For 18.”
June 26, 2021 at 06:07PM
Pieces of her hair
Are everywhere
Tying together the tassels
At the ends
Of the hand towel
Twirled around
The shower pipes
Clogging
The drain
Interwoven
In the threads
Of the bedsheets
Stuck
To the bottoms
Of my socks
They latch on
And enmesh themselves
In the lives of things
Like she has
In mine
June 26, 2021 at 12:25PM
The delivery man
Buzzes
Once, twice
And the footsteps come
Clop, clop
Creaking floorboards
The door downstairs
Swings open
A package gets dropped
On the floor
The door
Slams shut
The unit above ours
Goes back to what they were doing
The delivery man
Goes to another delivery
And we lie in bed
Waiting, listening
June 26, 2021 at 09:20AM
The towels hang
On the drying rack
And meditate
Without moving
To become one
With the sun
Shining
Its wisdom
Through
The window
June 24, 2021 at 04:32PM
I am hungry
So I
Get some cheese
Out of the fridge
Slice
And eat it
With crackers
June 24, 2021 at 09:51AM
I opened the cabinet
To grab some nails
And a hammer
To hang a piece of art
I saw the bottle
Of glue
And almost grabbed
That too
As I remembered …
First, that
I had broken my glasses
And needed the glue
To fix them
And second, that
It was only in a dream
A dream, which I had not
Until that moment
Even remembered
Having had
Only in that dream
Had my glasses
Been broken
And I did not
In the same world
In which
I needed the nails
And hammer
For the art
As yet, unhung
Need the glue
For the glasses, which
Were never broken
In any world
Other than
That
Of my dream
June 22, 2021 at 05:55AM
Doing exercises
With my hands
On the ground
I saw an ant
Crawling
Between my fingers
How many
Had I squashed
Already?
June 21, 2021 at 07:42PM
At brunch David
Taught me how to
Roll my r’s
In Spanish
I erroneously
Rolled the “r”
In “naranja”
And David told me
It’s only for
The double r’s
As in “burro”
Which is Spanish
For donkey
David started to
Roll his tongue
And show me
How to do it
He said it’s not about
The tongue muscle
You just
Relax the tongue
But I still had
Food in my mouth
So I told him
To wait
Until I was finished
With my food
And then
I would try
Originally written: May 30, 2021
Water
Is clear
So the bottom
Of the mug
Can still
Be seen
Through
The water
With which
It’s filled
June 13, 2021 at 12:10PM
One moment can’t
Hold up against
All the others
Attacking
The outside walls
Which define it
When the walls
Eventually crumble
And the surrounding moments
Invade and mix
The moments
Breed and assimilate
June 13, 2021 at 09:05AM
“You see things
In a different way
On the shoot,”
Says the model
Drinking
After the shoot
Pontificating
About photo-taking,
What it means,
And how good
The cameraman was
June 12, 2021 at 07:56PM
For her ranch water
I would have used
Ice cubes
But there were only
Four or five
Left in the tray
And I knew
We were going to drink more
So I unzipped
The bag
Of frozen strawberries
And plopped in
A few of those
Hoping
They would have
The same effect
As ice
June 12, 2021 at 07:51PM
The wooden deck planks
Took fire
From the rain
And bled
Spreading
Wet darkness
From their bullet holes
June 10, 2021 at 01:48PM
The world seems wide again
As I’ve just narrowly
Avoided disaster
Yet again
The allegations
Were not as serious
As I trumped them up to be
In my head
I can hold onto
My precious world
The way it is
For a little while longer
But each
Of these near-disasters
Are teaching me
How to lose it all
June 10, 2021 at 09:37AM
He opens the door
To the deck
Steps out
Onto the wood
Looks up
At the mountains
Bows his head
And ambles forward
Humbly
Approaching their majesty
– Krys in Big Sky 06/10/21
June 10, 2021 at 09:31AM
I was so worried
I wasn’t breathing
I realize now
As I’ve gotten the news
That what I feared
Isn’t true
And I take my first deep breath
In a while
June 10, 2021 at 09:12AM
About my writing
He says he wants to ask me
The question
Which he wishes
Others would ask him
About his music
This is the question—
“What question
Do you want me
To ask you
About your art?”
I cannot help but feel
That he is cheating
Isn’t digging through the dirt,
Clamoring through the confusion,
And finally finding
After much searching
Somewhat similar to
All the sunshine and rain
Required
Before a flower
Will unfold for you?
Did nature
Have it so easy
As simply having to ask
What it was
That the flower wanted?
Or did many flowers
Have to die
Before nature learned
The unfolding
Of a single flower?
Was it worth kneeling
In the soil
And watching
For every second
Of every day
To learn to ask
The right question?
June 09, 2021 at 12:00AM
Other women, for me now, are beautiful insofar as they are like her.
When my friends talked about her, before I loved her for the first time, they said that she was beautiful.
Her physical form, for me then, aspired to participate in the higher form of Beauty.
Now, she has caught up and gone past, in her race with Beauty.
Anyone who is beautiful, for me now, is so in proportion to the qualities of hers which they possess.
When the faceless women in my dreams take off their clothes, they have her breasts, her milk chocolate skin, her hip bones that jut out.
When I see the face of another woman in a crowd, it is a beautiful face because it is like hers—dark curly hair, freckled skin, perfect white teeth.
In the beginning, she was beautiful. Now, beauty has become her.
Lake explains
How a machine-learning algo
Makes art
“The code
Prunes out what’s bad”
“It grows into
The right composition”
“It either ends up
Too random
Or not random enough”
Kyle argues back
On our behalf,
“It’s the same
As a human artist
Learning what feels right
From experience”
Lake responds,
“Those learnings
Are rules
That can be coded”
June 07, 2021 at 01:50PM
When I stab
A knife
Into the jar
Of almond butter
There is really only
One thing
That can go wrong
Because I hold
The jar
Over the toast
On the plate
And once I’ve gotten
A glob
On the knife
I hold it
Over the jar
For a few seconds
Before I move the knife
Over and down
Onto the toast
—This way
If there is any drippage
It must fall
Either
Back into the jar
Or onto the toast
But there is
A terrible
Third possibility
That, in the time
I am moving
The knife
From over the jar
To over the toast,
A drip
Could fall
Onto the side of the jar
Which is really
The only thing
That can go wrong
June 07, 2021 at 10:58AM
In the morning
I work on my writing
For as long as I can
Before I eat
Because eating
Is the only thing
I know for sure
I’m doing right
June 07, 2021 at 10:41AM
At the cabin in Big Sky, we were often bored. Lake and I woke up early to work in the morning. I edited my poetry and Lake learned the formulas to make algorithmic art. We weren’t bored when we were working.
When Kyle woke up in the morning, he was almost immediately bored. He preferred to work at night, sometimes after midnight. He felt the nighttime was more conducive to producing his particular style of bass music that he described as “swampy.”
This morning, Kyle woke up, came upstairs from his bedroom in the basement, and then immediately laid down to take a nap on the shag rug in the living room.
At some point in the morning, we each make our own breakfasts in the kitchen. We take naps in the sun on the deck, on the ledge by the window, on the rug in the living room. We work on our laptops sitting at the dining table, standing at the kitchen counter, lying in the recliner.
Those are the only three definite things: eating, sleeping, and working. Other than those three, we walk around with our hands in our pockets. We pick things up, look at them, and set them back down. We look at things without picking them up. We sit down, stand up, and sit back down. We go outside onto the back deck, take some deep breaths of the crisp mountain air, and then come back inside.
We ask each other what we are doing—none of us have an answer to the question. We go upstairs into the loft to shoot a game of pool. We walk around with our hands in our pockets some more. We wonder if it’s too early to have lunch. We wonder if it’s too soon to distract one of us who has gotten into a flow working.
Being here in Big Sky and being bored makes me think about how busy we are most of the time, especially when we are working 9-to-5 jobs. Often motivated by either socially normative reasons (working a job, caring for others, not being lazy) or biologically necessary reasons (eating, sleeping), we are not accustomed to not knowing what to do with ourselves.
We are faced with a question that seems simple but can actually become complex, depending on how serious we are about getting it “right” and if we even believe there is a “right” answer in the first place. The question is this: what should we do?
Boredom is the state of not having an immediate answer to this question. Laziness is the state of having an immediate answer to this question and just choosing not to do it.
I enjoy being bored. It brings with it empty space and opportunity for creativity. There is less room for creativity when your time is scheduled with what you already know needs to be done.
There are at least
Three layers
—Sun,
Legs,
And couch cushions
But I cannot tell
Where exactly
The sun hits
The skin
Of my shins
The cushions
Press up against
My calf muscles
A general mass
Of warmth from the sun
And comfort from the cushions
And my legs
Somewhere, sensing
The warmth and the comfort
I know that
My legs rest
On top of the cushions
And the sun
Somehow
Warms them
But when I look
For my legs
In my mind
There is only the mass
Into which the three layers
Have melted
June 07, 2021 at 09:58AM
In my travel bag
There are
A pack of gum
And a handful
Of cough drops
That have gone bad
The gum breaks up
Into grit
And the drops
Are fused
To their wrappers
All the times before
That I would have
Chewed a stick
Or sucked a drop
I said to myself
I’ll save it
For later
June 07, 2021 at 07:57AM
Other than the ones on walls filled with paintings or photographs, I see frames everywhere. Earlier I was lying by the pool and the umbrella framed the sky on one side. Now I’m lying on the couch on the balcony and there is a rectangular opening in the wall and along the bottom there is the top of a table and farther off there is the side of the building across from ours, so the sky is framed by the opening on the right and top, the table on the bottom, and the other building on the left. These frames occur all over where there are straight lines.
The most frames are in the cities where there are buildings, windows, roads, light poles, and other urban structures. Why do we frame paintings? Why must they end at the borders? Does it matter? The answer, I think, is the same for these frames that occur on their own. But you can only see the picture once. If you shift your gaze at all, the picture will change and you won’t be able to ever get the same one back.
Originally written: Wednesday, May 26, 2021, 5:38 PM
We met one of the three right away. We had just gotten to the condo, walked out onto the balcony, and talked about how great it was to be back, when she climbed up the pillar and across the branch-thatched roof of the balcony down and in front of ours. Gary seemed to know her, but he told us later that he had only met her earlier that day. David and I were surprised. The climb she made was not a safe one. Before she had swung her other leg over the iron fence and put both feet down on our balcony, she was already talking a mile a minute. She was high on coke, she hadn’t slept much the night before, and her other two friends were taking a nap in the condo below us.
Gary invited her and her friends to play volleyball on the beach with us that evening at 6. She said they would come and then she climbed back down.
She was late to volleyball. We waited for her and her friends by the fountain. She leaned over the railing on the third floor and said that they were coming, they were just going to be another two or three minutes.
Later that night, we got back from dinner and sat on our balcony. We sat there for an hour and talked and drank water. Then, around ten at night, we heard her voice, “Friends? Are you up there?” We said something to let her know that we were. And up she climbed.
She was even more drunk than she had been before. She talked. Then she swung her leg over the iron fence and stepped out onto the thatched roof. Ron was there. She slipped. We heard her squeal. I distinctly remember hearing one of the small branches snap in half. And then the smack of bare skin hitting glazed ceramic tile.
Originally written: Wednesday, May 26, 2021, 1:34 PM
The ocean
Still holds its power
Over man
The land
Is being dug up,
Built over,
And otherwise shaped
By man’s desires
In the ocean
We cannot keep our grip
For long
Even the biggest boat
Can capsize
The ocean maintains
Her mystery
And her strength
Originally written: Wednesday, Jun 2, 2021, 6:50 PM
Through a plane window
There are a few
Simple sights—
The sky, the clouds,
And the ocean
But the land
Is complicated
At least because of
All the man-made structures
—Roads and buildings
But the natural land
Is also varied
By the spines of mountains
And the ridges
Running down the sides
The flat lands
That are different shades
Of gold, brown, and green
And the lakes
And other land-locked
Bodies of water
Which would be as simple
As the ocean and the sky
Going off forever
As themselves
And never changing
But the land-locked
Bodies of water
Are defined by their shores
And so contribute
To the land
Being more detailed
Than the sky, the clouds,
And the ocean
Originally written: Wednesday, Jun 2, 2021, 6:41 PM
Honestly
I think a lot of it
Was luck
But the joke
You don’t realize
You’re the butt of
Until you finally
Get it
Is that being lucky
Can turn out to be
Just as unlucky
As everyone else
Thinks they are
Originally written: Tuesday, Jun 1, 2021, 2:56 PM
At dinner she said
Something
And he said,
Oh
So she asked,
Do you like that?
Yea
When I say it
With my tongue
Flicking
My teeth
Like that
The trick
That some girls learned
Younger than others
And held more power
Over the world
Than they ever
Did again
Originally written: Sunday, May 30, 2021, 8:22 PM
The bee landed
On the rim
Of Greg’s glass
He leaned forward
And blew
On the bee
To get it
To fly away
But the bee
Fell into
The glass
And Greg
Flagged down
The waiter, Rubèn
To get
Another drink
For free
So the bee
Didn’t die
For nothing
Originally written: Sunday, May 30, 2021, 6:14 PM
I lay on the couch
And played
With a pillow
Long, rectangular
And woven
With traditional
Mexican threads
Just to feel
The texture
With my fingertips
Holding the pillow
Above my head
Bringing it down
To my chest
To hug it
And have an experience
With an object
In space
Communicating
Its
Physical existence
To
My feeling
Originally written: Sunday, May 30, 2021, 3:03 PM
I opened the cabinet
To place the wine glasses
Back on the shelf
The glasses
Already in there
Each reflected
A small picture
Of the room behind
In miniature
Originally written: Saturday, May 29, 2021, 10:50 AM
The older people
Joined our dinner party of five
To make it eight
And after
The introductions
And the small talk
To figure out
Whether we had anything in common
And if not
If we could at least get along
The old people
After so many drinks
Started to thirst for more
For the youth
And us young
Started to want for some things
Too
That the old people had
Like money
And power and respect
So we sat there together with our drinks
Half drunk
And our empty plates
And sucked off each other
Originally written: Friday, May 28, 2021, 9:48 PM
The younger girl
Tested the older man
For potency
As far into the night
As he could go
If he could make it
All the way to sunrise
She would let him in
But he didn’t know
This was the test
And invented
Other reasons
Why
It wouldn’t work
And went to bed
If only
The old geezer
Would
Have known
Originally written: Thursday, May 27, 2021, 2:50 AM
So good this night I
Try to breathe it all in through my nostrils
With my hands on the rails
Looking out at the biggest whitest moon
I have ever seen
So clear
I can see the light grey dark freckles
Like skin cancer on older skin
A boat bobs in the water in the moonlight
A smaller boat
Than all the other boats around it
Different music
Plays from different places
As everyone
Quietly enjoys the night
On their own
Originally written: Wednesday, May 26, 2021, 9:14 PM
If I could foster
With others
The same fascination
That I have with
This beautiful girl
Sitting here
Saying anything
It doesn’t matter
I am as interested
As I ever was
In whatever else
Was supposed to
Hold my attention
Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 5:42 PM
I wrote some poems
On the plane
Even after I said I wouldn’t
Write on this trip
I wonder
If other writers
Know
When they are going to write
Or if
They are like me
And sometimes
It just comes
Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 10:44 AM
A lady in the seat behind me
On the plane
Talks
To the person next to her
About her body
And how
Her brain has not been doing so great
And one of her toes is swollen
As if
Her body parts
Were members of her family
Appendages apart
From herself
Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 10:41 AM
The attendant came down the aisle
Rolling the drink cart
With her gloved hands on either side
Looking down
To the left and to the right
Shouting, “Elbows! Elbows!”
Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 10:35 AM
Looking out of the plane window
And down at the ocean
I saw a solitary boat
I leaned forward in my seat
To see the ocean through the window
As far back as I could behind us
And then I leaned back
To see all the blue
As far forward as I could see ahead of us
And there was not
A single
Other
One
Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 10:29 AM
I went downstairs
And into the bedroom
To get my laptop charger
Out of my bag
I didn’t know
I was walking into
A dance
Set to music—
The cold wind blew
Through the window
I opened last night
To stay cool
The red curtains wavered
And shafts of warm light
Shot through
The dark bedroom
It was the chill
Of the cool morning air
Crisp in my nostrils
The way the light
Came through the curtains
In the brief moments
They were blown open
The color of the light
Yellow
Coming through the red
Like gentle orange fire
And then darkness again
When the breeze subsided
And the curtains went back
To being shut
I stood there
In the doorway
And watched all the love
Being made without me
I guess I’ve gotten
This misconception
That things are only happening
When we’re around
To make them happen
But the wind and the light
Lost their egos
Long ago
They play
With
Or without
An audience
June 06, 2021 at 06:11AM
He likes women. That is his art, his joy, his purpose, his reason for living. He is attractive and friendly so it comes naturally to him. He is one of the lucky ones who has his abilities and his desires working in unison. He doesn’t have motivation for much else. He likes to go out looking for a new woman, to seduce her and make her love him, enjoy her love for a while, and then get tired of her and go looking for another. This is why he can’t commit. To commit to just one woman would be to give up his art, his joy, his purpose, his reason for living.
To live is to be challenged, to do again and again. We play the game until it gets dark and then the scoreboard resets in the morning. Nobody, not even the best, wants to win and then be done. You can also kiss your trophy so many times before the shine wears off.
We will have plenty
Of time to talk
In the afternoon
My friend
The morning
Is for making
What music we can
In the silence
Of our solitude
So with all
Due respect
Don’t talk to me
June 06, 2021 at 05:45AM
A single thread
Of spider web
Stretched
From the table
To the ottoman
With a dewdrop
Weighing it down
In the center
A spider
Must have made
The leap
Across the chasm
In the night
June 06, 2021 at 04:56AM
A robin flew up
And landed
At the very top
Of a pine tree
With a worm in its beak
Squawking gently
Twitching its tail feathers
Stretching its wings
With erratic pumps
I could see it
So clearly
In contrast
To the light blue
Morning sky
I looked down
To write this
And then looked back
To write more
But the robin
Was gone
June 06, 2021 at 04:49AM
I am awake
At 5am
I have energy
I will waste it
If I just lie here
And spin my wheels
Thinking about other things
I must
Get out of bed
And get to work
June 06, 2021 at 04:21AM
In the morning
The many birds
Sang
Like children
On a playground
Make noise—
Because they can,
Just to hear themselves,
Or because they haven’t learned
To keep quiet
And only talk
When it’s intelligent
But these are mountain birds
Robins and finches
Nesting in the pines
And the rafters of cabins
Picking worms from the soft soil
They lack the education
That the pigeons in the city
Have learned
To keep quiet, conserve their energy,
And eat trash when they can
June 06, 2021 at 04:05AM
I screwed the lid
Onto the glass jar
While the wick
Was still burning
Watched the flame
Lose its vigor
And slowly shrink
Until the light was out
I felt
In the dark
Like I had murdered
An innocent
June 04, 2021 at 08:38PM
The man
Whom I write
Over and over
Is me
You see
I cannot escape from him
Even when
I look at others
I see myself
June 04, 2021 at 08:16PM
Suspended
In this life
Viscous
So I can’t
Move much
Side to side
I’m stuck
Right where
I was born
June 03, 2021 at 06:30PM
Half dressed
For the night
—Hair done
Red lipstick
Dinner coat
But no pants
She poked
Two fingers
Between
The blinds
So she could see
Outside
As I
Was not joining her
This night
I lay
On the bed
And asked her,
“Are you waiting
For you car?”
She said, “No,
I’m just trying
To see what
The weather’s like.”
June 03, 2021 at 04:59PM
The construction crew
At the job site
Across the street
Must have
Taken off today
I can hear the leaves
Blowing down the hill
Scratching on the cement,
The soft wind
Whistling around the edges
Of our bay window,
And even the light buzzing
Of complete silence
For brief moments
—Sounds that,
For as long as
The construction project
Has gone on,
I haven’t realized
Have been drowned out
By hammering, sawing,
Nailing, shouting,
And other sounds
Of industry
Which usually
Make me feel guilty
For lying in bed
Instead of getting up
And doing something
But today
I can take the day off too
And sleep in
June 03, 2021 at 09:33AM
The guy in front of me in line for customs at the SFO airport pointed to a different guy at the window talking to the customs agent and said to his girlfriend, “I know that guy.”
“I know his face, but I don’t know his name. He went to my high school.”
“He tried out for the wrestling team.”
“His friends and my friends were in the same group but we never met each other.”
“You know those type of people? People you know but you don’t know,” he asked his girlfriend.
“Yea,” she said. “I know those type of people.”
The guy in line continued to look at the guy at the window and then he said, “Maybe it’s not him.”
The fajitas I ate
In Cabo
Haven’t even
Fully digested
As I order a drink
At a bar
In San Francisco
June 02, 2021 at 07:04PM
She looks at a photo of them
From years ago
And says it’s a good photo
We know
She was looking at herself
And no one else in the photo
When she said that
June 01, 2021 at 06:39PM
Holding a seed
In the palm of his hand
He could see the tree
It would become
Or so he thought
To save myself
The time and energy
He would spend planting
Who can tell, other
Than the many days
Of sunshine
And rain
June 01, 2021 at 02:04PM
Two salesmen
On vacation
Talk to each other
About their products
The features
And how they really
Help their clients
As if they really
Care about
What they do for work
When all they really
Care about
Is their next vacation
June 01, 2021 at 11:42AM
On Memorial Day
An American holiday
Which didn’t mean much
To the Mexicans
In Todos Santos
Except in the same way
That anything from the U.S.
Influenced Mexico
We drank margaritas
That weren’t very good
Which we already knew
Would be the case
When we asked the waiter
Where he was from
And he said Seattle
We read love poetry by Neruda
In English
And it was already good
And then we read it
In Spanish
I didn’t understand
But it was still better
Because of the music
Of the words together
In the original language
May 31, 2021 at 04:26PM
Was a drummer
I locked eyes with
Whose band played
On the open roof
Of the restaurant
During dinner
Afterward
He was outside
Drinking a beer
And smoking a cigarette
My friend nudged me
To say hi to him
Which is how
I learned his name
My Spanish was bad
And his English
Was just good enough
To ask me
If I liked music
I said yes
And then I said sí
He asked if I played an instrument
I said no
But wish that I could have said yes
So that we would have had
Something to talk about
Though I wouldn’t have been able
To express myself anyways
So we shared a brief
Mostly-wordless moment
After the sun had gone down
In the street of Cabo
He drank his bottled beer
Leaning against the wall
Outside of the restaurant
Waiting for his band to go back on
And I, full from dinner
With my hands in my pockets
Feeling much less talented
Than the man I was admiring
He wasn’t even aware
Of how perfectly himself
He was being
May 31, 2021 at 04:23PM
A sweet
Old lady
Shop owner
We met
In Todos Santos
Told us
She grew up
In San Clemente
The only people
There
Were jarheads
And surfers
Her mom said to her
When she was young,
“Mary Beth,
Why don’t you
Bring home
A nice marine
Instead of all
These surfers?”
May 31, 2021 at 04:22PM
San Francisco is a lot
For a writer
Trying to get down
The small stuff
You see
A piece break off
From the whole
When you’re
In the right place
And time
To see the break
The wheel
Of a mail truck
Pulls up and over
A curb
And you think
To write it
But then
Another car honks
And you’re distracted
Which would be fine
You could return
To the wheel
And the curb
If not
For the other sounds
And sights
That come one
After another
One moment can’t
Hold up against
All the others
Attacking
The outside walls
Which define it
When they
Eventually crumble
And all the other
Surrounding moments
Invade
And mix
The moments
Breed
And assimilate
So you can’t remember
What the moment
Was before
And it changes
All the time
May 31, 2021 at 01:51PM
The bubbles from
The lime seed
At the bottom of the bottle
Ascend
To the surface
In a pillar
Of molecules destined
For kin air
Escaping
From an ocean
Of amber gold
Intoxication
I promised myself
Again this morning
That I would not
Drink today
Now it’s early afternoon
And this
Is my second
May 31, 2021 at 12:42PM
I stood on the balcony
With my new friend Peter
Who was about twice my age
We had just gotten back from dinner
And were starting our evening drinking
He started to talk about how
He was old
And I was young and full of energy
I asked him
What he meant by energy
And he pointed out at all the lights,
Boats, roofs, roads, water
And asked me
What do you see out there?
I said I saw lights,
Boats, roofs, roads, water
He waited patiently
Like a teacher
For the right answer
He said there are protons and electrons
It’s all energy
And that was his point
Which I did not completely understand
But then again, I did, somewhat
May 31, 2021 at 11:32AM
A rock hit the windshield
On our drive
To Todos Santos
We could not have
Avoided it
Just one of the risks
Of taking the car
Out of the garage
May 31, 2021 at 11:25AM
How far can I
As the writer
Get away from
The subject
Of my writing
If I must sense
See, hear, smell
Something first
In order to write it
Where can I
Cram myself away
So that
The subject
Can be what it is
Independent of me
Sensing it
May 31, 2021 at 11:21AM
I struggle to explain
With words
What I am experiencing
So I can only explain
With words
The struggle itself
May 31, 2021 at 11:07AM
I broke the blender this morning
Burned up the rubber piece in the bottom
Blending
A smoothie that was too big
On the high setting
I should have started low
Until it was mixed some
And then turned it up higher
So it wasn’t so hard on that poor
Piece of rubber
In between an engine that had
All the strength
And a blade that had
All the ambition
To blend more than the machine
Ever had before
But the rubber wasn’t ready
And the engine and the blade
Did not consider the rubber
In their plans
May 31, 2021 at 11:09AM
Is it even
Noon yet
Our brunch
Started
At eleven
And we must have
Spent more than
An hour there
So it must be
After
Noon
Now
May 30, 2021 at 12:24PM
I feel like
A floating speck of dust
In a very big world
Walking back to the resort
After
A very boozy brunch
After the third
Bottle of champagne
We had to get a fourth
Because it was two-for-one
I took off my shirt
To avoid
Sweating through it
The shirt
Hanging on my shoulder
And all the rest of it
Including
The dust speck
I am
Blows in the wind
May 30, 2021 at 12:20PM
I spend
And spend
And eat
And consume
And earn
And then spend
And eat
More
And more
And earn
Again
Until
I’ll eventually
Lose either
My appetite
Or my ability
To earn
And then die
Or else
Get taken care of
By another
Earner
May 30, 2021 at 11:35AM
The waves
Creep up along
The sandy beach
And then retreat
Forward
And back
Forward
And back
Like a dog
Nipping at the heels
Of the city
Waiting
For the collective power
Of their element
To overwhelm
All at once
In the rush
Of a hurricane
May 29, 2021 at 10:20PM
We stood on the rooftop
With our hands on the
Railing
Looking out at the ocean
And the lights from the few
Larger yachts
That stayed out in the water
Overnight
The other boats
Went into the marina
To dock
Most of them
Before sundown
The ocean
Dark
And mostly without any
Perceptible details
To our eyes
Numbed
By all the lights
Of the city
In the half of the view
On our side
Of the shore
May 29, 2021 at 10:15PM
Dancing
I go back and forth
Between
Being aware of myself
And forgetting
That the experiences
Feeding into my senses
Are predicated
On the attachment
Of my sensory organs
To my body
With which
I identify
May 29, 2021 at 08:30PM
In the very nice
Bathroom
At this place
The hand towels
Are linen
Not paper
And they still get thrown away
In a waste basket
Lined
With a plastic bag
I hope
They wash them
And don’t just
Throw them away
May 29, 2021 at 07:25PM
I am less worried now
About getting back
Across the border
If my test comes back positive
I’ll just stay
In Cabo for a while
It’s all alright
It’s all
It’s all
It is all
What is it
And I am here
And part of it
Anything past that
Is unnecessary
Complication
May 29, 2021 at 07:24PM
At dinner
Some of our group
Wanted to order
More drinks
But the artists
Among us
On budgets
Stumbled
Over our words
To say
We’d rather wait
And drink the cheap alcohol
From the grocery store
Back at the room
May 29, 2021 at 06:54PM
I try to drink it in
Eat it
Consume
And digest
All of this moment
That taste, smells,
And feels like
I wish it always would
I want it
So much
That I miss it
Already
Even though I still have it
Right here
I breathe in deeply
To get as much
As I can
May 29, 2021 at 06:47PM
I can close my eyes
And escape
From where
My sight says
I am
Off into
My head
It seems
Black
As far as my eyes
Are concerned
My other senses
Still tether me
To what I can hear
And feel
I try to escape
Plugging my ears
And lying down
On soft cushions
But I still remain
Myself
Loosely
May 29, 2021 at 05:48PM
Sitting in a chair
I started to drum
On the armrests
And really
Got into it
Tapping
A rapid
Multi-fingered beat
On the one arm
And a deeper
Bass beat
With my whole palm
On the other
Bobbing my head
Bouncing my feet
May 29, 2021 at 04:07PM
On the beach
He lies
With the brim
Of his ball cap
Pulled down
Over his eyes
Seeming
To be asleep
But his hand plays
Intelligently
With sand
Flowing through his fingers
And into mounds
By his side
May 29, 2021 at 03:40PM
I point, cock,
And shoot
My finger gun
At boats
Out on the water
From my
Sand castle base
On the beach
Making war
In peace time
May 29, 2021 at 03:21PM
Treading water
With my ears above the surface
I heard
The squeals of children
The music from the beach bars
The waves crashing
The vendors selling
Underwater
I heard
What I try to remember
How to describe
Back on the beach
It was
Not silent
A soft
Ahhhhhhhh
I’ll have to
Swim out again
And fish
For words
So you can
Bring it back to shore
Inland
To wherever you are
Grill it
Bake it
Or however you like your fish
To taste
And hear
And be there
Underwater and at peace
May 29, 2021 at 02:08PM
I held her
In my arms
On the beach
It seemed
To both of us
Like the thing to do
At the time
To maximize
Our pleasure
Despite her being
My friend’s
And the other
Usual reasons
For abstaining
From what we really want
May 29, 2021 at 02:03PM
I got up off my cushions
And ran
One bounding step
After another
To set
As few feet
As possible
Onto the hot sand
And reached the water
Quickly
Took two more bounds
In the shallow water
And then
Took off and soared
As best
As my young body could
My pointed hands
Were first
Into the water
And then all of me
Was in
And under
Suspended
And supported
On all sides
For as long as I
Could hold my breath
May 29, 2021 at 01:58PM
The fan spins
So fast
Shaking
Its center piece
Whirring
Whispering
To me in bed
Its blades
Blur
Into a circle
That looks
Like it’s painted
With one
Very light
Circular
Brush stroke
If you spin
Your eyes
Around
With it
You can catch
A glimpse
Of a single blade
Static
For a moment
In the blur
A blade flashes
To cry
To beg
For escape
From the race
That goes too fast
In circles
Never ending
Going nowhere
May 29, 2021 at 09:09AM
Your part of the table
Succumbs to the silence
You rack your brain
For something to say
To the person across from you
Or next to you
Or anyone
Or else sit
In the silence
Staring off
At something else
Caught between
Still thinking of something to say
And seeing something interesting
Or thinking your own thoughts
And not really caring
About the silence
May 28, 2021 at 09:49PM
When you talk to someone
And listen for a while
And get restless at some point
Wondering when the story will be over
But you get past that
And forget about yourself
And actually start to live in their story
And be interested in it
And ask them questions
Really wanting to know
What it was like
At the twists and their turns
Like watching a movie
But even better
To meet the character in real life
And ask them questions
With no outtakes
It is their eyes
That always get me
When I am as close as I can get
To living their life
And leaving my own
Their eyes
Are the last door into them
That I look into
And then fall
Completely in
May 28, 2021 at 09:35PM
Talking to the restaurant owner
From Germany
Who made his way over to the U.S.
At some point
And sold automation technology
To auto companies
Even though baking
Was always his passion
He would take the executives
Of these auto companies
Out to dinner
At the nicest restaurants
And that is where Marcos told himself
He would open his own restaurant
Someday
It started as a bakery
And then expanded to
A dinner menu
I got the chicken
With brussel sprouts and pumpkin purée
The chicken was perfect
But the brussel sprouts were undercooked
I wasn’t going to tell him
Because you don’t tell strangers
What’s wrong with
What they love
But he told me his story
And I told him I believed in him
And thought his restaurant would be big
And then we weren’t strangers anymore
And so I told him
The brussel sprouts were undercooked
And he shook my hand
And said he would tell the chef
May 28, 2021 at 09:31PM
We sat and listened
To the wives
Talk about their preference
For flying first class
On certain airlines
And not others
As the fountain
Of their private pool
Splashed in the water
We nodded
And acted like
We lived lives
Similar enough
To understand what they meant
About spending
Thousands
On plane tickets
May 28, 2021 at 05:15PM
Arsenio made us our
Margaritas
With tamarind and jalapeño
And brought them
To the frontside
Of the infinity pool
Where we had our chins
Resting in our forearms
Talking about how
It’s easy to be
In the present moment
When nothing else seems
Like it could be any better
Arsenio
Told us about how
He went to the states
When he was fourteen
To Santa María
His uncle
Who was a coyote
Took him walking
Through the desert
From ensanada
Across the border
There was a fence
But there was a hole dug
Underneath the fence
Like little animals
Dig
He said
When he couldn’t translate
What he meant
By the hole under the fence
May 28, 2021 at 02:47PM
A desert eagle landed
On the roof across from our balcony
And James explained
How the falconer
Brought the eagle everyday
To chase the smaller birds
Away from the resort
We watched
The majestic eagle
Pick with its beak
At its plumage
As one small bird
And then another
And another
Landed
On the roof next to it
Not doing
Very good at its job
The eagle must be
Like a crooked officer
In cahoots
With the small bird mafia
May 28, 2021 at 02:46PM
I lean my head back
Against the headrest
In the backseat
Closer my eyes
And let the air coming through
The open window
Blow my hair
There is something about
Driving on the highway at night
With music playing
We stay between the white lines
And behind
The red taillights
The black of the night
Blankets
Everything other
Than the road we speed along
May 27, 2021 at 09:30PM
The two tamales
The chicken in the salsa verde
And the beef
In a sauce I could not translate
On the plastic plate
From the street vendor
In the square
Of San Jose
Was the cheapest meal I had
Cheaper
Than the tourist traps
Near the beach
I sat on the fountain
And picked with my plastic fork
Through the sauce
To find the meat
May 27, 2021 at 09:05PM
A white older man
Gray stubble on his face
Wearing a cowboy hat
And an oversized
Buttoned-up shirt
And oversized khaki pants
Slouched
In a straight-backed wooden chair
His long skeleton fingers point
And he says something
To explain
What he’s pointing at
But
It’s indiscernible
Maybe because of
The empty
Bottle of wine
Next to him on the table
But for a guy of his size
He would have probably needed
More than one bottle
To get to this point
By his demeanor
I would guess
He is either
The proprietor
Of the gallery
Or the artist who made
All the pieces
Or the man
In charge of this moment
In some way
Or another
As we all watch
And wait for him
To take the lead
May 27, 2021 at 08:20PM
I watch for
What
I can write here
Whether
This is the way
Or
It should come to me
And surprise me
Like
I wasn’t
Waiting for it
May 27, 2021 at 08:14PM
It’s amazing
How much better
I feel
From one
Margarita
Made with mezcal
After passing
On the first two rounds
Of drinks
That my friends ordered
“Amazing”
Is not the best word
I know
But if you’ve ever drank before
You know
What I mean
Which is the point
Anyway
Right?
May 27, 2021 at 08:08PM
I woke up confused
By
Not feeling worse
Than I should have
And confused also
About
What to do
With myself
Other
Than whatever
Would make me feel better
But because
I did not know
Whether
I was
Sick to my stomach
Tired
Or just fine enough
To go down
For a swim
Which is what I eventually did
And so started
A day full
Of what wasn’t planned
But just happened
One thing
After another
And so passed
Another day
Of living
As pain-free
As possible
May 27, 2021 at 07:55PM
We sat at the table
Waiting on our drinks
Watching
The flamenco dancer on stage
Stomping her feet
Violently
And rapidly
The guitarist invited us to clap along
But there was
No hope of that
We could not even applaud
At the right times
The dancer
Would stop
And then we would applaud
And she would stamp right on through
Like a mother
Scolding her children
She snapped her head
As flamenco dancers do
And looked at my friend and smiled
Our drinks
Arrived
Eventually
May 27, 2021 at 07:40PM
The young musicians
Played on a rug
Laid on the tile
In San Jose
For a crowd of mostly tourists
And a few locals
The pianist
Was better than the other three
Combined
He played the electric keyboard
And varied the sound
All over the place
Hunching his shoulders over the keys
And then leaning back
In the old, tattered office chair on wheels
That he was sitting in
His fingers jumped
From key
To key
Like grasshoppers
Making sounds of pressed
And held
Passion
Taking off
And landing
I don’t know much
About music
But I can feel
When someone else is feeling it
And I could feel the pianist
Feeling himself
And everyone else there
Feeling him
May 27, 2021 at 06:07PM
“This has so much ego in it. It’s so good,” she says about the song playing. She says things, not knowing what she’s saying and how good it is, confirming the theory I have about the words people say in conversation in the moment being way better than the words remembered and written after the fact. She says this listening to the music and feeling it. The way she says it in this moment is different. It is like music. The tone makes it. Her facial expression, the environment around her, and, of course, the music itself—it all contributes. Film would get closer with its combination of audio and video. The art that we are all chasing from different angles is the present moment. When we cut it off from its original source, we only take a piece with us—the words, the sounds, the appearance. But the whole thing is here and only once. The art is life itself as it’s lived. What makes us want to divorce it from it’s natural birthplace, to pull the flower up from it’s soil. Because we want to show the beauty to others? Because we want to keep it for ourselves.
I wonder when
I should stop the white
And start the green
In order
To have some hope
Of sleeping
Tonight
May 27, 2021 at 01:48AM
James and the girl
He was trying to get with
As well as
The other nice guy
Who I didn’t think was nice
When I first met him
And his girl
Listen to music in the room
The girls dance
While the guys pretend at it
And mostly just watch
The girls
Up later
Than they would be
If they were not
Playing at
The oldest game
May 27, 2021 at 01:44AM
I leaned back
With both hands holding the iron rail
And my bare feet
On the tile
Swinging from side to side
Looking up
Through the thatched roof
At the stars
And the full moon
Pulling the waves
In
And out
In
And out
Down there
Making dry noise
May 27, 2021 at 01:40AM
The leaves on the palm trees
Dance in the wind
Whether I
Am here
On the balcony
To watch them
Or not
They sway to the music
Of the wind
And everything else that either
Moves
Or stays still
They dance
Like a beautiful girl
On the dance floor
Of the night
No matter who watches
May 27, 2021 at 01:35AM
I was lying out by the pool not knowing what to do with myself. I was at constant risk of overshooting relaxation and falling into boredom but such was the peril of taking a vacation when I was already unemployed.
The waiters in their white coats walked by in front of the beach chairs holding silver trays that glinted in the sun. The day was hot as you would expect of midday in July on the top of the Baja peninsula. But it was enough to avoid sunburn sitting under the umbrella. I had learned to avoid sunburn on the first couple days of a vacation. For the last days, it doesn’t matter as much, especially if you are headed back to a place with less sun. It is even good to have the sunburn when you get back, to prove to yourself that you really went and had a vacation and were changed by it.
I could hear the spinning, grinding sound coming from the machine at the bar that made drinks with crushed ice. I looked over and there was one younger man in a white t-shirt at the bar. I thought of having a drink but then thought I better not. We would drink enough later in the night, I thought.
She left
Almost as quickly
As she came
Not more
Than five minutes
Had we been on the balcony
And not more than ten
Had it been
Since we stepped out of the bus
That brought us
From the airport
To the resort
And here came this angel
To welcome us
Climbing
Up onto the thatched roof of the veranda
And jumping the fence
To join us on the balcony
But maybe
Her beauty
Is more fit for prose
Than poetry
So I’ll leave this one be
May 25, 2021 at 03:27PM
We got to Cabo and went out onto the balcony and the first thing that happened was a girl named Sarah from the condo below us climbed the pillar of the overhang to come up to our balcony and say hello.
She said, “I think the reason our generation has so much mental illness is because we are so far from where we’re supposed to be, biologically, like we’re supposed to be monkeys crawling around in the forest.”
This was after some conversation but not the amount usually required to get to such depth.
How can I describe her? Completely unabashed. Young and full of life. Beautiful. Unapologetically herself. Talkative.
My two friends continue to talk to her while I write. Greg asks what her and her friends are doing tonight. They don’t have any plans. Greg says the rooftop club that we can see from the balcony is a good one.
She says, “Want to go now?” It’s 3:45 in the afternoon. She has been doing coke for the past day and a half. Greg still has work to do on his computer. I would go with her, but I don’t tell her this. I don’t say anything. I just stay quiet and keep writing about this angel, friend, someone, I don’t know; but she is certainly more interesting and exciting than any of the last hundred or so people I’ve met.
She leaned back with one leg thrown over the other, wearing shorts that barely covered anything. Her eyelids fluttered over her eyes as she took unconscious drinks of the beer Greg gave her.
She talked about everything and I sat there and typed on my phone about her just hoping she would never stop or, even if she did stop talking, that she would at least not leave and take with her all the life that she so easily brought and could so easily take away.
I wonder if she is aware of the power she wields, to bring the whole universe to bear in a pair of short shorts that contain barely anything, let alone all the stars that were ever in the sky for as many nights as a man ever lived. One moment is not enough to contain her.
The plane bumps
We are safe
I guess
Based on how calm
Everyone is
Sitting
In their seats
Carrying on
With their conversations
As if
Some very clever science
Which hitherto
Has failed
Very few times
Were not the only
Thin
Line
Between our happy cabin
Full of vacationers
And the mountains
Below
May 25, 2021 at 11:50AM
The guy with sunglasses on his head
Leaned back in his chair
To tell the flight attendant
Something nice
I don’t know what
Exactly
But I know it was nice
Because she laughed and said, “Oh, thank you”
And he smiled and nodded his head
I wonder
How happy he is
When he is not
On vacation
At his day job
At the office
With a pile of paperwork
Maybe
He really is
A happy guy
All the time
May 25, 2021 at 11:43AM
We didn’t even use to
Have plumbing
In buildings
On the ground
And now
We have bathrooms
In planes
That flush!
And the water
From the sink
Is hot!
Originally written: May 25, 2021 at 11:37AM
Besides being blue
And besides being wet
And besides being
Anything else
Which it might appear to be
To another
Under different circumstances
One who may even
Speak a different language
Or know more English words
Than I
But even me
Being as I am
If I were
In any other time or place
Than the 25th of May
Up in the sky seated in this plane
I would describe
It differently
Its aspects
Are innumerable
If I look
Long enough
And especially
If I take time and go away from it
And then come back to it
Later on
It will have changed
As all things are
Changing
Not necessarily themselves
I’m sure
They stay the same
For the most part
But we
Yes, we
Are changing
All the time
And so too
Therefore
Does everything around us
Originally written: May 25, 2021 at 11:25AM
While cutting a green pepper
On a wooden cutting board
I saw a little black speck
That I almost just tossed in
With the tacos
But I’m glad I didn’t
Because I slid the point of the knife
Underneath the speck
And brought it
Closer to my eyes
So that I could see
That it had legs
And was a little creature
Dead with
Its legs curled up underneath it
But it must have had its fill
And thought itself lucky
To have made it
Inside of the green pepper
Until it realized
It would be
A coffin
Albeit, a big coffin
One fit for
An Egyptian king
Like a pyramid
So maybe not so bad
All in all
For this little dead bug
Originally written: May 24, 2021 at 05:01PM
I will try to write like Bukowski I
suppose
based just on what I know about him
from
the two of his poetry books
that I’ve read
holding one in front of my face now
looking back and forth
between this
and examples of his work
which I am trying to copy
with the uncapitalized first letter
to begin each line
and the seemingly random line breaks
that somehow work
I don’t think I
can make it all the way as a writer
copying like this
but my editor said that I should try
something different
with my form
other than just my same-sized lines
one after another
my poems run together
after a while
she said
is this any better?
I’ll ask her
Originally written: May 23, 2021 at 06:16PM
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I put my hands
On my knees
Bend over
And lean my head
To the side
To stick my nose
Out the window
And breathe
The fresh air
Originally written: May 17, 2021 at 05:22PM
I can never
Get my mind
Out of the way
Fast enough
To get
To the visceral
I’ve already
Abstracted
Clouds to heavens
Blood to war
Food to hunger
Described it
To death
Pondered every
Possibility
Made it
Mental
Originally written: May 17, 2021 at 04:26PM
Well, would that be
The worst thing
You can imagine
Happening?
Or, could there be
Something else
Even worse
Still?
At what point
Would you give up
And say
I’ve had enough
Originally written: May 15, 2021 at 05:50PM
It better be
Bags of beans
You’ve brought
And dropped
On my floor;
I have little use
For much else
Originally written: May 15, 2021 at 05:40PM
I really cared
For a while there
As I thought
This all might
Really matter
Somehow
Or that it all
Might go on
Unchanged
And what I do
Will be forever
But I’ve remembered
That it all changes
Nothing matters
It all passes
I got caught up
For a while there
Thinking that
This all
Might matter
Somehow
But now
I remember
That it doesn’t
So I can
Forgive myself
For my mistakes
Originally written: May 15, 2021 at 01:42PM
I wish for what
Would require me
To read the dictionary
Cover to cover
In order to obtain
To get out of bed
And lift heavy things
And eat
And then lift more
And eat more
And then get back in bed
On a strict schedule
To learn
Whatever others
Have done before me
From various
Secondary sources
And then rinse
Out their individuality
And repeat
With my own
Why can not
Wishing alone
Be enough
To muster the matter
If I were to lie here
Wishing hard
And sincerely
Originally written: May 15, 2021 at 11:47AM
I do not like to measure exactly. Who is doing the cooking then? If I follow the recipe exactly, scraping the back of a knife along the top of the measuring cup. If I do not taste the ingredients for myself. What kind of cook am I if I only do what I am told? Who are you anonymous author of the recipe? When have I followed your orders before without knowing it? Not today! You say, a half cup of milk. Bah! I will put in three-quarters of a cup. Because I like it creamy! And even if I didn’t, I would do it just to spite you.
What is is what is. There, I have said it. I do not want to say anything else. I have said what I am sure of and to say anything else would be like stepping down from a rock when there is quicksand all around me. But what about this? You might ask of me, or I might ask of myself. I sigh. I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to risk it. But you have a point. How can we do anything in this modern world without asking and answering for ourselves those other questions? It reminds me of something I once read, which was written on one of the desks at the library where I studied during college, “A ship is safe in the harbor, but that is not what ships are for.” I am safe standing on my rock, but there is so much more to life than just standing on a rock.
We didn’t really have it that hard is the truth. Some times were hard, sure. But some people have it way harder. Where’s their recognition? If you start almost at the top and then make the small leap at the top, how far did you really go? I have a hunch that the art we know about isn’t the best there ever was. The best there ever was probably wasn’t even translated into the common arts forms that we have learned to call “art.” It was probably something like a bum who whistled a tune in the middle of the night, lying all alone on his cardboard with nobody there to hear. But maybe even that is too cheap and cliché. Maybe it was just a single mom making enough at her night shift to put breakfast on the table for her son the next morning. Still, too obvious and trite. My view is still too narrow. Too human. Too here and now. We make art that we understand. Which makes sense, I suppose. I don’t know. Lying here in bed getting sober. My throat still burns from the cigar. It’s dark out and a car drives by. 2:45 a.m. I slept all day today, before we went over to John’s and had dinner and started drinking. We talked and we talked, but I don’t think we really said it. Maybe someone has already said it to me before and I just couldn’t quite understand. Even if someone said it to me once, I’d want them to say it again. See, I’m selfish like that. I have it too easy. I’m a glutton for more of all the goodness I’ve already gotten. In some rare moments, when I can keep from over complicating it, I can see straight through to the beating heart of the cosmos. I saw it in the white ceiling when I woke up from my nap earlier today. I thought to myself, damn, just the fact that I can see that white ceiling, just that is more than I can truly appreciate, when I muster all the attention I can give it. And I don’t know why, but that’s when I think of dying. I think, I will die and I won’t be able to look at a white ceiling like this again, and I want to cry. Sometimes I do cry. Most of the time I can only cry when I think about other people dying. Sometimes I get more sad than other times. Sometimes I’m not sad at all. I’m just very indifferent and I don’t really care what happens. Anyway, I think I’ll go to sleep now.
I see something
Which I think
Is one thing
But then
It turns out to be
Something else
I wanted to write
What I thought
It was before
Before it became
What it
Really is
As I realize
It doesn’t really
Make a difference
It’s all
Make-believe
Anyway
Originally written: May 05, 2021 at 06:19PM
I put on the glasses
That I’m supposed to wear
All the time
And see
For what seems
Like the first time
All the finer details
Like leaves
On the trees
Originally written: May 02, 2021 at 11:27AM
I am up now
I am assuredly
Up
And away
Chasing after
Even my faintest
Fancies
Which
When down
I would not
Walking
Away from the desk
Just to breathe
And let out
Some of this energy
I can’t
Contain it all
Breathing
I send it back out
Smiling
Happy to have it
And happy also
To let it go
Originally written: May 01, 2021 at 10:21AM
I get into a moment
And think that this
Will be forever
And start to plan
Accordingly
Setting up expectations
And parameters
For the future to fit into
What I’m experiencing
Right now
But of course
The future
Is an ornery child
Refusing to obey
Its present parent
Originally written: May 01, 2021 at 10:06AM
Lying
On the beach
In the sun
Wearing clothes
Because it’s windy
And a little cold
I squint
At the sun
Through the eyelashes
Of my one
Open eye
At a point
Where the light
Intermingles
With the threads
Of the jacket sleeve
On my forearm
Lain across
My forehead
Protecting
My face
From sunburn
Originally written: April 20, 2021 @ 2:08pm
I bring the full weight of my consciousness to bear on my own existence in moments of what would otherwise be boredom when I should really be meditating but my Western engine mind just can’t stop revving, solving problems until they are all solved and then creating new problems to solve, like sudoku and crossword puzzles.
Originally written: April 30, 2021 @ 11:11 a.m.
I look at myself too long in the mirror and start to have an identity crisis. But it’s really just like anything else. I read the same word over and over and forget its meaning. I eat the same food over and over and forget its taste. I hear the same noise over and over and it starts to sound like silence.
But with my own face, it’s just slightly different, because when my own face starts to look like nothing, then I start to wonder, who am I? Maybe I identify too much with my physical form. Anyway, all of this is just to remind me that I really shouldn’t be looking at myself in a mirror for longer than ten or fifteen seconds at a time.
Originally written: April 30, 2021 @ 10:59 a.m.
The hard words are too hard. They are too specific. How can you really mean what you say when you are using them? Maybe I say this just because I’ve never read a dictionary cover to cover. Maybe the exactness is necessary in some cases. But do we really experience life so specific, exact, and precise? I am happy and that is it. I don’t unpack it any further than that. Especially not in the moment. In the moment, I usually have no words at all. It just is what it is and I am in it and that is it. This relates to what I have said before about there being one word to describe everything. What do we gain by being more exact with our words? One of the experiences that I have tried to describe over and over as a writer is the experience of euphoria. And there I go, using the word “euphoria.” Breaking my own rule already. What is it then? What am I trying to describe? Maybe the exactness is necessary. But I just can’t help feeling that more is the wrong direction. If I could just sit with you and hold your hand and not say a word that might mean more to you than a thousand written pages.
Why do I write at all? Why do I not just go out and live if there is more communication in the wordless moment? Maybe because I am polyamorous and I want to commune with many instead of just one in one moment. Maybe because I want to live on in some form after I die. Maybe because words are what I was taught in school and I am still breaking out of this way of interpreting the world. Maybe I don’t know enough of the specific words to say that they are not good. Maybe I need to go further in the direction of more before I can say that less is the way.
Originally written: April 15, 2021 @ 10:02 a.m.
My grandpa is taping the baseboards in the hallway, preparing to paint the walls. I am making breakfast in the kitchen. He makes a noise, like a grunt. Something like ugh or grr.
I hear him make the noise and ask, loud enough for him to hear me in the hallway, “Are you alright?”
He says, “Oh yeah, I just have to make noises every once in a while.”
I laugh and ask, “Just a reminder to yourself that you’re still there?”
He says, “Oh no, I know I’m still here. I can feel it.”
I laugh again.
He is referring to the pain he feels in his joints, I think.
Originally written: April 7, 2021 @ 9:40 a.m.
I wonder about the limits of being yourself. They say you have to play by the rules before you can break them. But they also say that just being yourself is the key to success. How much of myself is really me? Not much, I think. Unless, of course, all that we mean by “being yourself” is that you just stood there and let it all happen to you. Well, then everyone would be themselves by default. There’s no way to escape it. From whence does one’s self surge up? I am vaguely remembering Sartre’s essay on existentialism. How can the seed of yourself fall on anything but fertile soil? But then who put the soil down and who pulled you out of their seed bag and dropped you there? And these questions go on ad infinitum. So there is really only one true individual, and they are either the chicken or the egg. But we’re not talking about just any old chicken here. We’re talking about the Chicken with a capital ‘C.’ Or the egg with all the Alpha and Omega-3s you could ever ask for.
But I’m losing my head. Back to being yourself. Let’s depart from the true philosophy of the matter just for a moment and talk in practical terms. I think we can agree there are some actions that can be taken or decisions that can be made by an individual which seem to be willed or otherwise brought about by their own individual selves. In other words, we would not say of said actions or decisions that they were a result of the individual just following the rules or doing what everyone else is doing. In some way or another, an individual is capable of really doing something on their own. Now, I don’t think this claim really holds weight philosophically, especially for determinists, but let’s just hold it as an assumption for now.
Maybe it is an aesthetic argument. Because what I really want to convey is the sense of beauty that I get when I see someone who appears to be beating their own path. And I don’t think we get very many of these. Because the default is to walk the trail already traveled. Before you can even think for yourself, you’re already on that trail. And, if we’re subscribing to determinism, then the inclination to step off the trail might also be determined, which is why this is not an ethical argument. It is not good or bad to be on the trodden trail. But, oh, the aesthetics of the young girl in the dress running off into the tall grass and away from everyone else—oh, I want to chase that girl! I want to finally catch her in a glade and ask her all the questions that the travelers on the trodden trail could not answer for me. Why did you run? Where are you going? What have you found so far? Will you go back? Why? Or why not?
But how beautiful will her answers be? And herein lies the heart of the matter. Because it is beautiful to watch her run away—this much, I can understand. But how alien will she become? And how quickly? See, this is what I mean by the limits of being yourself. Because on the trodden trail, we can all understand each other. We have had relatively similar experiences, we speak the same language, we know the same people—we hold things in common; most importantly, in this context, our methods of communication. This is important for the aesthetic argument because how can something be beautiful if I cannot understand it? Now, don’t rebut too fast. I am not talking about complete understanding. A little bit of the unknown can be tantalizing. But this is different. I am talking here about not even a beginning of understanding. Something so alien that you can do nothing but stand there and gawk. Maybe there is some awe in the gawking. But if there is awe, then there must be some starting foothold into which your understanding has stepped. Otherwise, it is only hollow-minded gawking as your mind tries but fails to fit the experience into an existing neural pathway that isn’t there. This is the limit of being yourself that I speak of. It is the ultimate outer limit, so we now have a scale. The minimum of being yourself is the cookie-cutter human on the trodden trail. The maximum of being yourself is the girl that runs off into the forest who turns out to be a totally non-human alien.
Now, what does this mean for an artist? I think it comes down to appetite for the risk of being an alien. How far out are you willing to venture in order to find something new?
Now I have a better sense of why my mom got so upset when one of my siblings or I said that we didn’t like the dinner that she made for us.
As I cooked chili today, I found myself making decisions on my own and not really following the recipe. I didn’t measure anything. I added one cup of diced tomatoes instead of two. I added corn even though the recipe didn’t call for it. I was enjoying the creativity and I found myself thinking, “I hope this tastes good.”
Since I changed the recipe, it became my chili. If it doesn’t turn out well, it’s not the recipe’s fault; it’s my own fault. The chili is still simmering in the dutch oven on the stovetop in the kitchen. I don’t have any children to tell me how it tastes, but I hope my girlfriend likes it.
I do not feel dreadfully the need to conform. I write “dreadful.” You read this and think to yourself, ah, it’s not so bad! “Look here,” you might say to me, “here I am conforming, and it’s really not that bad. It certainly isn’t dreadful.” I would respond, “But you are past the worst of it.”
Of course, to already be conforming is not so bad. But when was the last time you walked into the woods alone? When was the last time you didn’t agree? When was the last time you were hungry? In how many small ways did you, at first, think differently? And then, not all at once, but over time, your individual opinions slowly acquiesced and joined the general consensus.
See, it is a subtle dread. You will not have felt it if you have gone slowly over time. Like the criminal in his cell, awaiting the gallows. But the hangman is patient and cunning. Each night he comes to the criminal’s cell and asks, “Will you be ready in the morning?” And each night, the criminal says, “No, please, one more day.” Until one night, the hangman takes a different approach with the criminal. He says, “You know, I think you have learned your lesson. How about if we make a deal? Instead of hanging for your crimes, how would you like to serve as the hangman in my place?” How might the criminal’s view of the hangman’s position have changed, while he faced the prospect of his own hanging?
Which is the worst? To hang, to spend all your days in a cell, or to become the hangman? It is a trick question. You were never going to hang. The death penalty has been abolished. Exile is the worst that can happen to you. So the question becomes: how much do you fear exile?
What’s it like
In that moment
I wonder
When you die
Without any time
To think
About your life
And losing it
All at once
Except
For a split second
I try
To imagine
But can’t possibly
Fathom
What seems to be
Such a loss
To me
Still
Having not yet
Completely
Disidentified
With my ego
April 27, 2021 at 06:28PM
I look at someone
Walking by
On the sidewalk
As we pass
One another
And I wonder
Why
They are looking
Back at me
So funny
Until I remember
I have not showered
Or combed my hair
Do I contradict
Myself too often?
Does the name
That you used to call me
No longer apply?
Did I not stay
In the same place
For long enough
To be someone?
Did the waves
Wash away
What I wrote
In the sand?
Where can I possibly be
If not right where
You say that I am?
How can I possibly
Gain identity
All by myself?
Who will call me
By my true name?
I am searching for You.
I carry with me
Force
When I write
Walking
To the bathroom
For a break
I bump
The door frame
With my hip bone
And almost
Knock
The house down
You’re not living just repeat, repeat, repeat. You have to shake it up to live again. Find newness to force yourself back into survival mode. Living the same groundhog’s day digs the trench too deep. Eventually it gets so deep that you look up along the canyon walls and you have no energy left to climb out, so you say to yourself, “Well, I guess this is just my canyon.” And then you keep on digging deeper. But there’s no light down there! No other creatures to keep you company. Back up on the surface you can skim along. Sure, you might wonder about the core. You might wonder, what’s down there? As you hop and skip over and across other canyons. You look down and see the others so deep down there and you think, maybe I should stay put and cut my own canyon. But don’t do it! Not until you’re good and ready to die.
I am dying all the time already. I am letting it happen now rather than later. I wait for something small to end and then I think about what it will be like when it all ends. Something gets taken away from me and I think about what it will be like when it all gets taken away.
I eat the last cookie in the cookie jar and think of what it will be like to draw my last breath. I lose feeling in the leg that I had crossed over my other leg for too long and think of what it will be like to no longer be in my body. I try to trick myself into believing before I go to bed at night that I won’t wake up in the morning.
I do not know the best way to die. Is it better to pretend that it will never happen and then take the shock all at once when it does? Maybe I’ll die in a sudden accident and I won’t even know. But just in case it happens slow, I feel like I should practice.
You have to be loosey-goosey
Let it go
If you’re going to throw it all
Against the wall
And see what sticks
You can’t keep it all
Because it’s not all good
Can’t all be good
Even if only in relation
To the rest
Some will be bad
So don’t grow too attached
To your babies
You’ll only get to keep
A few
You are so you
As I look at you
At the features of your face
Which seem to match
The words that you are saying
It all goes together
Like a character in a movie
Unless you are faking it
Then you are really
Quite a good actress
But I do not
Think that this is possible
For you to pretend
To be someone else
And thereby escape
From being yourself
For even if pretending
To be yourself
Then that would just mean
That you are a pretender
And that’s just what you are
But you are not
You are different
Like everyone else is pretending
They’re all pretenders
And you’re the only one
Who is really yourself
Everything is repeated
Everything is repeated
Everything is repeated
The newspaper headlines
The movie plot lines
The causes of death
The reasons for war
The days and the nights
The sun rising
The sun setting
Falling in love
Falling out of love
Getting hungry
Being satisfied
Succeeding
Failing
Except for dying
That’s the only
New thing left
I was sitting on the back porch having lunch with my grandparents. My grandma and grandpa were sitting in chairs next to each other, across the table from me.
It was the day after Easter. The buds of the first leaves were starting to show on the trees in the backyard.
“Those are farm trees, the ones that grow the hedge apples,” my grandma said.
“I have a list that’s 17 pages long, and you know what …” and I already knew by the tone of his voice that there was a characteristic grandpa-joke coming, “It’s single-spaced!”
“Hah!” He laughed like he always did.
“I’ve got to change the oil in the car,” said grandpa.
“That should be at the top of the list,” said grandma.
“I know it. And I’ve got to put another coat of paint on the door,” said grandpa.
“Well that should be toward the bottom of the list,” said grandma.
“Well, no, it’s at the top of my list,” said grandpa.
“The sun is starting to come over the house now,” said grandma.
“I’m gonna go get the umbrella,” said grandpa. And off he went.
When they find me, when I make it, when I get lucky—they’ll box me in right then and there. So maybe it won’t be so lucky. Maybe I never want to be found. They’ll take me as I am, and then thereafter, I’ll have to work very hard to break out and become anything else. I might even have to work harder than I did to become something in the first place. Because to become something in the first place is just that—become it, and that’s it. But to become something else when you are something already requires an extra step—you must first break free of what you are already, and only then can you start to become something else. At first, I thought only of the social problem: what “they” will call you, what “they” will say you are. But the other, more subtle, and probably more dangerous part is what I call myself and what I say that I am. Because then I will build up an internal identity for myself and start to behave that way, just the same as society would build up an identity for me externally. And I think this matters for my writing. Because I don’t want to be boxed in. I don’t want to write just one way, from just one perspective. I want to write it all. And, of course, I know that I can’t. But I still want to try to get as much of it down as I can. And in order to do that, it seems that I need to stay loose and alone, being nothing more than a vessel through which experiences can pass and in their passing be quickly recorded before they shoot out the other end. I needn’t retain any of their details as parts of my own identity. I need only to study them like a scientist, let my senses record their findings, and then avoid them like snakes in the grass.
I like the night. It is dark, quiet, and mostly made up of nothing. My back hurts less when I am lying down. Unlike the day, there are no disappointments, fears, angers, or other irritations—because nothing is happening at night. The lights are off. The doors and windows are shut. Nobody else is here. This is as close as you can get to the land before time, the land before anything. The night can be nothing, if you let it. That is, until you start to dream or otherwise create something with your own mind on the black canvas of the night. Even then, you are not limited by the rules of reality that afflict the day. The day can only be so much. The night can choose to either be nothing or anything. The day can only be something, and that something just is what it is. In the night you can choose. If you’re sick of it all, you can rest in the nothingness. If you want something more, you can dream it up. I do start to miss the day eventually. I want it to be real. Even if I can’t choose, it’s worth giving up some freedom of choice just to be a part of the real thing, especially being with others who are real and not just figments. The best mornings or the ones when I have started to miss the day as much as I can and that’s right when I open my eyes to see the morning sun peeking in through the drapes.
It’s when I get into the nighttime nothing that I can’t remember a single thing about the day and the things I planned nothing really means anything in the night unable to see in the dark dreaming up free dreams as many as you could ever want with no cost of admission and no need to make money to pay for them after the sun has set there’s a brief time when the mind starts to wonder if it will ever rise again and somehow thinking that it might not nothing is off-limits as if it were really your last night to live and nothing seems impossible but you have to hurry while this feeling lasts because as the sun starts to rise and the sky brightens you will be sure that there is another day to come.
Originally written on: March 8, 2021
An extra pair of socks placed on the nightstand next to the plant to breathe clean air and not have to go all the way to the dresser to have warm feet not enough room on the nightstand for all the things I would need so I have to get out of bed or else I might sleep all day.
Originally written on: March 3, 2021
I want to have my cake and eat it too when I am feeling pain I don’t want it but when I am feeling pleasure I want it when I am feeling pain I want to get away from the world I want to step out of the cycle but I still can’t detach from the pleasure I believe there’s a different kind of pleasure from a non-worldly life but I am not yet wise enough to have tasted it and also because the world is what I know it is what I was born into and my upbringing shaped me in the cycle of pain and pleasure.
Originally written on: February 28, 2021
As much as I worry
There are still worries
That I haven’t worried about
And I worry
About that too
Originally written on: March 9, 2021
A book fallen
From the shelf
Lying there
On the carpet
Looking
Out of place
I think I should
Get off the couch
Pick up the book
And place it back
On the shelf
With the other books
But then I think
I should leave it
Right where it is
Because that is
Where it is
For whatever reason
And the argument
Of order
To be in its supposed place
On the shelf
Does not necessarily
Win out
In my mind
Over the argument
To let things be
Just as they are
Originally written on: February 11, 2021
If I were an automobile
Parked in the garage at night
My brain would be the engine
And my belly would be the gas tank
And they would talk to each other
Through speaker wires
And the tank would say,
“Engine, wake up, I am full”
And the engine would say back
Nothing
Because the automobile is not on
And engines sleep deeply
When not running
So the tank would wake up the ignition
And say,
“Ignition, wake up the engine”
And so the ignition would turn
And the engine would roll over
And wipe the sleep out of its motor oil-crusted eyes
And say,
“Gas tank, what the hell are you doing? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
And the tank would say,
“Yes, I know, I am sorry, but can we please go for a drive?”
And the engine would sigh and, already pulling out of the driveway, say,
“I told you not to drink so much at the station last night.”
Originally written on: February 2, 2021
I was watching a movie about a jazz musician and there was a scene where he wins the role of piano player in a band that he admires. It made me think of my writing and how excited I would be to publish a best-seller. And then I compared that to the excitement I would feel if I were to make a lot of money from a more traditional job. I think I would be way more excited about the best-seller, which is an interesting perspective for how I’m spending my time. I spend a lot of my time working and not as much time writing. But if writing is truly what’s bringing me joy, then why am I not spending more time doing that?
I dreamt that my mom wanted to eat at an expensive restaurant. I didn’t want to go because I knew I would be paying for it. We ended up going. It was my mom, one of my brothers, and myself. We sat down at a table covered in a white cloth in the middle of the room. The table had five chairs. We had started eating our bread when another woman and her son came to join our table. I was confused at first, but then assumed that it must be this way at fancy restaurants, where people sit together. Almost immediately, the woman pulled a crystal sphere out of her purse to display her wealth for us. She was explaining the type of mineral of which the sphere was made when her son made a comment about how she was always showing off. I agreed with him, out loud. The lady was offended. I didn’t care. My mom was embarrassed. We left the restaurant. The bill for the bread alone was twenty-five dollars.
Recorded in dream journal on: August 27, 2020
I dreamt that I was back at our family home in the cul-de-sac at the end of Sumac Street. I was in the basement watching a movie with my friend. My dad got home from work and said he wanted to show me something. We walked through the sliding glass door in the basement, out into our one-acre backyard. We walked about fifty paces to a part of the yard near the trees that had been experiencing flooding. There was an irrigation system comprised of gates and a glass graduated cylinder that stuck into the ground and pulled up water. We were talking about it, when we heard a wild commotion in the forest on the other side of the yard. We turned, and through the trees, we could make out two buffalo being chased by a pack of white wolves. At first, it was nothing more than a marvel to behold, as one looks at something far away and not personally concerning. Until a few of the wolves noticed us and broke off from the pack, running into our yard. I immediately climbed up onto a stack of cinder blocks, stacked about six or seven feet high. My dad stayed on the ground, seemingly not worried. The wolves bared their fangs and barked and growled. One of them circled around my dad’s legs. He didn’t move. Most of them focused on me, jumping up on the sides of the stack of cinder blocks, and biting at my legs. I was very scared, and that was the end of the dream.
Recorded in dream journal on: August 20, 2020
I dreamt that my teeth fell out last night. I spit a handful of molars into my hand.
I don’t think I am as worried about my appearance as I have been in the past. As I get older, I’m more concerned about my actual health, rather than just how I appear. I also have a girlfriend, so I’m not trying to impress other women.
Still, I think this is a sign of self-consciousness. Maybe it’s because I’m going to the hotel in Napa with K and her friends next month, and I haven’t gotten my hair cut.
I also dreamt of being in charge. I dreamt that I was in a board room. People were presenting to me and I was correcting them.
Recorded in dream journal on: July 17, 2020
I dreamt I lost my memory, from the 24th to the 7th; I can’t remember which months. Maybe from May 24th to June 7th. The dream was mostly in the context of work and high school. It was very emotional. When I realized on the 7th that I had lost my memory, I kept it to myself at first. Then I pulled my boss aside and I broke down. In the back of my mind, I thought it was because I had a brain tumor. This has always been a fear of mine.
Originally posted in dream journal on: July 23, 2020
I dreamt we were at a house in the country. We slept on a cot in the garden, K and I. My hand dangled over the side of the cot, and something nibbled on my finger. At first, it was non-threatening. Then, a larger creature, made mostly of zucchini, started to attack with garden tools like a shovel and an ax. Then it became more serious. The vegetable monsters proved very difficult to kill. We killed one and then fled into the house. There were others with us. We locked all the doors. More vegetable monsters had gathered around the house at this point.
Recorded in dream journal on:July 23, 2020
A lot of progress in circles, swimming deeper, like a corkscrew. Sometimes circling several times on the same level, not really learning the lesson. Some circles are wide and lazy, without any real need to proceed deeper with haste. Other circles are tight and almost slanted before even one full revolution is complete, nose-diving for the bottom in this way. The ocean is deep, and there may or may not be treasure on the ocean floor where you land. You may also choose to swim wider circles at the same depth, or to swim the same circle over and over, content just to be swimming.
Originally written on: September 3, 2020
In the middle of my exercises, in plank pose, I notice there are no noises and no movements around me. In an uncanny moment, it feels as if time has stopped. It occurs to me that if I could check my watch face, then I could see if it were really true. But the face of my watch on my wrist just so happens to be pointed away from my field of vision. I cannot move my wrist or my eyes, because doing so would ruin the still moment. It is a conundrum. I cannot confirm for sure that time has stopped.
Originally written on: August 27, 2020
I stay longer than I should. Shaping myself into my surroundings. Gathering what was once useful but will soon weigh me down. Holding onto the life I have, unwilling to risk it for what may be. I dig myself deeper and deeper until I can no longer move. Leave me buried here. I am happy.
Originally written on: August 27, 2020
On the ledge in our apartment, a plant grows with hanging vines and thick, rubbery green leaves the size of quarters. We have had the plant for more than a year, ever since we brought it home from the store last summer. To our surprise, the plant started to grow purple things that looked to me like long teacups. Then, from the teacups, came forth red flowers that looked to me like dragon mouths. Ten or twelve of the these red dragon mouths grew from the ends of the lowest hanging vines, then, not more than two weeks later, the red flowers started to fall. We picked them up and put them on the window sill, not wanting to get rid of their red beauty. Sitting at the dining table, I realized what was happening. I could be wrong; I am just guessing. But it seemed that the flowers likely contained the seed of the plant. They were being sent forth to find fertile soil and grow a whole plant anew. I was sad then, because all the seeds had failed to find fertile soil. It made me think of our human race, and how we might one day send astronauts deep into space on a colonizing mission from which there is no hope of return. Such was the fate of these flowers. They were sent forth, with no hope of return, to find fertile soil and spawn a plant family anew, or else never know plant kin again. The rubbery red dragon flowers did not know that they would find only hardwood floor, and die alone.
Originally written on: August 23, 2020
I sit on the edge of the bath tub with my elbows on my knees. My spine bends like a cattail in the wind. My head sags like a water droplet just barely hanging on to the underside of a wood railing in the rain. The whole world tips up on its side, and almost falls over completely, crashing into black, as the blood rushes into my head. One elbow slips from my knee and the cattail bends deeper at the waist as the water droplet has almost too much mass to hold on. My head spills out like a bucket into the bath water.
Originally written on: September 14, 2020
As our plane ascends into the sky above the clouds, I am reminded of the heights achieved by man. Not one man, but many. One can only play his part. He cannot hope to achieve the whole of it on his own. Man is necessarily a social animal. They say, “If you want to go fast, to alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I am growing to understand this. My girlfriend is teaching me emotional intelligence. I cannot think only of myself. “To whom much has been given, much is expected.” I would be happy working for the good of others, and not just for myself.
Originally written on: November 11, 2020
Outside of the plane window, the boat lights in the dark night dot the ocean below, just like the stars in the sky above. I think for a second we may be flying upside down. I consider whether we will still get there, flying such, and it seems, to the best of my measurements, that it will make no difference. There is also the fact of gravity, and my being seated, to suggest that those are not stars below. What then? I know only stars to dot the dark void in this way, and they have always been above me. Ah! They are boats. I realize, as what I see is crammed into what I know. Though I would have been perfectly happy to accept that we were flying upside down.
Originally written on: November 16, 2020
I really touch it light like, afraid to overwhelm the original with too may edits. Like coming into a museum and looking upon the work of another, I wouldn’t dare step over the partition and reach inside the glass container, ignoring the “Do Not Touch” signs. The piece is beautiful for my eyes as it is, and there is nothing more for me to add by putting my hands on it. I have as much respect for my former self as the artist. I come now as the editor to do the necessary evil. It is my own, even the mistakes, and that is what makes it art, I believe. Everything that happens afterwards, with editing especially, is a derivation of the original. I am thinking of rules and the opinions of others when I edit. I am no longer thinking of the source of inspiration, which can only once be passed through the lens of my perception and, in that moment, recorded.
Originally written on: December 13, 2020
In the morning my theories about myself and the world and how the two relate and interact seem to be strong and resolute and I dare even use the dread-word “right.” But then the day comes along to muck that all up with its messiness and make me feel wrong again.
I am learning from my spiritual studies that that feeling of rightness may not come from the math and science and test-taking rightness I have known from school. It may be closer to the metaphysical truth of all of existence really being One and myself being part of it and feeling closer to that One when I am in the all-black, silent, unconscious night, and farther away from that One when I am in the differentiated, working world, feeling separate, more like a link in the food chain, and less like a drop in the ocean.
When my brother and I were younger, we used to play a game called “spaceship.” He would crawl out of his bed and get into mine, and we would lie next to each other and prepare our cockpits, which involved fluffing pillows and folding sheets and ultimately pulling the top blanket over our heads. Then we were locked in, with our fingers on top of a pillow, pretending it was a dashboard full of different buttons and levers and knobs all different colors and blinking and beeping. It then fell to me to create what we were seeing as we flew through space. Often this involved enemy ships that we battled or asteroids that we dodged or distant planets that we engaged hyperspeed to get to.
Last night, I played spaceship on my own. My brother was not there. He is in St. Louis. We are grown now, but I bet he would still play with me if I asked, even though we would probably need a bigger bed. Anyway, last night I played on my own. I set up the cockpit and started to imagine what I was seeing in space. I did not imagine any enemy ships, for whatever reason. I mostly imagined asteroids and small planets that I had to lean my shoulders left and right to dodge. Then I imagined nothing, and this is what struck me.
Without creating any other celestial objects in my mind’s eye, there was only black dark space. I imagined myself flying in a spaceship alone through the empty void. I cannot remember how long I stayed awake doing this.
I went somewhere in my dreams last night. I couldn’t tell you where exactly. There were many places. At one point, we went to a house deep underwater. It was a very small house because, you know, real estate is very expensive at the bottom of the ocean. At one point, we discovered a passage in a dresser or a chest or some other nook or cranny. I say “we,” but I can’t remember with whom I was. But anyway, we found this passage in this small house at the bottom of the ocean and it led to a whole other place. There were more people there, which was very surprising because we thought we ourselves had made a very daring trip to the bottom of the ocean. How then could there be all these other people here? It did not make sense spatially, either. It is not easy to construct a house on the ocean floor. The house was, in fact, very small. And there were no connections to other places of which we were aware. Where then was all this other space coming from? I met a woman in this other place. I asked her a question and she said something that struck me as very wise. I cannot remember it exactly now. I asked her something alone these lines, “Why are you living at the bottom of the ocean?” She said, “Down here, we are living. Up there, you are …” And it was something else. Something that made me feel like I didn’t belong up there. That I should be living at the bottom of the ocean too.
I have had dreams like this before—specifically ones where you have to cram yourself through a tiny claustrophobic passage to get to a whole other wide open world that you didn’t even know existed. It is very much like Narnia. I wonder if that concept of traveling to another world through a closet was born from a dream. I don’t know what it means. But this morning I feel different. The only thing to which I can compare it is how I feel after I’ve travelled. Like the old world to which I return after is brand new. Everything I knew and felt before is behind me. I have travelled and learned something new and now things are not the same.
What you’ve done passes into the past. Each peak summoned is at some point soon after followed by the sheer cliff face of another climb that promises another peak, unseeable through the clouds above. No matter how many times you get through, there is no final stage of gotten through, made it, finished. There is only more getting through. Which is where I suppose the eastern stuff comes in. About it not being about the end. It’s about the journey. The journey is the reward—my girlfriend’s friend has a tattoo of this. I’ve tasted this peace before. Not as deeply as a veteran yogi. But I’ve tasted enough to at least know it’s there. But it still seems inhuman. Like an escape more than a solution. Everything we are is designed for the striving. For the satisfying of hunger that only begins to pang again not long after satisfaction. This is how we keep moving forward. Otherwise we might be very sedentary creatures. Completely idle even. Or we might have nobler incentives. Ideals of a higher form than bare physical needs that would drive us on. For now, most of our nobler motives seem to be just the base physical needs dressed up in fancy packaging based on our cultural or societal situation of the time, which really just regresses back to our base needs of safety and belonging.
In mountain pose, I stand with my feet planted firmly on the stone mason man-made patio, arms outstretched and rising up with open palms. In my line of sight is a tall trunk of a tree, aligned perfectly between my hands. Framing its trunk with the inner edges of each hand, I trace its straightness, extending upward. Its symmetry surprises me, out here in nature, where I came to get away from the straight lines in the city. It makes me wonder, with renewed childish curiosity, if the straight lines in the city have some semblance to nature.
In a sunset, I see beauty that might have meant something, if I had been born out of doors. If I had needed wood for a fire to keep warm. If rainfall had meant the bison would come to the water in three moons.
As it is, I see beauty in bath tubs and grocery stores with fully-stocked aisles. I see beauty in buildings, tall ones in cities and small ones in neighborhoods. I see beauty in the corner of a room where two walls meet the floor. I see beauty on the dinner table and between the drapes.
Through the window, I can see where building tops frame the sunset sky, and I cannot tell which I love more—the building side, that runs down into the life I know; or the skyward side, that runs up and up, to a life I do not.
The shower faucet stares down at me, unrelenting with her many eyes, crying forth. Cold in sadness, hot in anger, steaming so the whole bathroom knows. The mirror no longer shares her secrets, in fear of who might come to wipe away the steam, showing her true self. The toilet bowl says, “There goes that faucet again.” The knob puffs out his chest and says, “I can do this.” The drain gurgles in agreement. The knob is turned and the whole bathroom sighs, except for the shower faucet. Empty-eyed and resigned to stare forth, studying the white basin of the bath tub and the white tiles on the wall, wondering if this is really all that a faucet like her is made for.
Lying safe and alone, I am unindividuated and idle. My mind swims in the stream of dreams that is ever less loosely connected to experiences from my own lifetime. There are added elements from movies, books, and my own imagination, scenes I have only seen or heard about secondhand. I pass through these scenes, sometimes as myself, other times as someone else. Sometimes I am no one, I am only observing what transpires without participating myself. In this way, dreaming teaches me how not to be myself. Such that I awake surprised, when I find myself back within my own body and mind. At first, I feel contained. I feel that my wide-open dream perception has been narrowed into a limited point of view. I can still close my eyes and imagine, but it is less powerful, tethered to awareness of being in my own body, tied down by the constant reminders from my senses that I am connected to a singular body in a certain location in a physical world—hearing the traffic noise outside, feeling the bed beneath my back. I cannot lift off and separate as completely as I am allowed in the dream world. For one, there is less ability, but I also experience less need. I am not yet completely myself, in the groggy moment between dream and waking life, I have not fully remembered who I am. It would seem just as natural for me to close my eyes again and slip back into the dream world, if not for hunger or the need to get up and go to the bathroom. At the same time, I am happy, having returned to the land of the living, as I know it. Able again to say good morning and have breakfast and go about the work which I left unfinished last night.
When someone takes change out of their pocket to pay for something, similar to someone smoking a cigarette—even more so if they carry their own pouch and rolling papers.
When someone wears a watch to tell the time, and when asked, they will either show you their wrist, or look at it themselves and tell you out loud.
When someone writes in their own handwriting with pen and ink and paper, especially when they are writing in their own journal or meaning to mail a letter.
When someone carries a paper book in their back pocket to sit on a bench somewhere and read.
When someone sits alone and thinks and does nothing else for a while.
When someone swings an ax to split firewood that will be used to burn and keep warm.
When someone breathes outdoors during the winter time and their breath turns to vapor.
When an older relative knits or sews clothing for the family.
When someone wakes up with the sun’s rising and goes to sleep with the sun’s setting.
When someone reads the newspaper at a coffee shop or listens to the radio in the car.
When someone wears a belt for its purpose and not just fashion.
When someone tells stories from memory, especially to their kids at night.
When someone walks to get somewhere and knows the way.
Once you’ve gotten good at something, it’s similar to how all the advice from your parents starts to make sense once you’ve grown older. All the advice from those who were already good at the thing only starts to make sense once you’ve gotten good at the thing yourself. The irony, of course, is that you needed the advice much more before you became good at the thing yourself.
I find this to be especially true with art. You must slog through it on your own, no matter what. It is not like science. There are no repeatable steps. You could put all the same ingredients into your beaker as the person next to you and still end up with something completely different.
There are at least certain themes that seem to be consistent between artists. But even these themes suffer from being difficult to understand for amateurs. They are not themes that you can proactively put into place. They can only be seen through your own solipsistic lens, looking backwards on your own artistic development.
I have a small tree that I bought at the wholesale flower market a few years ago. It stands next to the bookshelf, against the northeast wall in our apartment. Its leaves are green and large, almost like lily pads. This morning, I noticed a fallen leaf on the floor. I could see a gap in the tree where the leaf had clothed the naked branch, now exposed underneath. It was a curious moment, to see the single leaf laying there all alone on the hardwood floor. On a forest floor, it might not have seemed so odd, with so many trees about, and plenty of fallen leaves. But on the apartment floor, it was like looking at a crime scene. Similar to a body in the street, it couldn’t just be left there. It had to be picked up and thrown away in the trash, furthering the unnaturalness of the event.
If you don’t like the way the world looks, lay down on your back. Look up at the sky, and see if it looks any better. Even if you’re inside, look up at the ceiling.
It’s the same concept concept as traveling. Changing your perspective changes everything. Laying down on your back can be just as good as drinking a beer.
I have to lose myself if I’m going to create good art. All these poems that start with “I” are worthless. It was when I was meditating and putting unconditional love out into the world and remaining unattached to my material pursuits that I was creating good and honest art. Now I’m all caught up in my job and trying to make money and so focused on myself that my stream of consciousness is ego-obsessed. That stream is where I get my art. It’s no wonder I can’t get any art from a stream full of only one thing. I need to open myself up to the world, and lose myself, and stop writing so much about “I.”
I have this habit of thinking forward, forward, forward. Until I retrace my steps and think, it will have already started at this point, and this point—earlier and earlier, until I reach the present moment. Then I realize, it has already started, presently. I am living, now. All that I seek in the future—joy, entertainment, wealth, love. It is all, to some degree, here with me now. Possibly, it is in a form that I have more difficulty recognizing.
Moving fast and slow
I move
Without a thought for
What I’m doing
When it’s fast
In the middle of the day
And I’m working
Washing dishes
While my lunch is on the stove
To get back
To the desk
Faster
On weekends
I slow down a little
For my meals
And eat
Without doing anything else
At the same time
Or sleep
Without an alarm
It’s nice
Every once in a while
But I need that go
Fast
Multi-task
Most of the time
I know things now
But I fear to forget
So I write them, recite them
Read them over and over
And carry a head on my shoulders
Full of the past
Like a traveler’s trunk
With too many things from home
On a journey to a place
Where there is no return
Back to how
Things were before
Two come in time
Taking space
Of what would have been third
If I could just keep in
To each for its own sake
Not always looking later
Longing for the next
They would come and come
Countless
Each for itself
As all things are
Eased into being
And nothing
Not so selfishly taking
With respect to what is
Or is not
One’s own
Let it stand there, being itself
Until it must be
Something else
So worded strange
Wrung like rags
Wet with dish water
Saying so much
As a dirty plate
Could show the sink
By crumbs
From a meal now past
That taste
Travels so far to feel
In a conversation
Trying to keep clean
Between
Two non-feeling things
Noontime sun seeps in
Singing of searching
Clouded and loud
For thunder could not
Strike so straight
Turned away by light:
Things, bright things
Searching still
In this dark draped bedroom
Go back now light
From whence you came;
You will find naught
But darkness here
I imagine a knob
I can turn and turn
Down and down
Tighter and tighter
Until it’s flush with the dash
And the system turns off;
Or, up and up
Until it reaches the top,
Falls off the screw,
And is broken
Stepping up the stairs
That I’ve stepped up
A hundred times before
A thousand maybe
To get to the second floor
Unit number five
I look up and see
Something I haven’t seen
Usually looking down
Fumbling with my keys
A bright light
Under an arched doorway
Shining bright
Showing me
There is always something
New to see
No matter how many times
I think I’ve seen it
All before
Bus arms
Latched onto wires
Making a clicking noise
Passing over notches
Conversations
At the bus stop
And in line
For the bakery
Shouts
From transients
Usually at night
Sirens
At first farther off
And then closer
Louder
Sometimes much louder
On our street
Passing by
Quickly
Running the stop light
Honks
From non-emergency vehicles
Just upset about traffic
Or telling a driver ahead
To look up
And go
Through the green light
The garbage man
Picking up cans
From the curb
With his truck arm
And shaking them
Like maracas
The wine bar
Across the street
With live music
On the weekends
The rain
On the fire escape
The cement street
And the glass window
Pattering
Practicing yoga
My shadow practices with me
Doing as I do
In its own way
Black and flat
Against the stone surface
Stretching longer
Myself
Or my shadow
I forget who
Is leading the practice
Unclothed in between the trees out here
Welcoming back the nature
That got poured over in the city
With cement streets and concrete buildings
A few trees remain
In square foot sections of sidewalk
But not enough to stand between
And be surrounded by
Like the thick forest here—
The grass is overgrown, as it should be
Some trees knocked down, but not by man
Most trees still stand, as they should
And I stand with them, unclothed, at peace
Gravel crunches from heel to toe
Counting its own cadence
For the group on the trail
To fall into step, synchronized
As the mind
Follows the body’s lead
Into a consistent rhythm
On the straight path forward
Mountain peaks up ahead
And tall evergreens on other side
Some fallen, long since withered
Crunch, crunch, crunch
Like counting one, two
And then back to one, over and over
With the nice scenery around
To chase away any possible complaint
On the porch
The smell of chicken on the grill
Draws eyes back inward
Through the gut
To pull down a moment of beauty
Watching clouds pass slowly
In the blue sky
Back into very real desires of hunger
More pressing to an untrained mind
Than the allure of pure beauty
To be seen
But not eaten
The deck boards are screwed in
And have been
Ever since the deck was built
The wood is cracking
But the boards are held in place
And the deck will stand
Obsidian stout sipped slowly
Owing both to its belligerence
And the cigarette smoke from the ash tray
Making the air heavy
With a sense of wanting
To be nowhere other than here
The hot sun on the back porch
Bakes into bare legs crossed over
Eyes closed, head leaning back
Exhale
Here is where
Here is where I’ve needed to come
To this moment exactly, I mean
More so than a place
More so a space in time
A moment
Rust flakes on the rail
Cars drive by in the background
The window is dirty and smudged
Pedestrians walk across yellow rectangles
Cars continue to drive by
Not two feet away
Two men drink their coffee under an awning
The branches in the tree bob gently
The man with coffee gestures with his other hand
A man with a dog on a leash
Stops to look inside a shop window
While his dog sniffs at a light pole
Blue and green trash cans stand by the curb
Cars continue to make their noise and avoid crashing
The same man from before
Walks back across the yellow rectangles
You seem to think
You need to think
About something
All the time
Thinking man
Think as you can
You just can’t
Think it all
Sex makes sense
When I start to feel
Like I can’t hold her tight enough
And want to become one
With a few long leaves
Leaned over
Our house plant
Looks like a woman
With one hand on her hip
Copping an attitude
And the other hand reaching down
As she bends at the waist
To pick something up
Fingers raking
Through my hair
In a sigh
With my eyes closed
Thinking to myself
What can I do
Exhaling
Over and over
Until I’ve got it
And get back to work
I’ve learned which boards
Creak in the floor
When I wake in the night
For a drink of water
But I walk over them anyway
Too tired to care
Noise as it may make
Doesn’t matter much
As long as it doesn’t
Wake baby too
Does it really matter
Who
Exactly
If the shape is the same
I mean
Aren’t our powers
Of perceiving
Those small differences
At the margins
Fairly weak
Anyway?
So rather than one
Why not be
A mass-produced
Mold
Of that one?
There will still be
Some difference
Say ten molds
Total
And the differences
Between
But does each
And every person
Really need
Their own individual mold?
A mold to be
A mold to love
Just one
In the whole wide world
Just one to love
And just one to be
Really?
Or can we fit
More snugly
On the conveyor belt
Than we care
To admit
Lying on my back
Looking at the ceiling
In the late afternoon
I wait for the light
Outside the open window
Above my head
To turn colors
For the next wave of cars
To pass by
And make shadows
Through the tree
Between our window
And the street
On the walls
And on the ceiling
I close my eyes to remember sight is a gift.
I sit in silence to remember sound is a gift.
I fast to remember food is a gift.
I catch a cold to remember health is a gift.
I spend time alone to remember friendship is a gift.
I stay in one place to remember travel is a gift.
I go to sleep to remember life is a gift.
As I gathered
Bowls
From the cupboard
One clinked
Against another
And made a song
Of just one note
In the quiet
Of the kitchen
Non-weather is when
There’s no wind
No rain
You can’t quite tell
If it’s hot or cold
And there’s an eery sense
That it’s about to change
I close my eyes, interlace my fingers behind my head, and forget who I am. I forget when I am, to be more exact. And as a result, I forget where as well. I can’t remember if I am young again, laying in my childhood bed. I can’t remember if I have laid down to sleep in any of the many cities I have visited. I can’t remember if I’m back in college, laying on the shitty mattress in my dorm room. I seriously can’t remember, for a split second. And my mind searches through all these memories, trying to find an identity to assume. And in this split second, I am free, unattached to myself; a soul searching for a body to inhabit in some time. Searching, for a split second, I am free.
I was doing my exercises in the park, when I noticed a piece of orange peel on the ground, no bigger than a child’s palm. The inside of the peel was full of ants. Most of them were dead. I could tell because they weren’t moving. I’ve never seen a live ant sitting still, have you?
I wondered about how they died. Could something in the orange peel be poisonous for ants? Maybe it wasn’t poisonous in a small amount, but the dead ants were gluttons that ate too much of the orange. But I didn’t think this was probable either, because I’d never heard of ants being gluttons, only about them being strong and hard-workers.
I noticed there was a trail of ants leading away from the orange peel. It was a little hard to see because this part of the forest floor was in the shade and the black ants blended in with the dark dirt. I put my hands on my knees and leaned over to get a closer look. I saw the general direction of the trail of ants and started shuffling my feet to follow it. I followed the trail for a few minutes. It went a long ways. I was hoping to find an ant hill at the start of the trail, but I got bored and went back to my exercises.
We stepped off the trail, into a clearing in the woods where many trees had fallen. There was a lean-to that appeared to be man-made, dozens of broken branches were leaned up against the larger trunk of a fallen tree. Other branches were laid over the top of the fallen truck. In this way, there was a wall and a roof made from broken branches. We climbed on top of the fallen trunk. On its side, the boughs extended longways from the trunk, hovering at varying heights above the ground. Several trees were fallen this way, with their boughs interlaced, making a lattice. She said, “It’s like a playground.” I nodded my head in agreement, dangling my legs about ten feet above the ground, sitting on one of the boughs. “It’s chaotic,” she said. This inspired deep thought in me. I asked myself silently, “Yes, I also feel it is chaotic, but why?” It occurred to me that there was a lack of symmetry. In a forest full of life, all trees stand tall, with their roots in the ground and their branches reaching toward the sky. In this place, the trees laid on their sides. Their roots had been torn up; they hung loosely, with no soil to drink from. Broken branches were strewn on the forest floor, disconnected from their trees of birth. The lattice created by the interlacing boughs of the fallen trees was not natural. There were no leaves on the boughs. These trees were dead.
He walked like he was going somewhere. Not like anybody was watching, or at least not like he had an awareness that anybody was. He didn’t have his shoulders thrown back or his chest puffed out. He wasn’t too serious neither. Not like a businessman with a briefcase, leaning forward and walking fast like he was late to a meeting. Not like he had all the time in the world. Not a slow stroll to enjoy the scenery. He had somewhere to be, I’m sure of it, just from watching the way he walked. And what’s more, I knew he believed in where he was going. He wasn’t going because someone told him to or because he had to. He was going for his own reasons. If you asked him, he could explain it to you, but he wouldn’t be able to explain it, at least not well enough for you to understand completely. His reasons were inevitably his own. And so he walked. His strides were even, each as long as was comfortably possible for his body. His shoulders were not hunched or thrown back. They were square and set perpendicular to his path. His gaze was forward, not looking much side to side, except for when crossing the street. He walked like this, on the sidewalk, on a Saturday morning. And I watched for not more than five seconds, and I knew that he was going somewhere.
I close my eyes and lose track of the reality that returns when I open them again. Standing in the shower, light-headed; I almost fall over. I close my eyes again. The longer I look at the black in the backs of my eyelids, the more animated it becomes, with figures I might learn to name if I were to look long enough. The black doesn’t always strike me. Sometimes I close my eyes and open them without noticing. The world returns and it makes sense to me, seeing again the same thing that I saw just before blinking. Other times, the black catches me, at first in its simplicity, in a reprieve from the physical world, full of complex optic details. Then these animated figures start to appear, moving with a life of their own. I wonder if we could adapt to that blackness, given enough time to evolve and get used to it. What would that black, close-eyed life be like?
On my hands and knees on the mat, bending my spine into cat and cow, I can hear my girlfriend in the closet on a work call. I think of getting up to grab my headphones to play a track of white noise that I have saved on my phone, to drown out the work talk and focus on my yoga. Then I realize my breath provides a natural white noise. As I am bending concave into cat and exhaling through my nose, it is loud enough that I can hear almost nothing else other than my breath. And the same for inhaling. This realization inspired a new attention on my breath, as a noise-cancelling mechanism, in addition to a life-giving force.
On the train going south from San Francisco now. Downtown was so empty as I walked to the station. The virus has emptied out all the tall buildings, which, in turn, has closed down all the shops and restaurants. There are still a few transients about, talking to themselves. But they seem lonely, even lonelier than usual. One woman I walked by was carrying on the most sincere conversation with no one. Not shouting, or jumping around; she was just hanging onto a lamppost and leaning out over the curb, balancing on one leg. I walked by and she didn’t even notice me. It was just her, all alone, for at least a few blocks. And all these tall buildings and wide streets, designed for crowded weekdays and rush hours. There were some service men too. One was loading boxes into a van from inside one of the cafes. It was a cafe I used to go to actually; I used to get their ham sandwich during my lunch break. Another man was up on a scaffold, fixing a window. Other than that, there was no one. It was surreal, seeing downtown that empty.
I walk fast like I’m trying to get away from something, but the truth is I’ve already forgotten where I’m coming from and can’t think of anything else other than where I’m going. Wanting to be there already, walking around slow walkers on the sidewalk carrying groceries or just lollygagging, looking around and enjoying the scenery. I can’t lolly, gag, or anything other than focus on keeping my stride as long as possible without dislocating a hip. All for where I’m going, I know I’ll be satisfied once I get there. I know it will have what I need. There’s nothing here for me anymore, except for what quickly slips behind, and what lies still ahead, representing all the hope in the world.
These scissors smell like they’ve told secrets to get here. Like there were barge men that needed bribing. Like this pair was part of a special pack at the factory that needed to go out right on time. They smell like the metal mined wasn’t enough and there’s still some poor miner there, mining for more. They smell like plastic that came from a big vat of plastic that has all since been molded into separate things and ended up elsewhere, individuated and useful in some capacity or another. These scissors smell like they are capable of cutting hair. They still smell like metal, though, and not like hair yet. Having not yet had the chance to actually cut hair, they reek of factory-made frustration. “Let us work!” they shout. Let us cut, and keep on cutting. Let us do whatever we were made for. Until we are broken and dead and gone and discarded. Let us work!
For me, it was sudden. One day, you’re young and pushing the limits, and the next, your back hurts and you’re trying to keep your job. I don’t think it was actually sudden. Looking back now, it seems to have happened over time. First, you’re so young that you don’t know what it means to be young. Then, around the time you start to rebel against your parents, then you’re young and you know it. Finally, five or ten years further down the road (even later for some), you start to understand what your parents were talking about—this is the mind growing old. The nail in your no-longer-too-distant coffin is when your body starts to ache. That’s when it all really slows down. You can’t drink like you used to. You’re less confident you would win a fight. If you need to bend over to pick something up or put on your socks, you have to do it real slow to avoid hurting yourself. From this point on, there is a certain amount of deliberation that goes into every one of your physical actions, which causes you to think twice before listening to what your raging free spirit is telling you to do. It is scary, seeing death as near as you ever have, and growing nearer all the while. But it is the way of things, and a lot more makes sense now.
During a hip-opening posture in yoga, my instructor tells me, “Make sure the tension from your hips is not going anywhere else in your body. Wherever you are feeling tension, let it go.” With my eyes closed, I think of this. I realize that my eyebrows are creased with concentration, so I let the tension go, relaxing my face. Next, I focus on the tension in my legs. I ask myself, should I let this tension go? But I cannot, at least not completely, without falling out of the pose. Some tension is necessary to maintain the pose. In this moment I learn again, from my body, something that I have learned before: there is a balance, between focused effort on what is essential, and letting go of what is not.
I take a bite of the sidewalk and fall back between the cracks. Is it still vipassana then? If my mind is not allowed to wander any farther than the sirens and bus stop conversations outside the window we’ve left open. It’s too hot. So we have to choose each night, between sweating through our sheets, and opening the window to noise that even ear plugs with a 33 NRR can’t block out. We have ice packs in the freezer. I can wrap one of these in an old t-shirt and get my temperature low enough to at least fall sleep. By midnight, sometimes before, the ice pack is melted. So the window gets opened eventually. And then the same choice: to fight the noise, pull the pillow around my ears, and try not to hear; or meditate on the chaos. I cannot do this successfully. Some primal part of me cannot forget that loud noises mean danger. And my writer’s mind has a hard time hearing conversations without listening to the words being said. I try not to judge. I try to just notice. But I still miss the pitch black silent nights in Montana.
My soul, having since ceased to be mine, jockeys for bodily position in the pool of purgatory where all souls queue en masse. Seeking flesh destined for another set of spacetime events not all too dissimilar from the physical life which preceded its most recent death, my soul searches. Hoping, as all souls do, to live again in individual form. It is a vague hope, to which not all souls are privy, in the ocean ether of all souls joined together, mingling and meanwhile forgetting having forgotten belonging to the One. It is the same problem on either side of the divine line—forgetting what is was like to belong to the One on the earth side, and forgetting what it was like to be an individual on the heaven side. Until the ethereal ocean lifts out of itself and prepares to precipitate all of its divine life into tiny ignorant droplets, all of which will once again fail to remember their former divine lives immediately upon impact with another life on earth.
This dog today, looked at me like he knew what I was thinking. He smiled at me with his tongue out, panting from his walk. Sitting there on his haunches, leashed to his owner, waiting curbside to cross the street. He said to me with his eyes, “It’s all a sham. I know it. You know it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like to go for a walk every once in a while.” Then the light turned. The dog’s owner gave a tug on the leash and said, “Come on.” The dog got up and trotted happily along. I stood there long enough for the light to turn, and so I had to wait for the next one.
A transient walks by a restaurant with outdoor dining. He shuffles his feet. His pants sag. A folded newspaper hangs out of his back pocket. A jazz band stands by, holding their instruments idly, in between songs. Seven or eight tables are set up outside of the restaurant. People are eating and talking at their tables. Forks can be heard clinking on plates. The transient starts to shout, something indiscernible. People stop what they’re doing and stare at the transient, as he stands there on the sidewalk. He looks at one table in particular, and continues to shout. Nobody does or says anything. Forks have stopped clinking. The transient stands there. For a moment, there is silence, other than the street noise—cars passing by. Then he continues to shuffle his feet, moving on down the sidewalk. The band picks up their instruments and continues on to the next song. Forks resume clinking on plates.
I am a little off balance now as I walk. And so it begins.
Large ants crawl on the Mexican blanket. I am interested in their movements.
The shadows have caught my attention as they dissipate with the movements of the clouds between the sun and the ground.
It is starting to open up. Ideas in my head seem to be connected.
My friends are talking on the deck above. I am on the patio below. Their words are disruptive. They are talking about college.
I have a desire to put on my shoes and go into the woods.
I am going into the woods, to discover species anew and to give them new names.
It is hard to write
With the light so bright
On white paper
As I put my pen to paper, I almost forget the words, but still they come to me somehow, flowing from objective reality itself, then through my senses, and seamlessly into Word.
I feel the sun hot on my shoulders through my shirt.
An ant crawls up the leg of my shorts.
I have found a convenient stump to sit on and write.
There is an ant on my left pointer finger, probing me with his antennae.
I need to get out of the sun. My neck is already burnt.
I am tripping, assuredly. I have wandered a bit farther into the woods, where there is some shade. I stepped across a crumbling trunk, like a balance beam, to get here.
I can hear my friends laughing behind me.
I begin to feel fear for the future; fear because this good feeling will come to an end.
I remember the Bene Gesserit mantra: “Fear is the mind killer.”
The fear comes from my ego. When I remember that I am part of all this, the fear goes away.
There are certain words that reassure me. They are often phrases or quotations. Some degree of spirituality, it seems, is just to memorize words, and then, when the right time comes:
(1) Recognize the appropriate situation.
(2) Recite the words in your mind.
(3) Let action flow forth from your body with the realized meaning of those words.
Again, I start to think of the future, and ill feelings immediately follow. Stay present! Stay mindful! This is the heart of my practice.
I fear so much for the future. I fear so much for my ego.
I am concerned for the physical health of my body.
I am concerned from the performance of my financial investments.
Even as a bug lands on my hand, I check to make sure it is not a bee that can sting me. So what if it is?
I am a part of all this. If the bee stings me, it is a part of all this.
It is like the book that I cannot recall the name of. Ishmael, there it is.
He talks of how man was in sync with nature before. This is how it should be. This is the answer.
All of man’s developments have placed him in a position above nature. Many of man’s modern problems would be solved if he would return to his place in nature.
Now, that seems unlikely. It would mean the death of many humans on our overpopulated planet. We have trodden too far down this track.
I hear my friends laughing in the distance. I wonder if they appreciate the deeper power of the trip. Or do they take it all to be just funny visuals?
As they speak with each other, they are kept from going deeper into their own minds.
I think of the time. I do not have a watch. I am fully tripping now.
I wonder how long I have been standing in this place. My legs have held me just fine, but when I look at them, I am unsure of how they operate.
I do feel taller. This is something Sean mentioned he often feels while tripping.
When I misspell a word or scribble, I think, “Don’t worry, they’ll get it.”
But I must realize, they won’t get it. All of THIS, is captured only in my humble words.
I should stop writing and enjoy it.
It occurs to me to draw.
I laugh at myself for thinking I could draw such beauty.
I start to feel ill feelings. I feel them run a familiar track inside of me. I see them, like rushing rivers, encountering the dam of my heavily-fortified ego.
I observe, dangerously at this time, what my ego is built of.
The wind blows. I let it pass. I pick it back up.
My ego is built from who I think I am. My history, my present physical body, what others say about me …
It is hard to keep track of this thought.
I am fully tripping. I have stood in one place for so long, I had almost forgotten what it’s like to move.
I am fully tripping—these exact words occur to me again.
I constantly have these thoughts:
– What should I be doing?
– Is this, what I’m doing right now, productive?
And then I start to think into the future about what will be most productive …
I have to remind myself, that is not the game we are playing.
Stay here. Stay present.
It strikes me how easily I forget. I have an ill feeling, and then I am distracted, and then I forget.
Even control over my body seems to be something I could part ways with, other than for the convenience of my fingers which hold this pen to write.
Things occur to me as being beautiful, and in that moment of occurrence, nothing else matters. My senses are fully immersed in the beauty, like the sight of a crumbling tree trunk, split open and filled with forest debris. So dead, but so perfectly at home.
I think, how will these words sound to the others who read them?
I remind myself, it does not matter. Stay here. Stay present.
Of all the bugs, mosquitoes are the only ones I swat. I do not so much mind the prick and the drawing of blood. I am more worried about disease.
This idea of disease, planted in me by society, affects my behavior towards other living creatures. Again, I think of reading Ishmael.
I cough to spit. It surprises me that I have a throat and a mouth.
I am so at home in the woods right now. The wind blows through my hair, just like it does through the leaves in the trees.
I hear something behind me, a rustle in the leaves. I feel the desire to make myself unseen, to crouch low, to hide.
I feel that I understand my ancient ancestors in this moment. At the same time, I feel the call back to civilization.
I think of my friends and the house, and I smile.
I am surprised to feel my facial muscles smiling.
As the sun shines and the birds chirp, I am filled with so much love for nature.
A moment ago, it was dark. The clouds covered the sun. I was scared of what I could not see among the trees. I was alone.
I am resistant to going back, to have to talk.
I know it will be hard to stay out here for too long. I do not know the ways of the woods. I would lose. I do not want to lose, and so starts the civilization of man.
I was born civilized. At this point, it would take much undoing.
I see a runner on the street through the woods. It invokes a feeling of familiarity.
From where I stand writing in the woods, I feel perfectly balanced between far away from, and still close by, to civilization.
If I were farther into the woods alone, I might feel a more primal fear for my survival.
As I see things on the forest floor, I lean down with my paper and pen, like a photographer with a camera.
I hear trucks on the road. I remember what people have told me in the past.
I just feel so happy, particularly to be inside of my body.
To be contained in a physical being, capable of realizing thought.
The body is a beautiful thing. More than just the beauty of its form, but also of its function—to realize thoughts and feelings.
The importance of yoga, to cultivate this connection between body and mind, occurs to me now.
It is a practice I could spend my whole lifetime learning.
In contrast, I am less interested in certain aspects of my job. There are aspects that seem far removed from man’s natural state. Like keeping the body seated in the same desk chair all day.
—
Woah! A mother moose and a child moose just passed, not more than forty feet from where I am standing here in the woods.
At first, I felt immense fear. I could not tell what was near me in the woods, other than that it was big—bigger than a bird or a chipmunk.
Your eyes play tricks on you between the branches in the trees.
I am being bitten by mosquitoes. I choose to return to civilization, knowing the risks.
I am sad to leave. I must remember the connectedness to nature that I experienced here.
—
I hear my friends and their words. I cannot speak to them. They must come out here into the woods and experience it for themselves.
All around me, the forest floor is alive, mostly with ants. There are also mosquitoes, flying and landing.
There are many aspects. You do not need to fear that it will be over. It will continue. Whether your ego is involved, does not matter. You are a part of it all.
But these mosquitoes are insufferable!
I feel a drop of rain—another element forcing me to return.
My friends talk too much.
They do not wait in silence long enough to experience it themselves.
—
I look back at Marie, I think to talk to her as Marie—she, of the flesh and blood, with whom I share memories.
But she is not the same, as she appears to me now. She is participating in the One. She is a soul, and that’s all that matters.
I think of my own flesh. Am I housed in the bones I would choose? What does it matter, if we’re all the same.
These words are so meager. What art form then? What form could capture this most fully?
There is the question, first, of what art form could capture a lived experience most fully. Then, there is the question of what art form could capture THIS (tripping) most fully.
It occurs to me now that the “come up” has passed. We have arrived at the plateau.
—
I am not sure if any of the others would be willing to participate in this experience in the way that I participate in it.
The woods are a very clear analogy. Deeper in the woods, there is only the sound of wind in the leaves. The only movements are the ants on the ground.
Back at the house, there is music from man-made speakers, man-made words, and even man-made men.
These man-made men are the ones who do not understand.
I think of Ishmael again.
We come from nature, that is where we will find ourselves in order.
Man does not understand himself. Not even the accumulated knowledge of generations of man thinkers can understand one single man.
How then, can we expect man to build himself?
He cannot do the job of nature.
It occurs to me now, how brilliant the book Ishmael really is.
Even as I write these words, I realize that going back to read them will not be the same.
Impossible to achieve the same understanding.
—
I am aware of the ground being alive with ants. I cannot look anywhere on the ground where I do not see an ant.
These ants are like men—successful, relative to other species, and still working to further themselves.
The operations of nature make sense to me in terms of business. An enterprising species will take market share from others and win.
I almost caught a look of myself reflecting in the window, blue bandana. I looked away, not wanting to see my face.
Talking aloud to Marta, my voice sounds inadequate. I wish it were more musical.
—
You have to have your art form ready, before the experience.
When you are awash in the storm of your emotions, there must already be an artistic channel, into which that emotion might pour.
Without a specified channel, the emotion will search for one.
I am an emotional person, I realize now. I always have been. This emotion is my power. It fuels my actions.
—
If I allow it, the economy will engulf me here where I stand in this moment with the skills I have to offer, and my hopes and dreams to be used as motivators to put my skills to work.
The economy does not care where I land. It does not care what profession I choose. It will get use out of me, one way or another. This is management, the business of getting use out of people. And the managers report to investors, and so on.
This is the nature of the economy—investors pushing people to do things (who then push other people to do things) to make more money. It is the investor’s passion for more that sets the whole economy in motion.
The apartment unit neighboring ours has a bathroom window that is about six feet away from our bathroom window. It is almost summer in San Francisco and we have no air conditioning in our studio apartment (most buildings in San Francisco don’t have air conditioning, due to the mild summers). So we keep our bathroom windows open all the time.
The window is built into the shower wall. It is high enough in the wall, that I can stand flat-footed in the tub, and the bottom of the window barely reaches my shoulders. Still, there is some lack of privacy from having an open window as part of your shower wall. The neighboring unit used to be vacant, so there was no problem with showering without a shade over the window.
About two months ago, our neighbors moved in. I believe it is another young couple. Lately, the young woman and I have gotten into a habit somehow of showering at the same time. I will get in and turn on the water and start to shower, and then I will hear the metal rings pulling across the shower rod from the open window across, and I know it is her getting in.
At first, I dared not look. I even arranged shampoo bottles on our window sill so as to create a barrier. One day, I caught a glance of her. As I reached to grab a bottle from the sill, I saw her brunette hair tied up on the top of her head. That is all I could see.
She is not tall enough to see above the sill over into our window, unless she were to stand on her tippy-toes or climb up onto the edge of the tub. But she must hear the water from our faucet and my occasional absent-minded shower singing. Still, we are complete strangers, for all intents and purposes. So we shower together, six feet apart.
She is not tall enough
To see above the sill
And we shower together
Six feet apart
My morning routine, as of late, has been to wake up with the sun at seven in the morning. I get out of bed and get dressed, then roll the rug away to make a space for my yoga mat on the hardwood floor. I set a cushion on top of the yoga mat and start by meditating for five minutes. After meditating, I go through about ten minutes of yoga flow. My back has been hurting me lately, so most of the postures are focused on my lower back.
This morning, I achieved a deeper focus in my meditation. When the alarm went off on my phone, I was surprised. That’s how I knew the meditation was deeper. I was enjoying my sense of peace, but I also wanted to begin my yoga practice. So I made a compromise with myself. I took away my cushion and put my hands and knees on the mat, but I kept my eyes closed. My eyes remained closed as I moved between my yoga postures.
By keeping my eyes closed, the focus I had achieved in my meditation transferred to my yoga practice. I felt that I was seeing my body from the inside out. When a vertebrae in my back would pop, it sounded very loud, and I could tell exactly where it was. When I extended my hands to change postures, I had to feel with my fingertips for the edge of the mat. Once I had found it, I was reluctant to move my hands, knowing they were in the right position, and fearing to move them without the aid of my sight.
My thoughts drifted during my yoga practice to what it must be like to be blind. I imagined a blind man with a deep spiritual practice. Maybe he would enter a monastery and live a simple life. In a small space, it would not be so difficult to find your way around without sight. Without the prejudices of society, he might find deep friendships with the other monks at the monastery. He might even achieve a deeper spiritual practice, owing to the very fact that he was without sight, and thus less distracted by worldly appearances.
I turn the shower to cold, briefly, and then off. Standing in water up to my ankles, I turn and face the white shower curtain. Watching water drip from my nose into the pool gathered around my feet, I wait to dry. Standing thus, waiting, I remember my girlfriend hates it when I leave the drain clogged—this being the cause of the water up to my ankles. It’s my fault, really; being my hair, mostly, that clogs the drain. I reach down and scrape my fingernails along the edges of the indented mesh gate that covers the drain—this produces a mess of hair the size of a small mouse. Then the water really starts to drain. I resume my former position with my chin against my chest, holding the mouse, water dripping from the tip of my nose with slightly less frequency. The water line recedes down the slope of my foot. The drain makes a sound like rain in a gutter. I am caught up in hearing this and not much else. There is no other pressing concern, waiting to dry. The water finishes draining. There is no noise now; not the shower, nor the draining. It is over then. I prepare myself to pull back the curtain and find something else to do.
Today I’ve watched ants. They have crawled on the wooden boards of the deck and on the stone patio beneath the deck. Some have even made their way into the house—much to the chagrin of our host. One ant carried a dead ant, equal in size to the live ant. Another ant carried a dead bug of another species. The dead bug was three or four times the size of the ant. I could not identify the dead bug; a beetle, maybe. Its body was mangled. Last night I made a comment, “If ants were in charge of a country, that country would take over the world.” I continue to swat at mosquitoes; they carry disease and aim to drink my blood. They bring the violence upon themselves. The ants are peaceful, going about their business. They will climb up and over my leg if that is the most direct path to where they are going. I don’t mind. I like to see them up close. I admire their hard work.
“We’ve started our descent,” the flight attendant says. The plane banks to the right. When I look out the window, I can see straight down to the trees and streets and buildings. The houses are each about the size of a penny on the window, even smaller. We’re low enough that I can make them out as being houses with grey shingle roofs. One house has a circular driveway. It’s larger than the other houses and bordered by trees.
I wonder to myself, “What’s going on inside that house?” Is anyone home? Are they on vacation? Does a family live there? Are the parents happily married? Are the children happy to be children? Have they had lunch? Do they have a dog? Is someone taking a shower? Is someone doing something they’re not supposed to be doing? What’s going on inside that house?
I wonder, and I bet nobody else on the plane wonders about exactly the same thing as me. The plane levels out and the big house with the circular driveway slides out of view. White clouds fill the window again.
If I were to take an ant from the forest in Montana and trap it in a jar and take it with me in my suitcase on my flight back to San Francisco, would it survive?
I do not know for sure what ants eat, but let’s say I did, and I put some of that in the jar, say, some blades of grass. If the ant had enough to eat, could he survive? Maybe it needs some water too. Okay, so I add a few drops every week. With enough food and water, would the ant survive? If not, why not?
Would the ant die because of a physical reason unaccounted for? Maybe there’s not enough air in the jar for the ant to breathe. But let’s assume it’s none of this. What then? Would it be something mental or emotional? Could an ant die because of separation from his colony? What if I introduced the ant to a new colony in the redwood forests near San Francisco. Would the ant then survive among other ants? Albeit, not the same ants as the ones at his home in Montana.
But let’s say it’s not social. Let’s say the ant stays in the jar. What would kill it then. Like a prisoner in solitary confinement, what would break first? Would it be the same for all ants? Or unique to each ant based on their individual temperament?
I step away from my desk to stretch. I lean over to touch my toes. The sun from the window behind me shows my shadow on the hardwood floor. I see that my hair is disheveled. Previously unaware of my appearance, I am now self-conscious of my appearance. What if I go to see people later? What if someone comes into the study? My hair should look kempt. I fuss over it, using my shadow as a mirror.
While practicing yoga, some poses strike me as being more feminine, others as being more masculine. Down dog, for example, with my rear end pointed up, strikes me as more feminine. Plank pose, with my bicep and forearm muscles flexed, strikes me as more masculine. This may be a bias in my yoga practice. I am unwilling to go deeper, stretch farther, or hold longer in feminine poses, for fear of appearing even more feminine. In masculine poses on the other hand, I am eager to go deeper to appear more masculine.
Driving to the airport on our way to pick up Marta. Krys is driving. He has his hand out the window, letting the wind pass between his fingers. The sky is a light blue. The gradient grows lighter toward the sun, high in the sky. We come to a stop. Krys looks out the window, exhales, and says, “Nice.” Seamus looks at Krys from the passenger seat and asks, “What?” Krys responds, “All of it.” We all laugh, and quickly express our emphatic agreement. It is all very nice.
John stands in front of the coffee machine. Connor asks him what is wrong. He explains that he can’t figure out how to turn off the ‘Clean’ function. He says, “I need coffee to figure out how to fix the coffee machine.” We laugh.
Cutting vegetables for soup, I learn lessons like “a dull knife requires more power to cut” and “one cut across three carrots is as good as three cuts.” I start to chop slower as I am learning these lessons, until I am learning from each chop. It is simple—the vegetables, the cutting board, and the knife. I am enjoying myself. And the smell of the chopped celery. Soup is a simple dish—everything in the pot, with some broth and water.
She is gentle and will not be forced. She must come to you first. And then it is a matter of what you do with it. If you try to go to her first, it will not work. She will not be open or ready. And you will merely be grasping from the outside. You must be patient and wait.
I got caught peeing in public by the park police today. My girlfriend and I were walking on the sidewalk through the Presidio on our way to the beach. I stepped off and took two or three steps into the trees. When I turned around, the unmarked police car was making a U-turn in the middle of the street with its lights on, but no sirens. When I saw the car, without even thinking, I said out loud, “Oh man, are you kidding me?” I looked through the passenger-side window and the officer was motioning for me to come closer to the car. I walked over and bent down with my hands on my knees. He rolled down the window halfway. He said, “If you’re going to urinate, walk back far enough into the trees where people can’t see.” I said, “Yes sir. I apologize.” I tried my best to look scared. Truth be told, I was a little scared. I didn’t want to get a citation. He nodded, seeming satisfied, and rolled up his window and drove off. I stepped back onto the sidewalk and kept walking with my girlfriend.
She keeps me straight and narrow so I can focus my energies, keeping my sexuality from welling up and over the rim of myself. My sex flows into her only. This pointed and consistent release has allowed space for my other energies to grow strong. Previously this space was filled by frantic sexual energy, like gas fills a balloon. Now my sexual energy is compartmentalized. It is her compartment wholly and I don’t think twice about it.
I don’t like particulars. I aim to be non-specific. I would rather talk of the sky that is the same everywhere, rather than what is only of this specific place here. Is this an inherent contradiction? Because symbolic language is specific, and therefore inept to capture the universal.
Lake sits in a wooden rocking chair on the back porch. One leg is crossed over the other. The leg beneath bounces gently. A grey and white Mexican blanket is draped over his shoulders. His neck slightly craned over and eyes squinting at the book in his hands. Occasionally looking up at the Montana mountain scenery beyond the porch railing.
What will happen, will. When I realize it is not me. None of it is mine. I am part of it, and that is all. What will pass through me, will. As I try to control and plan and schedule. Taking it all into my arms to wrestle it into the shape of my desires. My arms are not big enough. I only tire this way. It has all already been wrestled. It has been wrestled into what it will be. I am here for it. I am granted the privilege of having a part to play. I will play my part. As it comes to me, I will play.
My girlfriend eats breakfast earlier than I do. She eats the same thing every morning. A bowl of granola and yogurt with fresh blueberries and a hard boiled egg. She knows I like to have a hard boiled egg too. So she leaves the cutting board and the salt and pepper out on the counter for me. I peel my egg and cut it in half. I don’t need to add any salt and pepper because I can just roll my egg in the salt and pepper that spilled on the board from my girlfriend’s egg earlier that morning.
I wake up with my hand plugged into her heart like a battery. Her closed eyes staring past her eyelids innocently into the ethereal. My hand plunged deep into her chest in the dream world where skin is a permeable barrier. She breathes all the deeper, undisturbed. For a moment I feel as one with her not unlike the sexual encounter. It is as if we have both entered the dream world tethered together by skin. As if the dream world were a movie theater and we both handed the ticket man our ticket with the same seat number and proceeded into the movie theater to have the same dream at the same time and as the same person. I cannot feel where my fingertips touch her chest. It is like when your leg has fallen asleep and you can only feel above your knee. I can only feel above my elbow. The rest of my arm seems to be plunged into and past her body into the sleep world where my forearm and hand are cut off from physical sensation. My other hand cups her neck. We lay on our sides facing each other, an arm’s length apart, connected only by my two hands touching her, and some other link that goes beyond just skin.
Changes in my sensory experience are a main source of my inspiration.
Sitting at my desk in my apartment, I am experiencing the same senses. I can hear the sound of traffic on the street outside. I can see my computer screen and the white wall behind it. I can feel the cushion under my bum and the wood against my back. I can taste my saliva. I can smell the bland air. I am experiencing the same senses. I am bored. I am not inspired.
So I get up and put on my sneakers and go for a run. Now my sensory experience is changing. I see new storefronts every block. I see new people and new cars. I hear conversations and children laughing. I smell the pollen from the summer trees. I feel the wind and the sun and the cement beneath my feet. My taste is about the same—just saliva.
Now, this is not to say I could not have changed my sensory experience in my apartment. I could have turned on some music. I could have taken a heroic dose of acid. I could have punched myself bloody. I could have sat down and tried my best to enter a deep meditation.
What comes in through your senses is already art. Life itself is art. What you see is a painting. What you hear is music. What you feel is dance.
As an artist, I am more of a translator than a creator. My life, my sensory experience—this is already the art. It is like clay given to a sculptor. I take the sound or music and the sight of the sky and turn those experiences into words. But in some sense, they are already words.
I am like a kaleidoscope or a prism. The experience of life is light. I am not the creator of light. Nor am I the creator of myself. I am merely a vessel.
It is still work. It is not as passive as standing there and letting light pass through. But it is work already set into motion by forces greater than me, and I must merely play along.
I get nothing done
All day
At my desk
Double guessing
And triple checking
Like I’m still in school
So I get up
And go outside
To run
And clear my head
And all my problems
Solve themselves
One after another
Somewhere
In the back of my mind
While I focus
On not getting hit
By a car
I run all over town
Without a notebook
Practicing
How to hold
A hundred poems
In my head
I pick favorites
And sometimes
Have to forget one
To remember another
The trouble is
I get a full head
Halfway through
As I’m still out and about
And seeing and smelling
And so poems
Keep pouring in
Which is when
I have to run
As fast as I can
Repeating every poem
Silently in my head
And looking down
Until I can get home
And start writing
To make some space
I make these
Small calculations
For my chances
Of survival
Like whether to walk
On this side
Of the sidewalk
Or that side
And wonder whether
The time I take
To make
These calculations
Is greater than
Or equal to
The time I save
Surviving
I watched two
Photographers
At the park today
As they
Took pictures
Of the birds
And the sky
One of them
With the long lens
Stood in the shade
Resting his camera
On his leg
Like a hunter
Holding his gun
Lazy like
Waiting to shoot
A bird in the trees
He waited like this
Still as a cat
In the shade
Only moving
His other arm
Not holding the camera
To take drags
On his cigarette
The second
With a small camera
Stood in the trail
In everyone’s way
Looking up at the sky
At a trail of smoke
Left by a plane
All of the passersby
Stood for a second
And tried to see
What the camera man
Was seeing
He pointed and explained
But some just didn’t see
Or understand
What was the big deal
About a trail of smoke
In the sky
A pleasant crunch
Cutting across
Four stalks
Of celery
I got a handful of blueberries
Out of the carton
And went to wash them
But I dropped one
So I picked it up
And washed it again
And you wouldn’t believe me
If I told you
I dropped that blueberry
A third time
But I did
And washed it again
Laying down
At the base of a tree
Looking up
Through the branches
At the sun
It is a tall tree
With many branch layers
So only some sections
Of light
Reach the grass
In between
Splotches of shade
The sun twinkles
As the leaves blow
And shift in the wind
I have to shield my eyes
With my hand
When the leaves blow
Just right
To let the sun
Shine through
I start to think about dinner
When I’m still eating lunch
I start to plan for tomorrow
When I’ve still got today
I start to worry
Farther and farther
Into the future
About what may never come
I start and never finish
Because I’m always worried
About the next thing
And the next
Nevermind now, I say
Look at what’ll happen then!
I keep returning to the idea of focus. In order to be successful you must focus.
With art, the artist must focus in order to establish a consistent theme. This is not only for the audience, but also for this artist, because without this consistency it’s not possible to gain the deep observations from focusing in one area.
With a career it is the same. You cannot do many jobs and be successful. You must choose one job and focus. It is only with this focus in your career that you can achieve the knowledge and experience to be successful professionally. If you try to do Many jobs you’ll be mediocre at all of them. If you focus on one job you have a greater chance of success.
It is the same with your identity. If you try to live many lives, you will be mediocre at all of them. In order to be successful you must choose one life to live. It is only by focusing on one identity that you can achieve the deep insights of that one life.
If you try to live many lives at once it would be like walking into a movie and walking out after the first 10 minutes never getting to see the middle or the end or how the characters develop. It will be like only reading the introduction of the book or only listening to the preamble of a symphony. Or when meeting someone it would be like only talking to them for one minute and then never seeing them again.
A falling leaf
Looks like a butterfly
Flapping its wings
Moved about
More by
The whims of the wind
Than its own will
A spider web string
Sparkles in the sun
Like a thin diamond necklace
Turning over and twirling
Seeming to float
Above the branches
Where it can’t possibly be attached
Just floating
Like a kite string
For a kite somewhere unseen
And not so menacing
Bare
And without a bug trapped
Kite catchers
They call these trees
In the park
With more kites
Than leaves
A kite caught up
On the tallest branch
Of the tree
Beyond hope of rescue
Blowing in the wind
Like one of the leaves
Except for the neon
Sticking out like a sore thumb
Among the green
Doomed to flap there
Until a fierce gust of wind
Blows it down
Or the tree falls
Now I remember why I have forgotten why it is that I do what I do. Upon realizing recently, that I do not know why it is that I do what I do, I remembered this. Because I went about trying to figure out again, why I do what I do. Which is a funny thing, because I have been doing things all this time, but I cannot remember exactly why.
If I think of any particular thing I’ve done I can usually come up with a reason. For example, I ate breakfast this morning because I was hungry. But for all my decisions strung together, I can’t put my finger on a common theme, just disjointed ad hoc reasons.
So I started to think about it. I thought for a long time and took down notes and read some passages out of books. That is when I remembered why I have forgotten. I am not saying I know all. I do not.
But it seems there are some grim answers if you look hard enough, about why we are and what we should do. Upon thinking this thought, I was very depressed. And felt that I had experienced that depression before. I had, I knew it.
And that is why I have forgotten why I do what I do. Because at the point of my last depressions having stumbled upon these grim thoughts, I blindfolded myself and spun myself around and whispered a Truth in my own ear and pointed in a direction and said to myself, “Run.”
And so I ran. It took me a couple years to realize I couldn’t remember why I was running. So I’ll spin myself around again and whisper another Truth in my ear and set myself off running again.
I wake up
With a dry mouth
From sleeping
With the window open
I get out of bed
And walk to the kitchen
To fill a glass
With water
And take a drink
Then put down
The empty glass
On the counter
And get back in bed
And fall asleep
My heart sings off-key
For the half notes
That never got to whole
My hands beat a doldrum
Into the desk
Checking my watch
Every five minutes
Waiting for this day
To finally finish
So I can escape
To something else
Anything else
I can only whistle one tune
For so long
Until I forget the sound
Of all other tunes
And the hope of music
Becomes just
The senseless noise
Of that one tune
One song
Without sound
And a painting
Without color
Dares you to look deep
Into the void
And press your ear
To the glass ceiling
Where you might hear
A white noise
Which seems at first
To be nothing
Listen long enough
And see
How nothing
Becomes something
Getting drunk
And listening to music
I start to write poetry again
And think to myself
It’s no wonder
I haven’t been able to write
As of late
Because I’ve been too sober
And without music
Beer bubbles
At the bottom of the glass
Make me sad
Because this was the last one
In the fridge
And I’ll have to switch
Over to white wine
After these last sips
Of good beer
The music is loud now
No exclamation points in poetry
Is a rule I once read
But I’m going to break it
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Because wow this moment
The music is loud
Did I already mention that?
Must be on account
Of my having had two beers
And already being buzzed
Because it’s been a while
Since I’ve gotten drunk
And danced around the room like this
The music is loud
And the windows are open
And it’s all alright
I see a point
In the tree
Where two branches
Cross over
And I wonder
If either branch
Longed for the other
Before they crossed
And if they now
Miss each other
Growing
In their own directions
I made a bowl of granola this morning. When I tilted the milk jug, to pour some into the bowl, but too much came out. And I thought of how to get some back in the jug. Then I realized the meaning of the expression, “There’s no sense in crying over spilled milk.”
How can you be so sure
A wrong turn won’t be right
How come you grip
The steering wheel so tight
Watching lines on maps
And planning where to go
It helps to know
That the road will have its way
A detour
Might save a crash
And a pit stop
Might change your life
So step on the gas surely
For going is the only way
But don’t worry so much
About where to
A bird chirps
Through the window crack
In the morning
Car wheels
Roll to a stop
At the light outside
Baby breathes
A deep waking sigh
With one eye open
I stretch and roll over
Before the alarm
I know is coming
Bright light
Breaks through
The mouth of the tunnel
Like the face
Of the mountain
Is missing a tooth
Oh here he goes
With heft again
Heaving as he may
Huffing and puffing
That big chest for something
But still he holds no sway
For strength aside
His muscles try
To make up for his mind
That door would budge
For just a nudge
If the knob were so inclined
I walked to the park after work today. I walked down California Street until I reached the avenues in the Richmond and then I turned north on Sixth Avenue until I got to the park.
It was sunny, but not too sunny. It seemed like the sun was farther away, sending its heat from a distance, so it wasn’t too hot. I almost wished it was hotter. When I walked through a part of shade under a tree or on the side of a building and a breeze would blow at the same time, I was almost cold.
The sky was blue. It was the same blue across the whole sky, except near the sun where it was white. I got to the park and walked out to a clearing in between the trees. There were other people around. Some dogs and some small children.
I watched one little girl squat down and cry. She seemed to be about a year old. Her mother (or at least I presume it was her mother) stood there and waited patiently for her to finish crying.
There were dogs on leashes with their owners. There were people seated on the grass having a picnic or just talking. I sat down on the grass and talked to my dad on the phone. We talked about making decisions and how that’s part of life. He told me his perspective and I thanked him.
It is ironic that I realize as I get older the value of wisdom from those who are even older than me. Perhaps it is because I am getting older and will want people to ask me for my wisdom someday. Perhaps it is because I am getting wiser as I am getting older, and it is part of being wiser to realize that it is wise to seek wisdom from others who are older.
After my call with my dad I walked deeper into the trees. I found an area of level ground and did push-ups. I started with twenty normal push-ups. Then I stood up and took a short break and walked in circles. Then I did twenty push-ups with my hands in the shape of a diamond. And I stood up and walked in circles again. I did other variations of push-ups until I was tired.
I was relaxing and thinking of whether I should walk deeper in the park. Then I realized I was late for dinner. My girlfriend said she was going to put the salmon in the oven. That was probably over an hour ago, I thought. So I went back.
I was late. My salmon was cold and dry. But the broccoli was still warm. I ate and then took a shower. Now I’m sitting on the side of the tub in my towel writing this.
Our shower drain
Has been clogged
For as long
As we’ve lived here
So the shower
Makes three noises
First is the water
On the floor
Of the tub
Second is the water
On the surface
Of the pool
In the tub
Like rain
On a lake
Third is the drain
Drinking the pool
Slowly
Making gurgle noises
White tiles
Take time to turn
Into something
Noticeable
On the shower walls
My fingers rake
My wet hair
Not even washing
No shampoo
My mind
Is someplace else
In fact, many
Other places
At once
Until I open my eyes
And see white
Tile walls
And return
Realizing
I’ve been rinsing
My hair
For some time now
I don’t know
How long
I see kids careful
Now that grown ups
Are watching
About what they say
In a circle
Of parked bikes
On a side street
In suburban San Francisco
Covering their mouths
Telling their friends secrets
About what they watched
On television
When their parents
Weren’t home
I wait for a morning
Where I can see
What’s already done
And what needs doing
So I can settle
On what to do
With my day
Hiding below the horizon
Like a shy child
Who forgets every night
That he is the sun god
And must muster again
The courage needed
To shine all day
For the world to see
The city alarm is set
By the bus route
And the bakery man
Driving his truck of bread
And the other cars
Their wheels and engines
And occasional radios
And the street light
That never stops
Or maybe it’s the store light
Or traffic light
That always finds a way
Into your apartment
Despite your best efforts
To drape the windows dark
—The light and noise
Even here in San Francisco
Makes you believe what they say
About New York never sleeping
The sun comes up
Through the shade
So early
In the summer
That I wonder
If I even
Got to sleep
In meditation there is a principle, that you can focus on your breath forever and never stop learning new things.
In philosophy there is a principle, that you can never know all that there is to know about a fruit fly.
For poetry, I believe that you could sit in the same room and never run out of poems to write.
I breathe easy
In the night
On my back
Four fingers
Rest on my belly
Feeling it rise
And fall
A wrist
Props my head
Looking up
At the ceiling
A slightly
Different shade
Than the day
In the dark
And I just breathe
It takes a turn
Tight as can be
Up on two wheels
Leaning to the side
When you thought for sure
You were going one direction
And even started to think
You might only ever
Keep going in just
That one direction
And then it turns
And everything you thought you knew
Turns to memory
While what you can see
Is replaced
With this new way
That you’re suddenly going
Prose:
The metal rod that held up our blinds over the kitchen window broke yesterday. So I took a hammer and some nails and stood on one of the dining room chairs to nail a bed sheet to the top of the window frame to serve as a blind for the time being.
I went to bed and woke up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water. I opened the fridge and poured myself a cup of cold water from the pitcher. I was on my way back to the bedroom half-asleep when the bed sheet hanging over the kitchen window caught my eye.
I stood there, naked and drinking my water, and watched the headlights from traffic on the street outside passing through the grey bed sheet. They seemed like ghosts from an unfamiliar world. The lights were distorted beyond being able to discern that they were car headlights. It was like an abstract movie.
I started to make up stories about why certain ghost lights would come to stop and then go again. The fast lights were in a hurry to get somewhere. Some lights stopped next to each other and made love before moving on.
I stood there in the dark by myself and made up stories about the light movie on the bed sheet until I was almost fully awake. Then I went back to bed.
Poetry:
The metal rod
That held up our blinds
Over the window
In the kitchen
Broke yesterday
So I nailed up
A grey bedsheet
To cover the window
For the time being
I went to bed
And woke up to get some water
Then stood and watched
Naked and drinking water
The headlights from traffic
Passing through the grey bedsheet
Like ghosts
In an unfamiliar world
A bird chirping
In the middle of the night
Singing her heart out
Must be drunk
Coming home
From the bird bath bar
Not to see
It’s pitch black out
And time to sleep
And save the chirping
For the morning
Don’t look forward
Look right here
There is nothing for you
Beyond this moment
Nothing more
This is it
The source of your troubles
And longing
And lamenting
Is all in the future
Causing you to think
There is more then
That is not now
The future
Makes you feel
Like you’re missing something
You must be
If there is more to come
Then you were missing it before
You must have been
But don’t be worried
Don’t let the future trick you
Focus here and now
Start with the senses
What do you see
What do you hear
What do you feel
Focus all of your attention
On the senses
What picture of the present
Are they painting for you
What song of the present
Are they singing
Your senses of the present
Are gold
Compared to copper imagination
Of any future
Not yet come to pass
For the body
But only for the mind
As some figment
Focus here
Breathe it in
Do not worry
Let go of the need to plan
To prepare
The future is now
It is part of the nature of now
To become the future
So if you want to prepare
Focus here
I woke up early today to find my muse. It is almost summer so the light was up before me, peeking in between the drapes. I got out of bed and rolled the rug away to make space for my mat. I did my stretches and put on the clothes and pack that I had set out the night before. I opened the door and locked it behind me and stepped onto the sidewalk outside to find the peace and quiet of the morning.
I walked on a street with shops. I walked in a forest. I walked across the bridge. After almost four hours of walking, I began to despair. My muse had been missing for some time. All this past week she has been missing, and I had only caught glimpses of her a few of the weeks before.
I stopped overlooking the ocean. I took a drink of water and ate one of the bars I had packed in my bag. I walked to the beach. It was still foggy and the beach was not too inviting. But I was tired and wanted to lie down. I did, and after finding a comfortable position in the sand, fell asleep.
When I woke, the sun was shining. The clouds had separated for the sun to shine through. It was then that I found my muse. I searched in my pack for my phone and began to write. I wrote some poems and then I wrote this.
My muse will have to go again soon. I have become used to this, her coming and going. But I am grateful to have found her. And will be grateful to search for her again.
In a moment, there is nothing you need. It is only over time, that needs arise. It is impossible to be hungry, for example, in a moment. It is impossible to be tired. It is only a period of time that makes it possible to become hungry or tired.
These needs keep you from peace. They fill your mind with motivation for action. They tell you it is time to go and have something to eat. It is time to lay down and have a nap.
To fend off each of these needs would be like pulling leaves from a large tree. To pull up the tree all at once by its trunk, you need only to forget the passage of time.
There is nothing to need if there is nothing to come. There is nothing to need if there is only now.
I go out
To get here
Not really knowing
Where I’m going
All the while
But now
Having arrived
Realize
This is surely
Where I was headed
All along
What moves me
Other than belly
And bladder
Tugging at my mind
Telling my body
It’s okay to stay
And lay out
On the beach
All day
After fog and cold
All morning
The sun breaks through
Cloud cherubs
That flee
Feigning fear
Of a sun god
Now known to be
Quite benign
It’s a blue day
Out by the water
As the clouds move away
And the line between
Ocean and sky
Melts into
The same blue
My sense of speed
Is less than perfect
I admit
But I would say
If I were a betting man
That those fast cars
Seem to be
Above the limit
Posted on the sign
Out on a walk
I have the urge
To return home
Even though
I haven’t gotten very far
I wonder why
Am I hungry?
No
I just ate a couple of dates
Am I tired?
No
I just woke up
Then why?
Laziness
Is all I can think of
Red Presidio roofs
Against the blue white
Ocean sky
And the red bridge
Green lawn and trees
The dreamer is a night owl
The worker is an early bird
The realist is a businessman on lunch break
Prose:
At night, I have a bunch of dreams and ideas for things that I want to work on. Most of them I forget soon after I’ve thought of them. Some I remember in the morning. I write down a list of the ideas that can be realistically achieved in a short amount of time. By the end of the day, I’ve completed less than half of the items on the list. Then the night comes, and I dream up a whole new list.
Poetry:
At night I have
A hundred dreams
Hoping for more
Than I could ever
Possibly achieve
In the morning I wake
With a heart full of hope
And a rested body
To go about
Making my dreams
Into reality
Around noontime
I have settled
On one, more realistic
Out of the hundred
Dreams to work on
I hear birds
And my heart lifts
Even though
They’re on the other side
Of a close door
And the clouds
Outside the window
Are dark today
My heart still lifts
Hearing the birds
After you have taken
It to mean
Something other
Than what I intended
It means
What you have taken
And nothing else
Some light seeps in
From the street lamp
Between the drapes
Some light
From the buttons
Of various devices
Strewn about the room
And just those two
Besides the shimmer
On the ceiling
From one or the other
Of the aforementioned
Is enough to make
The night bright
In our bedroom
When we would rather
It be dark
I myself, was a potter
And my brother, was a poet
So we went to see a man
About some flowers
On the outskirts of town
We had already been
To the one man with flowers
Most well-known in town
In the morning
And had gotten two flowers
One for me
And one for my brother
And they were fine
But not exactly
What we had in mind
So we asked our driver
On our way back
If there were another
Man with flowers
Somewhere in town
And he said, “Well …”
And then he paused
“There is one other”
And by the tone of his voice
Like any fairytale
We should have known
To turnaround and go home
And be happy with our two
That we had gotten that morning
My brother, the poet,
Had heard the tone
And wanted to turn around
I, the potter,
Urged that we go on
And my brother, being the younger
Was forced to follow
When we got there
There was a large henchman
Seated at a long wooden table
In a larger open room
With a high ceiling
And a clutter of objects all about
We asked him to see the man about some flowers, and he asked us some questions that I now cannot remember. And our answers must have sufficed, because he turned and took us up the stairs that led to a small room in the back of the place, also cluttered with objects.
There was a man seated there, the man of the flowers. The second man of the flowers in town, or maybe the first—this we hoped to find out.
I told him sir, “We would like to buy two flowers.”
And he said, “Four.”
I said, “Beg your pardon.”
He repeated,” Four … that’s the minimum.”
“But the other man of flowers in town …”
“I’m not the other. I’m the only,” he interrupted me, without looking up from whatever he was tinkering with on his workbench.
I started to argue, but the henchman who had remained standing in the doorway stepped in and grabbed me gruffly, asking, “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
And what happened next will be hard to explain, but the long and short of it is, my brother the poet was turned into a pot to teach me a lesson about being greedy.
I was let outside and wept in the grass for the loss of my brother and learned my lessons once and for all about sacrificing the potter for the poet.
1. Reading
2. Meditation
3. Dreams
4. Nature
5. Travel
6. Sex
7. Drugs
Now it can be said Of thoughts Passed through my head Blunders They would be In reality Expect For this one That I have done
In the morning
I found
A tree branch
Had grabbed hold
Of the open
Window’s frame
As if to make its way
Inside
And out of the wind
In search
Of different
Travelling
And changing scenery
Smoking
And drinking
To move his body
Or at least his mind
A writer
Must always be
On the move
Lest he find
New ways
Of writing the same
A diversity of experience
Deemed to be
Different enough
From a normal day
To keep boredom at bay
Back at the beach
Left behind
And sailed away
Sought after stories
Of one’s own
To match the sailor’s
In the barroom
Boisterous
And spilling his beer
Is as close
To drowning
As he’s ever been
Having sex
While listening
To Sanskrit chant
Channeling
Into physical bodies
What would otherwise
Be only audible
For ears to hear
Senses mingle
In the heights
Of ecstasy
And ears
Start to hear
What skin is feeling
Like buried treasure
We found them
At a fourth the cost
Of the grocery store
In one big box
Lined with a plastic sack
Piled to the top
We carried home
A heaping quart
And gorged ourselves
On fresh blueberries
From the farmers’ market
I had a dream last night
That I stained a shirt
With what I stained it
I can’t remember
But the shirt was ruined
And I was worried
About people looking at me
And the stained shirt
I was wearing
Prose:
A closet seems to be so private, if we are to measure it by the same standards as other private things. A bedroom, for example, is a very private place. Usually it is behind two doors—the front door and the bedroom door.
If a stranger were to come to your home and knock on the door, it would not be unusual for you to first look through the peep hole, and then open the door just a crack in order to ask what they want. If they give you a sufficient answer, maybe you would consider letting them into your front room. They have, at this point, passed through the front door.
But for someone to pass through your bedroom door, it is usually a great deal more intimate. For a person to pass your bedroom door, they must usually be a lover, a family member, or a close friend.
What then shall we say of the closet, this third door? To pass through this third door must be to enter into the depths of intimacy within the confines of a home, even if there are only old coats and forgotten boxes in there.
Poetry:
A closet of stuff
Alone
And closed away
Behind
A closet door
A bedroom door
And a front door
I run the flats
And huff and puff
I run the hills
And huff and puff
I run the flats
And need
Huff and puff
No more
I asked her to recite some poetry for me, and she did, easily and brilliantly. She created poems completely on her own and right there on the spot as if she were saving them in her head and waiting for me to ask.
I was a bit taken aback, to be honest. Not by her poems being brilliant—if course they were brilliant. But more so by the ease she displayed when creating them instantaneously, without even appearing to be trying.
This confirmed for me my belief that she holds all the poetry. I dance around her all day and try to make her smile, which is all just another way of kneeling in front of her with my face turned down and my cupped hands held up and open, begging for her poetry.
She does not care to write it because that is not how she lives her life. She is the poetry. This is why she as able to recite a few poems so easily when I asked. It is already within her, and always will be. So why would she go through the trouble of writing it down and giving it away? That is no the way she interacts with the world. She goes about living, and that is her poetry.
As for me, I am a taker. Whether that is because I am a man or I am me or because I live in America, I do not know. But at least I have realized the relationship for what it is. My baby is my poetry, all of it. I am a taker, and I am lucky for what I can get.
We rolled the rug
Away
More toward
The window
To have space
To play
On the hard
Wood floor
Today I feel good
Yesterday was bad
I don’t know
What I’ll feel like
Tomorrow
I have to learn
A hundred times
The hard way
Before I get it
Good and down
I’ve seen more
Hopscotch
Chalked
On the sidewalk
As of late
Friends come and go. You intersect on your paths. If you are to remain yourself, you cannot stay together forever. Doing so would cause you to become more alike, meeting on the middle path, somewhere between the two paths you would each otherwise walk on your own. There is a rare friendship where you can walk side-by-side. Some paths run parallel just by chance. Some will deviate from each other and then cross again at some point in the future. Some will deviate and never cross again.
I write in the shower
With my eyes closed
I write at work
When my mind wanders
I write during conversation
When my friend writes for me
I write at the park
Laying in the sun
I write in the middle of a run
When it gets hard to breathe
I write after a dream
That I can barely remember
I write when I read
Stealing words for myself
I write at night
When I can’t go back to sleep
I run to the park
To pick a poem
Like a leaf
From a low-hanging
Tree branch
Or a lyric
From a bird’s song
And then run home
To write it down
Or maybe, it is like a side show I once saw at the circus. “The Fish Man,” they called him. I watched the man in the human-sized fish tank. He even swam like a fish. The tank was small, but he managed all sorts of aquatic maneuvers. Bending his back and kicking the water with flipper-like feet, he could swim circles round and round in the tank. It even seemed that he had webbing between his fingers and his toes (but that could have been makeup and prosthetics).
I read the plaque nailed to the top of a stake that was driven into the wet ground in front of the tank. The plaque read thus:
“Behold the Fish Man. He was not born this way. He chose to become like a fish. Some rumors say that he once told his mother while taking a bath that he preferred it underwater. He began learning to hold his breath. At first, like any person, he could only hold his breath for sixty seconds. Over the years, spending all his time underwater, the Fish Man learned, by various unknown methods, to hold his breath for longer and longer. Today, the Fish Man only comes out of water once in the morning and once in the evening. He sleeps at the bottom of the same tank that you see him in now.”
At the time, I didn’t for a second believe it. I figured there must be some invisible breathing tube worked into the tank, and by some sleight of hand, or sleight of swim, the Fish Man was able to take a breath from the tube as he completed one of his back-bending flip maneuvers. I watched him for a while but couldn’t catch a moment where the Fish Man seemed to do anything like breathing through an invisible tube.
I couldn’t help but wonder to myself what it had been like for the Fish Man to learn to hold his breath. Even if it was a sham, he probably had some talents for holding his breath underwater.
The day teaches us to live. The night teaches us to die.
I wonder if the nights start to seem longer as you get older. As of now, I can’t tell a difference. The days seems to be about as long as the nights.
Some nights are longer, when I can’t sleep. Or when I sleep deeply and achieve a dream that seems to last a lifetime.
For those farther beyond their youth, I wonder if the nights grow longer. For fear that death grows near. That a night of nothing—no sound and all dark—is not all too different from death itself.
Backstage wasn’t usually this quiet. Not completely silent, of course. You could still hear the opener thudding through the walls of the dressing room.
As soon as they had the bandmates pushed out and the door closed behind them, she had his shirt off. There was a ferocious banging on the door. They ignored it. Then it came even louder, threatening to knock the door out of its frame, and a voice screaming from the other side, “Jackie!”
He unclenched her grip from around the back of his neck, turned, and opened the door just a crack, through which the sound of the opener forced its way in, vocals wailing and bass thumping.
Travis, his drummer, was standing there with his forearm resting on the frame and his head against his rest, annoyed, like he’d been through this a hundred times.
“Can you at least hand me the bottle of booze off the table there, mate?”
“Anything else?” Jackie said, sarcastically, handing him the bottle.
“Oh yea, can I bum a cigarette?” Travis said with an open-mouthed grin that revealed a gap in his two front teeth.
Jackie slammed the door in his face.
“Okay, where were we?” Jackie said turning on his heel and waking over to the couch that was missing a cushion where she was lounging, like she felt right at home.
She was looking at him. He walked over and put both hands under her cheek bones. She pushed him away, and kept looking at him, at his torso.
“What? What’s wrong? Is it my tattoos? The devil on there doesn’t mean nothing. It’s just an old band I was with …”
“No, it’s not that,” she interrupted him.
“Oh,” he smiled. “It’s just because I’m so devilishly handsome?” He said this with the best London accent he could manage. His bandmates were actually born and raised in London but Jackie was just a tourist there when they all met. Most of their fans didn’t actually know that. He figured he could fool this one.
“No, it’s not that either.”
“What is it then?” He asked, now a little alarmed, hoping she wasn’t crazy. About to ask him if they would ever see each other again.
“You’re so … so skinny.”
He laughed. “What do you expect? I’m a rockstar. I eat more drugs than food.”
After they were finished. Jackie walked right out onto stage holding her hand. He didn’t think anything of it. He didn’t care. The magazines would write about it for weeks, “Who’s Jackie’s mystery girl?” And a feminine silhouette on the cover with a question mark in place of a face. The truth was, there were many faces that could have replaced that question mark.
He walked right out onto the front of the stage and held her hand as one of the security guards helped her down into the front row.
After the show, he looked for her. He really did. He tried to catch her face in the crowd all the way through their last song. He worried about it in the tour bus on the way to the hotel.
Then Travis handed him a bottle. A new bottle, full again. Jackie took a drink and forgot.
Edited: I wish the wind Wouldn’t worry For the leaves will surely Shake themselves Free From their branches Before the fall Is over Original:
I wish the wind
Wouldn’t worry
For the leaves
Will surely
Shake themselves
Free from branches
‘Fore the fall
Is over
Prose version:
I was on my way home from the park, still in the park actually, but on the borders of it, almost out, when I saw a white dog digging in the trash for scraps. It looked like someone had taken the trash bin and turned it upside down to empty all its contents on the ground. Or maybe the dog did it. But I doubted that because the trash bins in the park were usually kept inside of a metal container. Come to think of it, that container was usually locked. So maybe the maintenance man had made a mistake by forgetting to lock the container.
Anyway, so this white dog is digging in the trash strewn on the ground. And I already knew there was trouble coming, because it was a very pretty dog with a collar, which led me to believe that the dog had an owner. And that owner was likely close by. After all, we were in a park where people often come with their dogs. So I figured I must have caught this scene in the small amount of time between when a dog gets out of sight from its owner and before the owner realizes.
And sure enough, I heard a voice from the other side of the tall bushes shout, “Winter!” And see, this is where I had to laugh to myself. Because if it had been any other dog’s name, then I couldn’t have known for sure. If it was Milo, or Buddy, or some other generic dog name, then I couldn’t have known that this voice was coming for this dog’s owner. But there was no mistaking, putting two facts together—this dog was lost and it’s owner would probably be calling, and it’s fur coat was white as winter—that this owner shouting their dog’s name from the other side of the tall bushes was the owner of this white dog digging in the trash.
And that’s when I left. I realized I had been standing there just watching the dog dig in the trash. And I don’t like drama. So I didn’t want to be there when the owner found their dog. So I started walked away as fast as I could. And by the time I was out of sight but still just barely within earshot, I head the same owner’s voice shout, “Get out of there!”
Poetry version:
At the park
I walk past
A white dog
Digging in the trash
For scraps
And already know
There’s trouble coming
Before I hear
From a ways off
The dog’s owner,
I’m supposing,
Shout, “Winter!”
As the dog proceeds
To lick a paper plate
That once held pizza
I walk by
Leaving the scene behind
But not before hearing
The owner come closer
And exclaim,
“Get out of there!”
Looking out the window
At a man on the sidewalk
Who speaks
So much with his hands
I wonder
Being unable to hear
If he is using
Any words at all
A pitted date
Left out too long
Overnight
In a bowl
Tastes
Like a carpet rug
I can remember
From childhood
The horns honk
So loud
On the street outside
It seems
As if the walls
Of the apartment
Weren’t even there
All at once
It rushes forth
Ready or not
My muse
Does not wait
For anyone
A square ceiling
With a circular light
In the center
Looks like
The one side
Of a die
I see jokes
Sometimes
Without anyone
Saying anything
And laugh
To myself
—I must
Look crazy
All my life
Has led me here
To this point
For which
All my past
Has prepared me
—On and on
Over and over
This continues
For every
Present moment
An open doorway
Into another room
Where daylight
Creeps beneath
The window drape
Does appear
Less dark
Than the lightless
Life here
On the sleepy side
Of the studio
Where the drapes
Are pulled tight
Something clicks
In the night
Unnatural, interrupting
A sweet lullaby
Of silent sounds
A flash
From the bus claws
Catching on electric wires
Outside the window
I check the time
And realize
It is almost the hour
When the mechanical city
Will start its day
And this click and flash
Were the early signs
That I’ll have to wait
For another sun’s passing
For the peace and quiet
Of non-mechanical
Night time
Poetry is not a practice
Of making time
To sit down in a chair
And write
Rather, poetry,
As I have experienced it,
Is a practice
Of cultivating a life
Like a garden
Where poetry might visit
From time to time
Like flowers might grow
In moments of dream
Amidst a good night’s rest
Or moments of gratitude
Amidst seeing a new light
Or moments of love
Amidst listening to your muse
You cannot go away from life
To sit at your chair
And write of it
You must go to life
To take it as it comes
And write as best you can
In the midst of it
Do not be so greedy
As to try
And steal away
With what you have been given
As it goes
You must return
Because you can only carry
So much on your back
By your going
Do not burn the bridge
No matter how much you take
And think to yourself
I will never have to return
I have this much
But you will
Such is life
This give and take
That to participate
Most fully
One would be best off
Giving away
What they have taken
To return
And tell the giver
When asked
What you did
With all
That you were given
And say
I gave it away
And then the giver will smile
And give you that much more
I trace
With my fingertips
Where her skin
Tells me soft stories
Soft, mostly
So I wonder
What coarse sand
Made this skin so soft
Up, I am up now
As surely as I said
I would sleep
Through the night
I am up now
Having failed
To fight off thoughts
That couldn’t wait
Until the morning
I stopped to ponder
Dangerously a dream
That, if left unconsidered,
Would have passed through
Perfectly in peace
To go on its way
In and out
Through each ear canal
Yet it was something
Shocking enough to stir
And once my woken mind
Got a hold
And seized it
Somewhere in the middle
Still in my mind
The gears start to turn
And the whole factory
Follows suit
Coming to life
In the middle of the night
I touch her skin softly
Like an instrument
That I hope will sing for me
In the silence of the night
All the art
Is in her
I believe
She is the artist,
Truly,
I am only
The collector
Like some would say
Of the bee keeper
That he has brought
Us honey,
But no;
It is the bees
Who brought the honey;
It is the keeper
Who stood by idly
Patient enough
To collect and deliver
What the bees brought forth
I learn as much
Laying up at night
Listening to
The radiator wheeze
And the fridge whrr
And baby’s soft breathing
As I ever have
Up and about
Out in the day
Listening to words
Spoken with some
Supposed meaning
That I’ve
Yet to grasp
Each night
There is a scar of light
That holds its shape
Shot through the drape
And onto the ceiling
From the moon outside
Making do till morning
I must not be greedy
Having already
Gotten two good poems
But I cannot help
Wanting a third
So I lay up in bed
Looking at the dark ceiling
Waiting for the dream muse
Who delivered the first two
To return with the third
A masterpiece
I once wrote
On a computer screen
That did not save
Or on a piece of paper
That blew away—
Such stories I would tell
Of how my brilliance
Managed to elude me
For so long
As a lifetime
Rather than face the fact
That I was never
Good enough
To write a masterpiece
For the first time
That I can ever recall
I met a man
Named Paul
That I could not recall
At the time
In a dream
Particular
Was this perchance
Precisely because
This Paul was a man
Who I was meeting
For the second time
When the first time
Was also
Only ever in a dream
So it makes sense to me
Now awake remembering
That in this second dream
Where I was in a golf shop
In rainy New York
Testing out clubs
With my friend John
And afterwards we walked home
In the rain
With our coats
Pulled around our necks
(I can remember
Now awake
With uncanny accuracy
That we seemed to be older
Than I am now
Here laying in bed
And also that a group of people
That we passed in the street
Were huddled under an awning
To stay out of the rain
Watching the news
On TV screens
And talking about trading stocks
(Such is my subconscious
Perception of New York
It seems)
So John and I
Make our way back to the apartment
And this is when I meet Paul
John and I
Are sitting at his kitchen table
Late at night
On a weekday
Eating pie
That he had left over
From a party
—I remember these details
Because John said to me,
In the dream,
“This is never something you would do,
Eating pie
On a weekday.”
And before I could respond
And tell John
How vehemently I agreed,
But this
Was a special occasion
—I prepared to tell him this,
I was thinking it,
I can remember.
And right then,
Paul came up
To the table
With another friend
Seemingly
From another room
Somewhere else in the apartment.
He and his friend were dressed
Like they were going out
For the night.
He came up
And slapped me on the shoulder
And said,
“Ho, Cole, how have you been?”
Which is when,
I looked across the table at John
And then back up at Paul
In confusion
As I thought to myself
That I had never met
This Paul before
And so wondered
Why he was now greeting me
With such seeming remembrance.
As they both perceived my confusion
And in the space of silence that lingered thereafter
Where Paul seemed to be expecting a greeting in return,
John stepped in and said,
“Cole, it’s Paul!”
I did not know the meaning,
At first,
Of John repeating
With more intonation
Paul’s name
As if that would be the cue
For me to remember
But I still
Could not recall.
Seeing my inability to remember
They all started to laugh
Even Paul’s friend
Who seemed to have no relation
To the situation,
As if they all together
Were in on some inside joke
That I was left out of.
When they had all laughed
And slapped each other’s shoulders
And wiped tears out of their eyes
John caught his breath
For one final try, and asked me again,
“Cole, do you really not remember?”
Remember what?
I thought to myself.
I felt like a man
Left outside in the rain
Looking in through a window
Into a warm and well-lit party
That I was not part of.
But this Paul was a cool cat
And he brushed it off like it was nothing,
My not remembering him.
He stepped around the table
To grab something from the cabinet
To eat on his way
To where he was going out,
This I can best recall
From the dream
From which I have woken
And am now writing.
It was then
That the mental event
In my own mind occurred
Which makes this a dream
Worth remembering,
And therefore writing—
For as Paul
Was walking down and out
Of the long hallway
In the apartment
With his friend,
It was then
That I suddenly remembered!
Paul!
Of course I knew Paul!
The last time I was in New York …
It was all coming back to me.
On another occasion,
I had visited John
And we were all going out.
We were in the living room
Of his apartment
And Paul was there too,
And as a matter of fact,
So was his friend!
We were drinking,
I was remembering
Within this dream
What seems to be
A memory,
Which at the time
In the dream
Seemed to me
To be completely organic
Just as anyone
Would all of a sudden
Recall a memory
That they had
For an instant, forgotten.
And so I said again, “Paul!”
But this time aloud,
And got up from the table
To chase him down the hall.
He turned on his heel
Hearing his name
And I ran down
The not so long length
Of the long hall
To give him a hug.
I could feel the extra mass
Added to his thin frame
By the winter coat
He had put on
To go outside.
He hugged me back
And then pushed me away
And laughed like before.
In the interchange,
Paul tried to hand me
A cigarette
That he had seemingly
Lit up
While he was still in the apartment
Walking out the door.
I tried to grab it
But missed
In the pinch between
Our fingers
And it fell on the floor,
Still smoking
Inside the apartment.
But this Paul was so cool
He didn’t seem to notice
Or care.
He would have just as soon
Gotten the pack
Out of his coat pocket
To light up another
Before bending down
To pick up the dropped one.
“There you go,”
He said.
“Now you’re remembering.
Not your fault,
I’m not offended.
We did feed you
Quite a few drinks that night.”
And this I could now recall,
If only in blurry pieces
How we had all drank together
That night in New York,
For my first visit
(This now,
Being the second).
Us four,
Including Paul’s friend,
Who I now assumed to be
John’s third roommate,
Had all had
Quite a good time.
“Well, I’ll see you next time,”
Paul said,
Now seeming
To be in a bit of a hurry
To get out the door
To wherever he was going out.
Hearing this,
John leaned back in his chair
From the living room
To poke his head
Around the corner
Into the hallway and say,
“You’ll be seeing him,
A lot more now,
Paul.
Cole’s going to be
Our fourth roommate.”
This must have been
The occasion
For my being
In New York,
I thought,
As John said this
As if it was news to me.
And that
Is the last thing
I can remember
From the dream.
Now I wonder,
Awake, as I write this,
If the memory
Of meeting Paul
For the first time
Was another dream
That I have had
Some other sleeping night
Out of my actual
Waking life.
Or, if it was a memory
Completely fabricated
Within that dream itself,
The one I have just had
And am now awake from,
Writing about it.”
For the feeling
Of having forgotten something
And then soon after,
Remembering all of a sudden,
Like a word on the tip of your tongue,
Or the name of an author
Whose book has come up in conversation
—That feeling
Was so real to me
In the dream,
That surely
That memory must come
From something else
At least as real
As another separate dream,
And not something so fickle
As a memory
Within a dream
—For then,
From what other world
Would come that memory?
A memory which has never
Seen the light
Of a real waking day
Nor the muddled dark
Of dreams
That are themselves
So often forgotten
But somewhere deep
In my subconscious
Are a subset of memories
Which I may never recall
As I remember things
While awake,
But may only ever recall
Within a dream,
Or not at all.
A black crow
Perched
On a black power line
With black
Clouds behind
Bodes ill, I fear
As if the day
Were not already
Dark enough
Eating hot soup
On a cold day
I have to blow
On each spoonful
To cool it down
Which gives me time
To look out the window
And think
Between bites
A bunch
Of bananas
Ripen
All at once
So I’m eating
Only one
Perfectly ripe
While the few
Eaten early
Too green
And the others
Eaten late
Too yellow
With brown spots
Grips me
Grabs me
Out of thin air
As I was
Going gladly
Now I’m
Forced to care
She looks up at me
And frowns
At my expression
I must look silly
Staring
As she sits
At the coffee table
Sipping her tea
And I just stare
Like I would
At the gallery
Unaware
That the object
Of my affection
Is looking back at me
At this rate
I measure
I’ll learn
To live
In time
To die
In a yoga pose
Upside down
I see the world
Anew
Out the window
Tree branches
Become bushes
Planted
In the sill
A shaggy rug
Ceiling
And a chandelier
That looks
Like a couch
So now I know
That in order
To travel
I needn’t even
Walk out the door
But instead
Can stretch out
In downward dog
And look under
My left shoulder
To see a new world
Upside down
Ishmael says the world is not created for man. This is the creation myth our culture tells us. So too, I am not made for myself. This is the creation myth that my ego tells me.
I may be created for uses other than my own. Thinking of this makes me realize how selfish I have been.
To chase and catch
But not devour
The game of tag
Is primal
Prepared for bodies
That had to hunt
In order to eat
—Now,
It’s just a game
Chimes whine
In the wind
Blowing softly
Singing
The pin wheel
Patters
Leaves of trees
Rustle
Birds chirp
Neighbors
On the other side
Of the fence
Can be heard
Through screen doors
A sunny day
Spent lounging
On the back patio
The shades sprinkle
Sunlight stripes
Through spaced out ribs
On the white wall
In the morning
Out on the lawn
I run in a track
Made by the mower
Between yellow lines
Four feet apart
Where the wheels
Killed the green grass
I put my ear
To the sheets
And listen
To the silent rustle
That says shh
All else
Is outside
Nonsense
And absurd
Far away
From here
Climbing stairs
In socks
My toes crack
And knees pop
Like a band
Playing a song
Called age
Sometimes you see the same book on a different shelf; the same book that you have on your own shelf back at home.
It’s been sitting there collecting dust, as its binding has become commonplace among the other books that you haven’t opened for a while. Their bindings become usual, like a painting is drawn across the face of your bookshelf, for long enough that it becomes like a barrier, dissuading you from taking any of the books off of the shelf, thus breaking the barrier.
And here is this same book, the same one that you have on your shelf at home. But here it is—the same book, on a different shelf, so there is no barrier. You take it and open it and, oh, the knowledge that you once knew. You rediscover a chapter of your life that has been closed for some time, almost as clearly as if it were yesterday.
At night
I lay up
And read
Later than usual
Turning pages
At the pace
Of her breathing
In bed
Next to me
The city
Still sounding
In the night
Outside
I can still hear
The birds chirp
In the park
A baseball
In the grass
As the sun sets
On the skyline
Easier here
To worry less
About the woes
I ran from
I start to feel
That I should stop
That the train
Has too much steam
That the snowball
Rolling downhill
Has gained too much mass
Or that I should at least
Slow down some
—But I’ve realized
The only way to slow
Is to stop
And the only way to stop
Is to end
And if I choose to end
At this age
I fear I’ll never
Begin again;
So I keep on
Boy and girl go to the opera on a first date.
“Don’t you worry about bringing someone here on a first date?” She asked.
He was struck by the question. “Why should I worry?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the date turns out to be not so good and then, well, then you’re struck at an opera!”
She said the word opera in a way that disclosed her feelings about it.
“Ah, I see. Well for me, it’s the exact opposite. If the date turns out to be bad, then at least I can enjoy the opera.”
He smiled at her when he said this, hinting gently at the possibility that the date could go bad, but he rather liked Rachel already, even though they had only met for the first time in-person just fifteen minutes ago.
They were walking down the sidewalk wearing winter coats. Winters in Chicago were very cold. He wore a grey pea coat with the collar pulled up around his neck. He had his hands tucked into the pockets in both sides of the coat’s abdomen. She wore a fur coat and a scarf. She had on black leather gloves. Her left hand held her purse and the other held his arm.
“Have you ever had a bad date at the opera?”
She was still on the subject, it seemed. But this was a trick question, he knew. Not so much about the opera as it was about his recent dating history.
“I did once, yes. She actually forced us to leave right in the middle. She wanted to go for a drink. So we went across the street for a drink. And then I said I had to be off because I had an early morning the next day. She wanted to keep drinking but I insisted. I don’t like drinking much anyway.”
They kept walking in silence for a moment. He studied her pause. That bit was important. He had avoided anything distasteful about the dating and revealed a few key pieces of information about himself.
He carried on the conversation to avoid dwelling. “How long have you lived in Chicago?”
Like this, they walked and talked along Main Street. By the time they arrived at the opera house his shoulders were tucked up tight around his neck and her nose was bright red. They were glad to get indoors.
The opera house was brightly lit.
…
He marveled at the capabilities of a human voice.
Like any great feat, it made him wonder about the capabilities of man more generally. His mind started to drift, but he pulled his attention back to the music.
Whole hours pass
Unnoticed
When I pay attention
To anything other
Than time itself
This metal-backed
Bistro chair
Makes no good
For sitting
Any longer
Than’s required
For a cup of tea
I read it lazy like
Looking past particulars
Paying poor attention
Preferring to play
Privy to pondrance
Of short-sighted solutions
For the human condition
Appeased temporarily
By sex and violence
Ceasing to be
And becoming
Giving birth to all
That we ourselves
Hoped to escape
For what does one wait
While wanting wanes
Though one may be
Strong and swift
At the start
Rejoicing in the sprint
Stretching muscles
Straight away
Until the end
Seems to stretch
Farther
And farther away
As the wanting
Which at first
Burned bright
As a fire
In an engine’s heart
Turns to ash
And cools
Between drapes
And cracked window
Peeks a nose
For a breath
Of fresh
Outside air
After hours
Indoors
Cooped up
Perhaps perilous
Would pause be
For a picker
In the field of time
With only
A moment’s harvest
And drought
For a hundred years
Thereafter
Branches bend
Burdened by rain
Their leaves
Dancing in the wind
Dodging drops
Dripping down
From leaves
Already laden
On branches above
It is in between naps
With my hands clasped
In between my legs
Laying on my side
My own
Praying posture
To look out the window
And listen
To the rainy Saturday
Voices and horns
Wet wheels on road
And thudded footsteps
In the apartment above
Make music and art
That I seek to capture
Laying here praying
For another poem
A picture in frame
I notice how hangs
Lower with time
Not on the nail
Where the frame
Stays sturdy same
But the paper inside
Pasted
Or however fastened
Loosely
Or seeming so
As it slides
Lower in frame
Disobeying
Its hanger’s wish
To hang in the middle
Of its father frame
That hangs steadfast
Car wheels
Whistle and spit
While wet in the rain
Sounds slush and puddle
Whrrrrrrr
From off in the distance
Past our open window
And off again
Whrrrrrr’ing
As if the r’s
Grew smaller size
Softer, more quiet
Until silent
Farther off
Outside our window
Stretch branches
Bare for months
When we too
Under duress of winter
Couldn’t stand
To sustain much more
Than ourselves
Now blossoming
Bits of green granting
To my bed laying head
Hopes of spring
To get out again
And grow strong
Outside
Under eyes
Of soft storm
Slick tires
Skate across
Wet road
Wafting wind
Carried
Car noise
Shooting by
Slip
Sliding along
I do not need to persist in my own ways any longer
If I am to do this thing that is outside of me
And lives according to its own principles—
Such is the way to become anything other than what you already are
And to become is the only way to be, in a time-sensitive world
So that trying to bring forward in time, any part of you from the past, would be a fool’s errand
But we must not forget, that you too, are a part of what there is
So to say, that this is itself and you are yourself, ceases to be true upon you entering into it
And some people enter in so big that they end up accounting for more than half of what was already there
So the real question turns out to be, how big do you really think you are?
Are you big enough to enter in and bend to your young will what was already there and old before you?
Or are you small so that your only hope is to learn as fast as you can what it’s about and assimilate as best you can, even if that means losing whatever you were before.
In some cases, it is perceiving yourself as such which makes you big or small.
So if you walk in with your chest puffed out, you might just make it that way.
Or if you walk in with your shoulders slumped, then it’s already done, and there you are small.
In most cases, it seems a newcomer is proud enough for his first few entries to walk in with his chest puffed out.
Until he is beaten down, and his shoulders slump.
There is no right or wrong way, viewing it all at once, from the outside, from no particular set of eyes.
It is all there, in one form or another, changing sometimes, but it is all still there.
Regardless of the point of view of one seeing from his own perspective, wanting to be the one with his chest puffed out.
But forgetting this mist necessarily mean that there are others with there shoulders slumped.
And if you can start to see that point of view from the outside, then maybe you start to realize that it doesn’t matter much either way.
A lone slim
Silver nail protrudes
From the white wall
Where a picture frame
Used to hang
The great whale man
Watching
With hook in hand
Waving
At waves gone by
Waiting
For the big one
To come in time
It’s hard to write
so short-sighted
trying to survive
seeing only as far
as my next meal
or night’s sleep knowing
this too shall pass
as all that has before
but wanting it to pass faster
like the impatient child
I’ve always been
The radiator wheezes
Like a weary asthmatic
Wanting for air
Drawing struggled breaths
From heated pipes
And seeming to be in pain;
I myself am thankful
At mid-morning
Having just drawn the drapes
To behold a cold outside
But inside
Feeling warm
From the radiator’s struggle
A shadow
In the corner
Of my eye
Seems a shape
So real
Until I turn
And watch
It disappear
If I pause
For a second
In a quiet place
I can hear
My heart beat
In my throat
Standing next to the light
That shows shadows
In my rib slants
Shirtless
Knees against the mattress
Staring
At myself in the mirror
With a sideways glance
Observing
Parts of my body
That I hadn’t noticed before
It is often difficult to remember after much time has passed why you decided to do what you are now doing. Even if you had written it down in clear detail in a note, that note may have been lost. So it becomes important to trust the decision-making process of your past self.
As an investor, when the market is going through turmoil or your view has become contrarian, you must trust the decision of your past self in order to continue holding your position, as long as your thesis has not been fundamentally broken.
In choosing projects to work on, jobs to take, or relationships to enter into – it is the same. Because you cannot constantly be re-evaluating your “why.” Once you have made a decision you must be focused on the “what” and the “how” entirely, in order to succeed. In every moment you are so focused on the execution of the task, you are trusting that your decision to enter into said task was, and continues to be, a correct one.
I like to be
Getting going
On my way
After all
There seems to be
Something still ahead
On the horizon
Over yonder
So long as I can
Just keep stepping
In that direction
I’ll be alright
If the pulse
In my hand
On her chest
Is her heart
Or my blood
Become one;
I cannot tell
Who is who
Like roots
That run deep
Into soil
Sending life
Back and forth
Do you see
These same things
That I see
Anymore
Simple as sure
No more words
Than three
To a line
Are needed
To describe
Something
So simple as sure
That I wonder
If you see
Anymore
Walking swiftly
You must have
Somewhere to be
Whither where
You might ask me
Don’t you see
Where I’m going
Pointing somewhere
Far away
I nod my head
And bow
To pick at the grass blades
Beneath my bare feet
I saw a man
Bring a ball
Inside a backpack
To the court
Fenced all around
By chain link
In the park
On a Thursday
Just before sunset;
I watched him
Bend his knees
And shoot
Sometimes I see the world too real. I see that things are actually material and animated, driven by life forces. In a special moment, when not taken for granted, this seems to me truly incredible.
It becomes hard to keep on a conversation with someone as I start to marvel just at the fact that they are speaking and living and breathing in front of me, and I am such that I can, not only witness their life unfolding in front of me, but also interact, affecting their life with my own.
It becomes difficult not to suddenly exclaim as I realize this. I am sure I must have a glazed-over look in my eyes.
Sedentary
Starting to stagnate
Sitting inside all day
With the drapes drown
Sulking
So as to further feed
My worries
When an open window
Would do me so good
I sat on the step
And watched ants
For the better part
Of an afternoon
So many ants
On the sidewalk
Made it seem
Like the cement
Was moving
Made me realize
My troubles
Were not so bad
With my elbows
On my knees
And hands folded
Scowling
Despite the sun
What I see once
On my walk home
And exclaim at
As a thing
Which ought be written
Though I can’t
In that moment
Muster the words
So I write nothing
And walk by
For days on end
Until finally
The sight strikes
With the right odds
When I can write
What has escaped me
All the days before
There’s this deep
City river gorge
Filled with yellow
Headlight fish
All swimming upstream
I can see here
On the hilltop
Standing sidewalk
With my hands in my pockets
On a night stroll
Watching the river of light
Pinch off into the distance
Wondering about
All the commuters
Just trying to get home
For all the five faces
Fighting for four
Fear holds most sway
Rapping at the door
Sadness slumps down
From his forlorn armchair
As haste steps forward
To swing wide open
Heedless and headstrong
Anger would surely
Slam the door shut
Though love lets all in
Welcome with open arms
And an enemy even
Cannot remain heathen
Happy in a hearthy home
Often
I do feel fond
Of fancies
As I’ve had
Though
In moments
Of boredom
I’d sacrifice
Them all
For a chance
At change
Consider the many multitude
Of things which
You would rather not
Have happen
And at least for this
At any time
You might be thankful
O’er in my memory
My mind has run
The now worn path
Of fine times past, indeed
So of this place
Where I’ve long stayed
As with all things
Which do arrive
Doth finally come
This time now
To take my somber leave
A thousand ways
In my old age
I’ve lived my younger days
If you could only
Promise me
One last thing
Before I go
To have as much
In memory, your own
When time for you
Doth come as well
To travel on
Lying
On the floor
Looking
At the ceiling
Seems to be
More simple
Than the life
I left outside
Needing
This nothingness
To wash away
My mind
A daytime nap
Marries the motion
And light
Of the waking world
With the wonder
And formlessness
Of dream
Wherein the middle
Poetry lives
Dancing
Back and forth
In wheelbarrows
Full of dream
Dug up in sleep
And delivered
To be re-planted
Here in my bed
Brain tree
Putting down roots
I like to lie
And look a while
At the ordinary
And its layers
Of interesting
Offered only
To eyes
Like rivers
Wearing away
With time
To watch patiently
The stony surface
Which eyes
With less time
Only ever see
On the outside
Unaware
Of the river bed
To be found
Cut beneath
The same section
Of ceiling
Has this shimmer
In the noon time
Which reveals
Its blemish
Of poor plastering
But maybe
On purpose
As an artist
Plastered it this way
Like a scar
That is beautiful
As it appears
To me now
Staring
Long enough
I start to see
The space
In between
Focusing
On each speck
Of dust
In the air
A gradient
Obscures
My vision
Of the original
Object
Of intent
Farther off
Sweet time
Slow enough
Such
Anticipation
Is part
Of the excitement
Building
Like all desire
Blinds us
To the past
And future
While we’re waiting
Impatiently
For something
Immediate
Like hunger
On the hunt
Or lust
On the way home
To bed
With another
And in many
Other
Much smaller
Ways
It’s that immediate
Promise
Of satisfaction
Moving us
Most the time
Clenching my jaw
Unaware until
My bottom teeth
Meet the top row
Mashing
Like corn in a mortar
To dust, powder
Eventually
But not so soon
More slowly wearing
Waking me
In the night
With yet another
Symptom
Of my anxiety
I check the time
At which the bus
Is supposed to arrive
And realize
That I have ten minutes
Left to kill
So I start to go about
Distracting myself
Stretching
Looking up
At the building tops
And people watching
Strangers
Until I run out
Of distractions
And venture a glance
At my watch
To find
I’ve only passed
Three of the ten
I take the backpack
Off of my shoulders
And feel relief
Immediately;
So much
That I think
Of leaving it there
On the sidewalk
Laptop and all
And continuing
On my walk home
Without it
Just as I am
For certain
That it is all done
And gone forever
For sure this time
It all comes
Rushing back
Reviving me
Once more
To go on high
And then soon after
Subtly low
When I will again
Be for certain
Even more certain
Than the last low
That the revival
Will not come this time
Until it surely does
And I go back to soaring
Though I know
And of this, I am sure
There is one low
In which
I will lie for good
And not soar again
I come home
From a night walk
To let my dinner settle
And close the door
And put my keys in the basket
And start to take off my shoes
As I realize
I am not yet satisfied
And slip my shoes back on
And grab my keys
And open the door
To go back out
And walk some more
A smiling
Mustached man
Holding hands
With a beautiful girl
He’s telling a joke
One hand in his pocket
She’s laughing
Trying to keep up
As they walk
I go for a walk
At night
Slowly
Strolling
And see
So many things
That I miss
On my walk
To work
Rushing
In the morning
Looking through
A restaurant window
I saw an old man
Using a magnifying glass
To look at a menu
That simple man song
Keeps ringing in my ears
From Skynyrd and Thoreau
Louder than city buses
And conversations
In the apartment next door
I hear the simple silence
Louder than the city noise
Whispering to me
Up reading alone at night
Or deep into a hike
What if not to be
Is Shakespeare’s answer
And all of this
Has become too much
Seeing as a second
Wasn’t long enough
Stretching now
For two or three
So time feels spent
Sufficiently
Whereas waiting
Wouldn’t do it
Doing had to be
Seeing newness
Touching other
Change it had to be
To feel alive
Past idle nigh
Now counting
One, two, three
As soon as a stretch
In that direction
Left me off center
I wasn’t either
Anymore
And after a while
In between
It started to seem
A new center
Comfortable
For the time being
At least until
The inevitable
Next stretch
Soon to come
Today, when I got home after work, I laid on the floor with my eyes closed for a long time. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the ceiling light in the middle of the ceiling. The second thing I saw were my hands. I turned them over in the dim light of the one lamp I had turned on in the room. I exclaimed silently to myself about how amazing it was that my mind had complete control over these physical objects. And then I realized how happy I was just to be alive in that moment.
In the dark
In the night
With my eyes closed
Redundantly
I reach out
Quietly, slowly
With my lower lip
To touch her shoulder
Having to lean
My neck forward
Until I find
Her soft skin
I think of many
Horrible things
In my dream
So I’m happy
To wake
Relieved
It seems to me that hands work harder
Than other parts of the body,
Though maybe only more, in variety
As the heart surely works always,
Albeit the same beat is all
Whereas the hand writes and works
And picks up and puts down and rubs
And sews and draws and kneads
And most other verbs
I reckless write
What comes at night
Waking lately
Makes me wobble
Whatever waxes
Wanes tomorrow
When I one time
See for three
So I learned to
Sleep with ease
The same things I’ve seen
For some time now
So my thoughts
Are mostly deja vu
Like the same lights
At the same times
And the same habits
Wear this groove deep
Where I’m happy enough to be
So subtly
This groove creeps deeper
Being worn
By my own passing
Back and forth
Over and over
For I enjoy it now
Almost completely
Except for the small fear
That the deep wear
Caused by my repeated enjoyment
Will make it difficult
To climb back out
And wear again
Elsewhere
You can’t think of nothing
Looking ‘round all the time
Restless and ready
To chase any rabbit
Down its respective hole
Stop and stay for a second
In the patch of grass
Where you are standing
Close your eyes and look up
I get here, I “arrive”
Is the only way
I can describe it
Once I’ve had the right amount of coffee
And lasted through the brief period
At the onset
When I worry
I might have had too much
Giving my mind time to adjust
To a state it’s not used to
Like climbing a mountain
Huffing and puffing
Until you get to the top
And take deep breaths
As you see what you’ve climbed for
So it is sitting here
With my headphones in
And all that is happening
In the coffee shop around me
Is no different
Than a Wednesday
When I am rushing through
But today
On a Saturday
With some time to sit and think
It is all art
And curious to me
The orange awning
Outside the window
Blows in the wind
As I realize
Writing this
That “wind”
And “window”
Are similar words
You can’t go so loosely
Running amuck
As you would in the plains
In any direction
No matter
Flat and far enough
To run with your eyes closed
If you wanted to;
In the city
You must be careful
To obey the signs
And posted placards
Going your own way
Won’t take you far
letting words run as they will
like waking up a mass of clay
as haphazardly as thrown
on a potter’s wheel
just to have a starting point
and at least get something
out into the open
where it can at least be seen
and then shaped and refined
so better to have it out haphazard
just to get a start
rather than nothing at all
and refining thin air
and making the mind sick
by refining itself
for lack of anything else
into the hundred thousand apartments
curated for mankind to invade a peninsula
with their buildings and restaurants
and cars and stoplights and commerce
Sleepy somber sweet time notes
Leaving longer knee-high modes
Making mostly meager half rhymes
Seeking timbre needle thick lines
Needing no more they say lies
Singing one too many times
I see age, and it makes me want to live faster. I see an old man with long white hair in the coffee shop. He walks with a cane and holds onto the counter. It seems like he has trouble seeing too. I wonder what it would be like to lose my own sight. I think of all the things I could no longer do. I must do them now! Quick, before it’s too late. Run! Get up. What are you doing sitting down in a coffee shop? You must use your youthful abilities while you still can.
Dark as night
Except for sun
So when to wake
Is clear as day
Not for nocturnal
Lights at night
Never sleeping
Up early to find
Sleepy nighters
Still stumbling
Soon to bed
In the daylight
Not right
Sleepy man of slumber
I wonder wakey-eyed
Do you step
With extra pep
After many restful nights;
For me I cannot
Sleep at all
As wakeful as I am
Up till dawn
And on and on
I cannot rest
I’ll do my best
To shut my eyes again
I wonder waking
Will I be
The same he sleeping
Dreaming
Of other lives
Living them
So sleepy serious
Feeling their fears
Scared to death even
And excited at their joys
These others
That are not me
But still are
In some way
What keeps me
From waking
As one of them
I do not know
Dreams
Of other worlds
Sometimes better
Sometimes worse
Than my own
Feeding
How much into
My hopes
And fears
Alike
I do not know
Exactly
Outside the window
In the morning
A song bird
Sings soprano
And a car horn
Beeps baritone
Slightly more symphonic
Than the city sounds
I am used to
Sometimes
There is something to be gotten
Just sitting here
Lying in bed late
Waiting or postponing
Whatever was planned for you
Awake and out the door
Against that schedule
Structure
Serendipity strikes
Requiring
A non-staunch demeanor
For once
To lift your head
Off the pillow
Just long enough
To turn off the alarm
And return to a dream
More important than reality
Clouds move slowly
So I can’t tell for sure
If they’ve changed
Without keeping focused
On one point
For some time
If only watching
Weather patterns
Carry cloud wisps
Away carelessly
Unbeknownst
To eyes without
Patience to watch
One point
Long enough to notice
That the clouds
Are actually moving
Albeit slowly
As eyes accustomed
To fast things
Will surely miss
While beach laying
In an effort
To slow down
Rubbing my eyes
I enter into
This outer space
An oxymoron
To go into
What leads out
Like the small door
In the Wonka factory
Or the key
To Wonderland
I chase after
With eyes for legs
Abstract patterns
Like fireflies
In the night
Of my closed eyes
Forgetting everything
Like being a body
In a shower
Noticing only
The bright yellow halo
With a black hole
In the center
Pulsing and blurring
Off into the distance
Of my vision black
I run harder
To intensify this vision
Of my own internal
Solar system
Of dynamic stars
That dance
As I rub my eyes
Accustomed to seeing
The real world
Mixed up
Offering apparitions
In a dark world
Of my own UFOs
Where I can play
Like a child
Chasing after
What I do not yet
Understand
You fall in
Or you fall out
Either way
You are falling
As love does not
Take one
Or let one go
Easily
It is in heat
And then ice cold
By its very nature
An older lady
Crossing the crosswalk
Runs behind her dog
Holding the leash
Trying to keep up
Arm outstretched
Until she can’t
And let’s go
As the leash falls
And the dog is free
To sprint full speed
To meet a friend
—A man outside
Of the coffee shop
Holds out his arms
For the dog
To jump up
And say hello
I am iffy
After a nap
Staring wide eyed
Woken
Too soon
From deep sleep
Jumped up
And almost fell over
Holding
My hands out
As stabilizers
Stumbling
Bumping
My shoulders
Against door frames
And hallway walls
Without my wits
About me
I woke up wobbly
Without my brain
When I realized
All of a sudden
That I was late
For a dinner date
And pulled on jeans
And snatched my coat
And slammed the door
And stumbled
Down the stairs
Shouldering the wall
For support
To catch the bus
And only when
I was finally seated
Did I get the chance
To be confused
About how to fare
In the fast-moving
Bright new scenery
Having been dreaming
Just moments ago
The above is the edited version.
The below is the original.
I woke up
Without my brain
Wobbly
Late
All of a sudden
I realized
For a dinner date
And walked outside
To catch the bus
Confused
And wondering
How to fare
In the new scenery
Having been dreaming
Just moments ago
I lie on a pebble beach
Arms outstretched
Grabbing fistfuls of pebbles
And covering my chest
In vain, as I breathe
And my chest expands
The pebbles fall off
To either side
At the beach
With my friends
I went away
On my own
Over to the cove
And found
A little laying spot
And so I laid
Until I got caught
In a thinking hole
Then I came back
For my friends
To help me find
My lost mind
With my fingers
Interlaced
Over my chest
Lying down
Breathing deeply
Through my nose
I can feel
The rise and fall
Of it all
The sun shines
In between
Stretched clouds
Just in time
For wind-chilled
Skin to warm
Laying on my back
On a hilltop
In the Marin headlands
I focus on my eyelids
With my eyes closed
Squinting to vary
The abstract shades
Of blue I see
Turning corner
On the sidewalk
With a building
In the way
So I can’t see
Who’s coming
Turning wide
To avoid
Another
Coming my way
Turning tight
The mood light
In the bathroom
Changes shades
Of mango
Cherry lime
While the shadow
Of the shower faucet
On the far wall
Remains black
I cover up
My colored soul
With sheets
To sleep
In the night
Woken
Wanting to
Start the day
But it’s too early
Needing to
Defer to dream
A little longer
I wake up
To write poetry
Like that must be
Why I’ve woken
With a full subconscious
Spilling over
Out of my ears
And onto my pillow
Wetting my cheeks
Waking me
I am cold
In bed
So I add a blanket
Then I am not
So I push the blanket
Halfway down
Then I am cold
So I bring it back
Up a quarter
Then am hot
So I get up
To gather
A thermometer
And ruler
To measure exactly
The wind
Comes again
Causing rusty hinges
To swing
Squeaky singing
Harmonizing
With the howl
Why feel sad
I don’t know
I just do
Well stop
I say to myself
But I can’t
Not that easy
Feeling frustrated
It is not that simple
Like work
That I can work harder
In order to solve
To feel better
I wish it was
Then I would work
All the time
To feel better
A speck of light
On the floor
In the night
Looks like something
More than light
Material
So I step over
In the hall
To avoid
Stubbing my toe
Realizing
It is only light
By the shadow
On my shin
Out in the ocean
I can see
From the hilltop
The water is drawn
With white lines
On a windy day
Not so glassy calm
As most mornings
I’ve climbed atop
This here hill
I’ve noticed that old men always walk with their hands behind their back. Usually one hand is grabbing the wrist of the other. They’re slightly hunched over, watching the ground in front of their steps. This posture has always struck me as pensive.
I watch the wi-fi
Tower lights flicker
Next to the bookshelf
In our apartment
And wonder if
Those waves go
All the time
And if they might be
Unhealthy
The wind today
Is so powerful
Silent
For the most part
Blowing as usual
Until a big gust
Musters up
All at once
Even the buildings
Lose their footing
And creak
As they lean over
Lazy
Like the dewfall
Doing nothing
In the morning
Except for laying
On leafy sheets
I think of myself
As if looking
From up above
And the expression
That I would wear
While laying here
How would a painter
Paint this smirk
Of contentment
How wonderful
On a Sunday morning
To sleep in
Baby on my arm
Breathing softly
And white sheets
Perfectly warm
While the wind
Blows outside
I wear this smirk
With my eyes closed
Staying silent
Breathing through my nose
Outside the wind howls
Cars go by
Some shouts from who knows
Inside the radiator whistles
The fridge whirs
The walls creak from the wind
Sheets rustle—
These are the sounds
That keep me up
Standing in the bathroom
Putting lotion on my face
Tapping my foot
To the sound of the shower
Water splashing
On the other side of the curtain
I said aloud “I love you”
And from the other side
Of the white curtain
Came a cute hand
Along with the words
“I love you too babe”
A green light gotten gantry straddles the bathroom door to lift up the ceiling and allow in some more grim spooky Halloween mood that goes with the green slimy swamp like expecting to see a skeleton or something floating in the bath water
I get sick and congested
With my office life
Blowing old allergen air
Through the HVAC system
Suffocating in my desk chair
Shielding my eyes from the screen
As low as I can get the brightness
Eventually having to hold my breath
And barely escape on a Friday
When I can snort and hock a loogie
To finally take a deep breath
Of fresh weekend air
And say how I feel
Not holding my tongue
Only for profit
And what my boss allows
And stretch out
Of that ninety degree seated posture
Light passing through
Like a shadow lantern
Let on from street light
Between tree branches
And fire escape rails
Tinted by window glass
Cut in eighths by drape
Entering our bedroom
Making a movie for me
Falling asleep watching
The walls come to life
A shadow I don’t
Normally see
Separated in half
At the wall’s height
Halted only by
Intersecting ceiling
So far as candle flame
Keeps light left
And right of lamp shade
The trash truck outside
Sounds like a force
To be reckoned with
Mechanical monster
Clanging the can
Banging it back and forth
Shaking out its contents
Like a culprit for answers
Or a debtor for spare coins
Then crushing it all
It’s trash anyway
But consuming is fun
So the trash truck bangs on
What speed goes so fast
As I head off
Hurtling downhill
Into the afternoon
And straight past 5
With my fingers in my hair
Trying to shampoo out
My thoughts in the shower
And wash them down the pipe
With hot tea to relax
I can’t stop going lately
And part of me loves it
Like an object in motion
Happy to stay moving
Having gotten to this speed
Seeming almost
Not to require energy
To maintain the breakneck
Though I fear the force
That will halt my hurtle
And possible break everything
At some point down
The non-now worry road
Go with what you’ve got
Getting after all or not
Not needing much
To muddle with mundane
So much sometimes
Bordering on the insane
Inane enough to notice
Not twice but thrice
That you were off your rocker
Off indeed and down stream
Drowning at times
If not for the nine cat lives
Keeping you above the surface
Or at least quickly erasing
Your memories of death
Like the lives we live waking
Returning from dreams
Which we’re certain, are not real
Unless something uncanny
Recurs into your reality
Forcing you to remember
When that had happened
Like deja vu, or a past life
Unsure of which and why
You cannot tie or trace
The beginning and end
Of an endless race together
Knowing only that you must run
And never stop
For as long as you are breathing
Heaving after, lurching
Lunging for what you see
Or to stay ahead of others
Everyone has their reasons
Expect for those who stop
And even turn around
Causing perplexion
On the faces of those passing
Who will still not turn themselves
As long as there are still more going
In their direction
Like a school of fish in a current
We are all just passing by
Idle my sigh not for me
No not for me
For I enjoy this race
And run with pleasure
Until my lungs burst
A sliding car door
Opens and shuts
A van must be
Bringing pastries
For the bakery
Downstairs
At 3:53am
A sliding car door
Opens and shuts
A van must be
Bringing pastries
For the bakery
I will smell them
When I open the window
In the morning
I wake up in the middle of the night, I think because of the steak I ate too late before bed. I have this energy now, as I digest, keeping me up. At first I am annoyed, wanting to get back to sleep. But then I think, I might as well take advantage of this energy and spend some time waking now, and then surely tiredness will come again, once I’ve digested and used up the energy.
The drapes that cover the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, are separated just barely, like the split in a log that appears as the axe is first wedged in, but before the two halves completely separate. The split in the drapes is slightly wider at the bottom, so more yellow light gets through there, and onto the white rug. Light from passing cars gets through the narrower part of the split at the top. This light is dynamic and animates the room as the car passes. It’s shape depends on the part of the split it is passing through. And it’s position on the wall depends on the cars motion. As the car is coming from the west on California, the slim light starts above the dorm or way to the kitchen, and then travels over the bookshelf and desk until it is above our bed and then disappears because of the angle once the car is too far east. This is the closest thing I’ve got to a motion picture, since we moved the television into the closet last week.
As I mediate, I stand with the point of my nose touching a surface that is black as night. The surface is like a wall that extends as far as I can see in all directions. If I only look forward, there is only this black. If I look side to side, I can still see some of the world outside of this black in my peripherals. I can see some light and non-black colors reflected on its surface. This is at the beginning. For as I breathe, with my eyes focused forward, looking “at” the black, I start to see “into” the black. Then my nose starts to permeate the black surface, as I take long, deep, and even breaths. The non-black colors in my peripherals narrow on each side of my field of vision until my eyes are completely submerged in the black. My nostrils and mouth and breathing are also in the black now. My whole focus becomes this black world that is beyond the surface, like it is to see the surface of water from far away and only be able to see it as a sheet of one color, until you are submerged beyond the surface and see all the sea life and depth underneath which contribute to the surface color. In the black I start to see mirages – abstract shapes of varying colors and textures, often moving off into one direction and eventually out of sight, like odd, slow shooting stars. I am not sure whether these are real or just my mind playing tricks on me. Perhaps memory scars of the lighted world that I left behind the black surface. I strive to step deeper into the black, but it is a viscous atmosphere, even more so than sludge, like rock that I can only move through very slowly, and by remaining focused on my breath. Otherwise, if I began to lose focus, I am pulled back out of the black. Sometimes I teeter back and forth, on the verge of the black, at the point where my eyes are just on the surface, and some of the lighted world remains on my peripherals. I wonder what it would be like to step all the way into the black and then turn completely around, so that instead of looking into the black from the outside, I would be looking back out at the colored world from the inside, with my nose pressed against the surface of a multi-colored world. But that would take much focus and time, to step into the black world and turn completely around. It might take days of meditation.
People in my dreams tell me I look tired. I wake up and wonder if I am working too much. It is 4 AM so I try to go back to sleep. I sleep until 5 AM but then cannot sleep anymore. I wake up and get dressed while my girlfriend is still asleep. I fumble for my things in the dark. I step out of my apartment and start to walk on the sidewalks that are empty. I prefer it this way, but I do wonder if I am working too much.
Whereas I once
Would have rather
Left it at home
Preferring to be a boy
Ignorant of that number
To which the hand points;
I have since become
A watched man
Watching all the time
At the end of a long little bit Alli Lough let Lough let Alli a man on his hands and knees on a cardboard Matt bows waving his arms shouting like he is worshiping not to a God I don’t think a guy that would’ve put him in this alley in his dirty clothes just something else probably if you made of his imagination maybe inspired by drugs maybe you’re just being in the alley too long I have to emphasize how long the alley is and it’s a dead end at the end I say this because he is so far away from everyone that is walking by the mouth of the alley on the sidewalk is very low and having a zone momentI wonder how long he’s been down there and if anyone has visited or maybe he chose to be alone on purpose for his worship
edited:
At the end of a long low lit alley a man on his hands and knees on a cardboard mat bows waving his arms shouting like he is worshiping, not to a God I don’t think, not a God that would have put him in this alley in his dirty clothes. But something else, maybe made up by his imagination, maybe inspired by drugs, maybe just from being in the alley too long.
I have to emphasize how long this alley is and it’s a dead end at the end. I say this because he is so far away from everyone that is walking by the mouth of the alley on the sidewalk. He is very alone and having his own moment.
I wonder how long he’s been down there and if anyone has visited or maybe he chose to be alone on purpose for his worship.
I saw a man
On the sidewalk
Laying on his side
Beside
A broken wheelchair
One wheel
Was detached
And he was tinkering
With the part
Of the chair
Where
The wheel connects
One of his feet
In a cast
Was laid out
Far enough
Into the bike lane
That bikers
Had to swerve
To avoid
All considered
He did not seem
As stressed
As I would presume
Of a man
In a wheelchair
That is missing
One of two wheels
Tinkering
With the wheel
With the same disinterest
That one would surf
Channels on the TV
In their own home
Realize that Time is the currency you should really care about.
Anything that starts out
With I as the object
To which the attention
Of my poetic diction
Has turned
Is bound to be
More subjective
Than an actual object
Outside of myself
(Like a cloud or a car)
To which readers can
More easily relate
Unless I can make myself
Objective enough
For readers to see me
As themselves
Putting things into words makes thoughts or feelings makes sense in a way you didn’t even know they could. In your mind I think feelings take on a form in a language that is only yours in your own heart or head. Writing forces you to translate those feelings into language that is common and relates to others and the rest of the world around you—and therefore makes your feelings seem immediately more rational and objectively understandable, or at least more fleshed out.
I am sick
Sound and central
Swept away
After who knows
How long
Healthy as can be
Forgetting
As I always
Eventually do
After some time
Just after
A period of sickness
That I am grateful
As I should be
For the health
God grants me
I wake up
From a Sunday nap
At 6:49
And for a second
Am not sure
If it is night still
With the drapes drawn
Or morning
I ask the clock
But he will not say
AM or PM
I draw the drapes
And the amount of cars
Looks like
It could be either
Like a skier
In an avalanche
Supposed to spit
To find
Which way is up
I am unsure
A wicker chair
With four legs
Has two legs
Slightly shorter
So the chair
Rocks side to side
In the wind
There are periods of peace
Sitting on the street corner
While cars on both sides
Are waiting
Until the light changes
And engines rev
And some honk
To get the ones
Not paying attention
To go
And peace resumes
Once they’re gone
Until the next light
On a chair I sit
Outside of the cafe
I wonder how many
Have sat here before
Some vagrants
Others, patrons of the cafe
It is sunny today
And this seat
Is a nice place to be
They’ll all find some day
Found things lost time ago
Take a cycle to repeat
Trending up and down
Rearing their headed crest
Above the horizon
So the mainstream can see
And all behind is hidden
When the surfers swam out
Far enough beyond
The crest headed wave
Will have the ocean
Dark blue and deep sky
All to themselves
Until that wave crest crashes
Where the mainstream can see
And a few more will venture out
Where building tops
Meet sky
In a fine line
That defines
The clear distinction
Between our
Complicated world
Balconies, parapets
Window sill, frame
Glass, trim, terrace
Fire escape, chipped paint
And the heavens
Always there
Much simpler
And promising
In my opinion
In the backyard of houses in the Marina neighborhood in San Francisco, I see tiny plots of grass that are hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars per square foot, in terms of real estate cost. When there are plots of grass 100 times larger occurring naturally in nature, completely for free.
I wonder
About long lines
If those within
Are more eager
To get to the end
Than they are satisfied
Just to be in line
With others waiting
I perform better under vigilance from others with feats involving strength whereas sometimes self-conscious like with speaking I can do better alone or at least I perceive hard to hear myself as I ramble on wondering about the push from others in some regards and in others hand clammy getting nervous can’t so much as utter a word stage fright if only I could lift the podium off the stage and toss it into the crowd I could do that just fine
Across the street
A crowd stands
Huddled together
On a stoop
In the rain
Everyone
Is the same
Seeking dryness
I think only of production often times I can’t even access parts of my brain associated with pleasure from normal waking hours before something in my hunting cortex pushes a to-do list in front in part do to my being male and in other part due to making to-do lists in the first place about which I am encouraged to obsess over by various pressures so that when I wake up at three in the morning the order of things which I think about is I need to use the bathroom I am thirsty and then thirdly not but a few seconds after having had a drink the to-do list enters and working begins as soon as waking energy begins I realize this because the weekend before this Tuesday I was ill and forced to think only of my health and realize again what it is to live in the present and enjoy without planning for the future — for this reason, I was actually enjoying being sick as dreams inspired by idle reading returned to my sleeping hours and passive curious thoughts after hours of laying in bed and staring at the white ceiling and wondering only about what was slowing right then without energy to do anything more
My whites
Aren’t as white
As they would be
If I didn’t wash them
With my colors
Sometimes
the sounds around
harmonize
with the music playing
from the speaker—
the honk outside
matches a high pitch
or the door lock
clicks right when
the cymbal crashes
I think one of the differences between good art and great art is that good art is enjoyable once you’re already in the mood that it was created for—like club music when you’re drunk or academic writing when you’re up early drinking coffee.
Great art gets you into the mood whether you’re already there or not. You could be sitting at your desk at work in the afternoon and read a great poem and all of a sudden you’re transported to an emotional state where you’re almost crying.
For good art, you have to be there already. Great art takes you there.
I stand and watch slowly
As the tea color turns
Hibiscus light pink
To darker blood red
In boiled pot water
In a posture
I thought of moving
Observing each part
Thinking
If I move this
That way
Or bend that
This way
But ended up
Laying still
And falling asleep
Like I was
A little lick
Of lantern light
Leftover from the furnace
Frolicking
With burning branch
Smoldering in earnest
Warm palms rubbed
Cheeks
Covered up
Sitting
By the fire
Sometimes I try to re-create a time or place when or where I was creative so I go back to the same coffee shop and drink a cup of coffee and sit in the same seat and look at the same window, but it doesn’t come. Creativity is never the same, otherwise it wouldn’t be creative. So an artist must always be exploring, going to new places with her eyes wide open. Sometimes you can even find creativity in an old place if your eyes are open wide enough. This is why success for an artist is somewhat different than anything else. With most things you can find a routine or a set of repeatable steps define success over and over again. With art you must always be changing
I’m most afraid to die when I feel most alive. And I feel young and full of energy, like all of life is ahead of me, then I am afraid for it to end. When I am closer to death, sick or feeling old and spent, then I am less afraid. Sometimes I am in pain and the pain of death seems like it would be lesser than what I am experiencing. I feel that I have less to lose. The fall would not be as great from an already low state, whereas when I am up high it would be a long way down.
Laying at home
On a workday
In a suburban
Part of the city
It is loud
In the morning
As everybody
Gets up
To catch the bus
And go downtown
Leaving me here
To lay
Come lunchtime
It grows quiet
Don’t fight the seasons. Go with the cold depressed wet rain. Run into the gutters and beneath the city like the plastic wrapping on a food item thrown away without any ability to pick itself up like a responsible wrapper and throw itself away just running with the rain. Lay down and let the cool winter air come in your nostrils at night and the muffled city noises come through your walls and into your ears. Let the radiator hiss now, for this is its life, quiet dormant and seemingly dead all through summer. The seasons have been forged over the years of a natural undulation of a frozen slow down sleepiness for things to hold form and stay where they are focused and rigid and indoors if possible while the summer will come to let all those out who have been cooped up and cold and will run amuck for long enough to sweat out hibernated calories and gather new ideas that can be seen in the bright light but only captured in the morning winter dark of a study with paper and pen in hand. Don’t fight the seasons. Let them take you.
I’m a shell of a human
after I’ve emptied
into my art
outpouring all I’m worth
forgetting
there is still
life to live
after this
I love that moment
Where I can just forget
And not focus
On anything
For a short while
an empty
open
iPhone box
laying
on the ground
next to
a trash can
a neon sign
that says LAUNDRY
with the D
hanging
just slightly off
a man
in a suit
and scarf
walking
while talking
on his phone
a man
with his hood up
walking
on the crosswalk
ignoring
the red hand
telling him
to wait
the snowflakes
on the light poles
lit up white
leftover
from christmas
My friend describes art as an opportunity to “expel some shit from my mind lol”
I go out early in the morning to get nice and caffeinated like most people my age do in the night time out to the bars to get nice and drunk and then stumble home with someone is there for Mozart in love after lock on weekdays at work warehouse for me it’s more about the coffee and the caffeine in the early morning when you can still change to do in the crisp cold dark there and being one of the first people to a coffee shopThen by 10 AM it’s back to a normal world everyone awake and going about their day so I scrambled back home to be on my own and read and write until the early afternoon
Figuring out now that I can talk to my AirPods without even having to pull my phone out of my pocket
Walking home in early January how’s the gas station that’s empty year that I’ve seen it before things have been slow the start of this year it seems holding eggs with bacon in my backpack going home from the coffee shop to cook breakfast with baby glasses slipping down my nose shoes scuffing on the sidewalk one lace hanging out loosely left hand in pocket past peers
use AirPods to make speech to text content. Become an art tech start up yourself. The key is editing. You can mass-produce the content with the technology. It’s just a matter of being discriminatory to find the good content
I imagine reading this like Siri does, fast and run-on without inflections at the right points in the sentence—but she’s learning, and getting better.
An artist’s art ain’t as good when there’s a good-looking girl around. His sexual and creative energy gets into thinking about that instead of into what he’s making.
this white building
dressed pink this morning
from the red stop light
and the rising sun
i feel a little off center
like my left ear lags
my right hearing louder
leaking out sound somehow
past the bud before the drum
i take out my AirPods
and case them to check
but upon re-inserting
realize it is just me
as i try to lay
flat and orthodox
looking up
at the ceiling
breathing
through my nose
i lay abstract
and off-center
spine twisted
like a wet rag
ringing out water
with one shin
straight
the other bent
and crossed over
shin bones
crossed over
hand over
half of heart
sloping down
rib cage
pelvis slanting
to the side
forearm slipping
underneath skull
other hand
between thighs
can only sleep
on my side
as hard as i try
to lay flat
i put my ear
to her back
and hear
at night
what i can only describe
as a roaring
going on inside
it seems
all the time
like you would
put your ear
to a sea shell
and hear the ocean
inside
but with her
is the fiery inside
of a furnace
like a train engine
that a brusque man
with his sleeves rolled up
feeds coal
with a shovel
or the white noise
of space
if you were hurtling
very fast forward
and wind was whipping
past your ears
all this energy
inside
of her sweet silent
sleeping small body
i know now not to ride the highs too high holding on past stratosphere onto space where i’m alone smiling looking around wondering who’s here in the black silence only do i realize after the bright light of the booster flare fades that i’m all alone in my ascent and look earthward for who i left already falling
a little late up at night feeling light and lifted dreaming dreams of prior scenes i didn’t know existed hoping though that see and sew sad stories still be told since dreams of life from younger years now fearing to get old
in a dream, i was in class with my little brother’s childhood friend, christian. i was still the age i am now, while christian was the age i remember him—about 7 or 8 years old. i must have been acting as a teacher’s aide in his kindergarten class. at first, he was asking me whether he could bring a baggie or cookies to school. i told him that he should ask his mom or his teacher. he said they already told him no. they wanted him to eat healthier snacks like raisins and nuts. i told him he should probably listen. then he told me that he would just bring the cookies anyway and just sneak them at his desk when nobody was looking. i thought of telling him that’s what i would do when i was his age, but decided against it. next, the class was taking a spelling test. i was seated at one of the desks next to christian. there were about twenty other kids in the class. they all had their eyes closed. the teacher was going around the room taping up cards with letters on them. i gathered that she was spelling out a word that the class had attempted to spell on their tests (this way they could see if they had gotten it right). i watched this like a person out of place, bewildered at first, and then studying, trying to understand. when christian opened his eyes, he looked at the cards that were taped up. “got that one,” he said. i watched him make a check mark next to the word on his test paper. at that point, i wasn’t sure who i was anymore. was i christian’s age? was i a student in this class? the table’s turned and i started to ask christian questions. “should i be taking this test?” i asked him. “probably,” he said. and pointed with the pink eraser end of his pencil to a stack of papers in the middle of our desks. i grabbed one and a pencil, and then started listening to the teacher and looking around to try and gather what the words were that i had missed. it was right then that i started to feel out of place. i wondered, wait, who am i? what day is today? i remembered that i own an iPhone. and i thought, “oh shoot, what day is today?” i reached in my pocket to check my digital calendar. a feeling of dread came over me as i feared i might have missed my flight back to san francisco. then i woke up, back into my adult life, at 2:25am on monday morning. i felt relieved that i hadn’t missed my flight and wasn’t late to anything or out of place. i was just in bed waiting to go to work in the morning.
walking so fast I can’t say one way or another what I see clearly wanting for some clarity supposed to be separating safe from dangerous getting somewhere to satisfy hunger finding love of forcing me on primal being the main driver but being able just briefly on a Saturday like today to walk on Fillmore Street before noon sun shining in every darn thing looking gosh darn perfect that dog leashed to a traffic meter majestic that bookstore with all the books I would never want to read on its shelves each restaurant and café serving all the foods that I would want to eat every person I passed smiling seeming like they want to have a conversation with me and having all these thoughts that I wish I could share with the moments when my creativity Waynes But needing now just to get down as much as I can and bottle up this feeling or at least put it in art to remember a gosh darn great Saturday like today
I want to find her gray hairs fondly for her to see that there’s not much time and understand why I believe it now is the time to live and we must press on and not relax too much laying in bed all day need to get out and go while we still can for what seems good and satisfying on its face is sticky and alluring slowing you down seeming to go slowWhile really proceeding quickly to old age
I like a little let loose crazy longing for the void only after some time structured set in my ways and nailed down long enough to let sit like clay in the oven or metal in the mold just to be cast back into the fire and barely kept form melting to reshape refusing to stay same sending forth like a god trying to be many and eventually all once obliteratedAnd nothing anymore
swearing to myself to stay sober so as to avoid a sudden left off like last night leaving earth so suddenly that I look down it is only a marble not even the oceans able to be distinguished from the land forgetting everything I knew out here in the black space void truly creative having nothing to draw from like God before originClosing my eyes and making something out of nothing but if I am truly being honest what comes behind the black clothes dies was for another life still like the God that came before ours
Pumped full of fumes filling my Freudian with fear feeling that it is really the end this time having run on planes for so long looking up towards the sky not expecting to step and land on soil no longer falling framed by the cliff face falling is all that is leftAfter plane running and before jagged rock crashing
Knowing when to stop not the morning no that is the time to go after a restful night for the energy rise with the sun at work getting into it and excited waiting to go on even for getting lunch but at some point must slow down must eat rest and relax and get ready for nightfall when the natural energy leaves and must slope down into sleep if the same cycle is to repeat itself tomorrow
if you get to work producing too much at once then Sam gets lost and might have even been better off not produced in the first place the two worlds work together preservation and production producing when energy is available to be spent and even benefits the system as a whole to be spent rather than conserved but sometimes need to conserve like needing to rest at night If only we had something as simple as the sun rising and setting to instruct us went to work and went to rest and all other areas of life
it should be done by now having had ample time to dry the timer telling me this chiming in go and check it says someone may be there waiting with their wet clothes counting on you to come timely like I say what I said a timer if you were going to wait anyway
walking across
a wide street
weary
the whole way
seeing clearly
i have to stare
for some time
to make sure
what i’m seeing
is really there
something soap
subtle sudsy
watching washy
waiting
twenty-four minutes
making excuses
like poetry
to stay and watch
the machine wash
shaking my hands
washed
spattering drops
in the metal basin
making music
rain
all at once
stop
then spatter
and start again
the one with my sweatpants
wasn’t working
two washers going
side by side
one clearly working
wet water splashing
suds bubbling
while the other
its brother to the left
spinning uselessly
waterless
wasting
four dollars
and seventy five cents
I think I have to relax I’ve worked too much then relax and lay in bed all day and realize why I work avoiding lethargy boring listlessness in the idle dark and quiet with only my thoughts that get to go too far on their own and need to get back to work again to think of something other than nothing
I’ve got a good coffee high going so I can’t stop myself from running on the way home just to see new things faster I startle an old man walking with his hands Behind his back slow spooked to see me turning every which way at the street corner bouncing up and down waiting for the light to change
That’s just not true what you repeat to yourself having heard once and at some point believing From the repeating having forgotten the original lie Intel a collision with what’s really reminds you
on a stool at the coffee shop
sharing a wooden table
with an older man
next to me
drumming my fingers
and bobbing my head to music
he glances sideways
disapprovingly
he cannot take away
my energy
other than
by my becoming
him someday
I hear your name called
at a coffee shop
by the barista
waiting for someone else
that is not you
to pick up their order
though i wish it was
you
can’t possibly be you
I know that
but still can’t resist
turning around in my chair
hopefully
You start to say things like surely more sure of yourself with the unspoken seal of certainty granted to those that have grown older or for some other reason regarded by society as being more sure of themselves like a child regards her parents
an old light blue slug bug
(and i mean old
like 20 or 30 years)
waits at the lights on sacramento
hoping to cross fillmore
if this light will ever change
moving back and forth
over the thick white line
that is supposed to separate
cars waiting at the light
from pedestrians crossing
the slug bug moves
back and forth like this
i presume because
its transmission is manual
unable to press on the brake
i don’t know
how manual works
owing to this bug
being older than me
having grown up with automatic
and never learned manual
like my dad told me
now far away from that
watching this
through the window
of the coffee shop
where i work on my laptop
more modern than my dad ever imagined
watching the manual transmission slug bug
through the window
i think there’s something about it being strung out and straight on so you can’t catch your breath reading until you gasp and choke for air trying to get on to one more word and then once you think you can’t go no more then one more still because it’s that good and will cease to all be the same run-on if you stop to breathe (i’d like to write a piece one day that runs on so good i’ll get lost and read it run on like this and overcome even my instinct to breathe and lay there on my deathbed reading it right to the end)
everything collided so perfectly in that time after which now it is only worthwhile looking back longing with less to be gotten from the present it seems compared to thinking back in my imagination on that past good time which may be me getting older and the best behind me so i wonder if this in between turning twenty five is the time to start looking back or if there is still more to look forward to
I published this in the moment I wish I would have because I don’t think art happens over time more editing overthinking less of what was once natural coming out as art in the first place because that is what you thought or felt and that is the art right there as soon as it comes out like a live performance and anything after that is manufactured
a knife
is less scary
if it’s cutting
fruit
I think its when I start to think that I’m supposed to feel something that I feel at all otherwise just going along thinking mostly and acting instinctually unless I do something like drink a tea that’s supposed to affect me and all of a sudden I’m wondering has it hit me yet looking at my hands more closely and putting my palm over my chest to feel my heart beat asking am I sad happy excited calm when it’s really just an herbal non-caffeinated tea and I’m doing this all on my own
I don’t usually write sitting down, and I almost always write on my iPhone, by sending text messages to myself. I’ll write on the bus on the way to work, in line waiting for lunch, at a concert holding my phone above the crowd—pretty much anywhere I’m inspired. I write in that very moment.
v1:
i tongue this tooth
in my top row
touching
its blunted point
worn down
by my crooked bite
v2:
i tongue this tooth
in my top row
blunted by
my crooked bite
tonguing over
its point
sharp previously
now worn
already i feel it fall away on the outside; or, rather, the need to call it outside, other than myself for my skin has melted away joining my true inside with everything else k and i clear away the teardrop tables from the rug in the living room so we can play while we take apple on new year's eve childish things matter less to me than seemingly is so as the adults say starting to see visuals on my phone screen shadows seem to me striking my face feels like a picasso you just can't capture the trip; i wish we could, but i can't i have to get my art and hold it within myself long enough until i can give it to her I used to think I needed fruit for inspiration and creativity. Now, tripping, I realize I have developed a creative system for my sober life. I like apple because it's a fair fruit. On oranges, there's only up, until one big down. On apples, there are ups and downs throughout. I think deeply about the need to spend time with others. How many others? Just one? Just your love. Or more? How many then? Family too? And friends? How many are needed to make a man happy? More than just himself? As I sit here, having chosen to stay inside and trip, on New Year's Eve, instead of going to a concert with my friend Zach. senses that feel the foam edge of pillow where does my hand meet start and stop stretching feet yellow streaks on white paper the distinct drop of water from bath faucet amid classical playing from the speakers streaking all colors clear at once then jumbled eyes closed off into anywhere the pen rolls off of the notepad paper laying on my lap startling me as the pen rap-rap rolled across paper with the clip rap tapping it could be anyone me and you you me playing parts 'parently another stepping in unbeknownst to the other instead of homeless we could say streetmore scribbling i need some inspiration to get started so i just start to scribble and if i keep scribbling words will eventually form all these emotions experienced on apple show to me the heights of what's possible you see some things that are real and others that aren't convincing yourself that it's just because you're tripping i look at things a little more closely when i have the time noticing finer details like small imperfections in white paper or the perforation along the edge sometimes my legs shrug to say 'oh well' just like my shoulders do
i often had
to settle down
and listen
to what i was
being told
or else
i would let loose
into a mess
religious
is all i can say
to describe
opening that orange
on acid
instead
of the radio
i prefer
a little wind
whipping through
the car window
barely cracked
we are on
our final approach
to san francisco
says the pilot
as the plane
slants downward
and my stomach
presses into
my seatbelt
i get
a little scared
a beautiful sky
passed through
all colors
of the unspeakable palette
unwriteable red
right there
on the window
phosphorescent
between white clouds
and unseen upward
blue sky
that meld in the middle
neon orange
yellow in the center
glowing
gets me
shimmering golden
like it can’t be
at a time
when i am most glad
not to be blind
cut at odd
perfect angles
by cloud coverage
red ready
to wage light war
on the white
purple battleground
some turquoise even
i think it’s turquoise
made by what two colors
i don’t know
like a life giving light
all colors i swear
that i’ve ever seen
a poem i write
while sitting next to
a lady on the plane
as her and i both
admire the sunset
at six in the evening
landing in san francisco
i think of showing
the poem to her
but decide not to
above the clouds
the sky
opens upward
like a dome
large enough
to see only one side
and no top
but a dome
certainly
for the fact that i
can look all around
and up
and still see
calm
palms resting
hands folded
on my
belly breathing
reclined
in my chair
relaxing
faltering forward
from one fear
to the next
for lack
of some
satisfaction
short-lived
between fears
i start in the night
wondering
if i wrote it that way
repeating
the write way
in my mind
out of bed
leafing through pages
looking
for the one
to scribble out
and write correctly
what came to me
in a dream
only to find
the one already
written correctly
like my future self
traveled back
before
or my present self
now past
was right
from the start
the airplane shakes
and the woman in front of me
lifts up the window cover
hoping to see land close below
then shuts the cover quickly
—i presume because …
with my own cover closed
i cannot know for sure,
but i presume because
she did not see land
as close as she had hoped
and i feel some fear too
for her and i both
as the plane
continues to shake
i didn’t write much
looking back
through the log
and start to worry
that i won’t write
anymore—
which is when
it’ll really be over
a nice man
from colorado
sits next to me
on the plane
says he can’t
stand the broncos
but can’t root
for his chiefs
on account of
his denver friends
a little readsy
gets me wordsy
and back into
the note-taking mood
many more
mind’s eye
fleeting thoughts
fly by
paper birds
with words written
of where they’ve been
caught
by the tail feather
with branch fingers
grown
from readsy roots
opening the window cover
on the plane
to see
what shakes us so
the sun reflects
hot off the wing
through the window
onto my cheek
you change
you don’t think so
but you do
a thin string
ties it all together
loosely
loose enough
that new you
might mistake
a stranger
in a lineup
for old you
Moments of nervousness
Interspersed with joys
Enjoyed briefly
Forgetting so soon
The non-joy that came before
Until thrust back into it
Forgetting to remember
Forced near-sighted
by emotion
there is a balance between pain and pleasure. i have been taking cold showers for about four years now. it’s not cold for the whole time. i wash for about 10 minutes in hot water, and then turn the water to cold for just a minute or two at the end. one time i decided to skip the cold shower at the end. i was enjoying the hot shower and thought it would be nice to avoid the pain of the cold shower at the end, just this once. but then i realized, as soon as i got out of the shower, the air felt cold to me. i had to put on clothes quickly to get warm. once you’ve enjoyed the warmth, you can’t escape the cold. whether i chose to turn the water cold by my own hand, or feel the contrast of the cold air after opening the shower door—either way, there would be an inevitable cold after the warmth. pain is inevitable after pleasure.
it is like my muay thai trainer once told me, “fighting is fair. if you choose to attack, then you put yourself at risk of counter-attack. if you choose not to attack, then you are not fighting.”
the universe is fair. balance is the rule of fairness. pain is the counter-attack after pleasure.
i love to have a thing to do
an action
a direction for my forward leaning
which would lean anyway
listless
without a list
bullet points
that must be purposed
or else any direction
i would surely go
relax where you go
watch what comes with
wait and see what happens
hear for wind gone by
sigh for scenes past
on the road going somewhere
in the back seat no matter
let the driver drive
lean back and relax
you’ll get there
there is a feedback loop
between what you say about me
and what i want you to say
so i adjust my internal switches and levers
to get you to say
and when it is not
what i would prefer
i will twist a dial
and pull a lever
then look back out through
my windshield eyes
and listen
going back to adjusting
until what you say
is what i’d like to hear said about me
and then i stay
mostly the same
until someone says something else
(sometimes myself)
that i don’t like to hear
coming into myself
like an icicle
freezing into form
once fluid
and dripping along itself
now believing
what others think of me
and agreeing
to go in this direction
settling into the mold
like sculpture clay
hardening in the oven
formed by the artist’s
left nurturing hand
and right natural hand
then set into stone
by the fires of time
now staying the same
as what others walk by
in the museum and say
reading the placard
and seeing other
statues nearby
this is a statue
of such time and place
you can see clearly
because of this and that
sometimes i look at something
not really paying attention
and accidentally start to see
the space in between
sparkling in broken fractals
going off into gradient corner
abstract offering to me
all sights other than
what makes sense
giving my mind a break
to see without thinking
i am anxious
and incapable
of anything else
other than worry
wasting what energy
would be spent
pointed, purposed
let out listlessly
in all directions
i’m in the system
more so
than i’ve been before
standing still
sitting here
taking orders
jockeyed
with a horse
on either side
and one behind
so all that’s left
is forward
and fast
to sit still
and stay focused
with coffee
in my veins
is the test
of a mental task
wanting
to get physical
but needing
to look, count
and read things
watching
the microwave
count down
in neon green
analog numbers
the space in time
between seconds
seems longer
waiting
for my coffee
to warm up
the trash truck
creaks and rumbles
as it arrives
curbside
in the early morning
around five
waking me up
to the fact
that the day outside
has started
i got my jacket
back today;
the one i left
yesterday;
leaving home
cold
this morning;
returning
jacketed
once more
i rung here
a chord that
resounded
ringing
my ears
out clean
hoping to glean
at least some
satisfaction
from a choir
of voices
but quickly
found myself
one of many
and so
went back
to singing shrill
all alone
i try to read
right before bed
ready with words
waiting
in my head
mixing and matching
meeting each other
making magic
in the midnight
like a media room
rushing
to go to press
in the morning
sitting
at my desk
i lean back
and look up
at the fire detector
on the ceiling
alone there,
alone all day
flashing
that one light
every five seconds
i talk to myself
until i’m hoarse
at night
and wonder
in the morning
if it was worth it
because
i can’t remember
a thing i said
digging into the front
right pocket of my jeans
and then the left
and the coat pocket breast
trying to find
what i thought i had taken
but must have not
what once
looked right
looked twice
takes double
distorting
distrusting
what appears
the first time
from now on
i don’t think
you ever
get around to
liking
the fact of dying
but it appears
normal,
a known fact,
which is the key
to accepting
anything—
that it appears
to be normal
a transient sits
on a brick bench
elbows on his knees
leaned forward
rocking
back and forth
with a hat held
by the brim
in both hands
upturned
shaking it
for money
a young man
downtown
in the morning
leaned against
a fire hydrant
curbside
with feet
on the street
and right hand
holding left forearm
and left forearm
holding a cigarette
chewing gum
looking up
at the building tops
the tip
of a tooth
worn down
i tongue
obsessively
wondering
if the wear
has come from
chewing
or grinding
my teeth
at night
sitting in the car
thinking
of my own problems
realizing
the driver
is patting his knee
and must also
have things to do
other than drive
and another rider
gets in
out of breath
and must have
been rushed
this morning
soothing
to think of others
and take a break
from myself
i used to
lose my footing
with my head
in the clouds;
a little older now
i’ve grown taller
and can keep
my feet in the dirt
at the same time
as i stretch
up high
it is a ponderance
which i repeat
for you to mull
over, unwritten
just sitting there
and listening
letting go
of the worry
to remember;
for like i said,
i will repeat
as many times
as need be
most
will read it once
as they would
naturally
going
at their own pace
and then
again
this time
placing punctuation
according to
often
unnatural notions;
it is the same
when you look
at something
and for
a split second
see it
for what
it actually is
i love to work
at my desk
at the foot
of our bed
when baby
is there laying;
it feels like
i’m at the mouth
of our cave
up at night
with a torch light
fending off
dark thoughts
from her dreams
young
you bounce
from thing
to thing
like a pinball
bouncing
in between
believing
it must be this
no, then this
bouncing
back and forth
until old
realizing
it is none of it;
but rather,
something learned
from the bouncing
in between
it all appears
to me now
getting in
through my senses
inside of me
somehow
making me feel
as part of it
pouring in
and back out
i feel equipped
with my pockets full
of something,
anything
as i stand
in the doorway
and stretch
to the right
leaning over,
our plant reaches
for the light
kitchen window
to the left
a profound sadness
comes over me
remembering
what it was like
to be alone
as i now
fear dying
slightly less
having someone
to miss me
i didn’t
roll my dice
right, waiting
to check and see
what could
have happened
easily
the fight
of white
blood cells
battling
bacteria
seems
epic to me
on such
a small scale
i think
for the name
of the author
on the cover
of any
of my future works
it should just
say “coffee”
managing
the emotions
of making
your own work
falling
into love
and back out
easily
but having
to stay
committed
if anything
is ever
to get done
linen closet
laying sheets
stacked
side by side
on shelves
of order
and cleanliness
if just to avoid
being done upon
myself—
sounds vaguely
sexual—
as does
any doing;
creativity
is a sexual thing
when opening a door that is stuck, there is usually the first attempt that employs the usual amount of force. then, realizing the door is stuck, there is a second attempt that quickly follows the first; this time with more force. after that, depending on the person, there are sometimes third and fourth attempts with an increasing amount of force. or, there is a step taken back, to discover why the door is stuck. and the attempt that follows, then addresses the root problem.
i swear
i took off
these socks
that i see
still on
my feet
just a moment
ago
undressing
after
getting home
standing
in the kitchen
looking down
expecting
to see toes
seeing
cotton socks
instead
i stop anywhere
to write
on the street corner
in the rain
on my phone
on the bus
in conversation
on the move
anytime
i’m in the mood
coming to me
only so often
i can’t afford
to let it go
an old man
with a gray mustache
and glasses
eats a biscuit
and drinks a coffee
by the window
picking up crumbs
delicately, slowly
between his fingers
holding
a cup still steaming
the mouth
of the trash can
stays open
a little longer
than usual
after i have
thrown something away;
stuck
at the hinge
i’m sure
but seeming
for the second
staying open
to take on
a life of its own
and decide for itself
when to open
and when to close
a tree branch
fighting back
against
the windy way
things are
i start a poem
walking
trying to remember
the first few lines
repeating them
over and over
still walking
to where i can find
a place to stop
and write
and another line
so now four
repeating them
and five
still a ways away
at risk of forgetting
the beginning
to remember the end
we bend ourselves
into places
shapes
i wonder
what a human
can do
with some space
it becomes
a body of work
gaining value
and creating fear
of loss
like a notebook
filled with notes
just a notebook
before
but now the result
of hours of work
on its face cover
just the same
as any other
but flipped through
and read
like hemingway’s
lost manuscript
my
what a notebook
could be
all these people
waiting in line
for their $5
cup of coffee
when down the street
a half block
is a deli
that will sell you
a cup of coffee
for 50%
of the price
albeit 80%
of the quality;
but math is hard
in the morning,
i understand
in order
for a rule
to matter
it must
also matter
when
it is broken
i talk in twos
making it simple
as if this
is not that
and that’s the end
only ours
and other
without parsing
the other
just not ours
easier to see
binary
and easier
to decide
but really
many more
than just two
most often
in the daylight
wide-eyed
and seen
what most
assume to be
all there is
sleeping
deeply
leaving black
to be just that
unaware
that if
you open your eyes
with your eyes
still closed
lights will flash
and a movie plays
on that
black backdrop
and you can play
whatever movie
you want
lately
i’ve been
going to sleep
early
just to dream
a little longer
let it be there
push it as you will
into was
but let it be
short of memory
presently perceived
even then
when is it real
synapses firing
when is it real
i wonder
what makes it
what we’re after
what substitute
will suffice
like a dream
or a drug
lying to oneself
going insane
are just as well
in some cases
who’s to say
otherwise
supplanting
their reality
for another’s
who’s to say
when it’s real
a car radio plays
at the stoplight
outside our apartment
at 3 a.m.
and i wonder
if the driver
is a late traveler
trying to stay awake
or an early worker
trying to stay awake
a vivid dream
reminds me
of something i did
a while back
even though
i never did
actually do it,
it might as well
be the same
—a memory
misremembered
and a reality
recently forgotten
turn up
the trance
in my AirPods
to drown out
the radio
that plays
in the car
i share
with strangers
that could be
nice people;
i’ll never know
all these popular appearances trend towards shock value and sex it seems. simple and calm art gets drowned out but still has a place i think
an argument
to exist,
to take up space,
to even be there
for you to read;
and numbers
and other symbols
like on a clock
or the brand names
on clothing
or equipment
constantly telling you
what is what
and this is that;
people
have them too
on placards
outside
their office door,
not to mention
their names
and the acronyms after
all this information
looking around
which is why
i think i like
so much
to be in nature
where nothing is named
except
the occasional trailhead
stopping under
a stranger’s roof
in the rain writing
needing to get home
but cannot
get more
than a half block
without a drop
of rain poetry
falling
on my head
the poetry
is there
latent
laying
waiting for me
worrying
as i have
that it had gone
as the lifestyle
i’ve been living
working
focusing
staying sober
had snuffed it out
in the height
of a song
my AirPods die
so i must make
my own music
for the time being
until i can get
to an outlet
leaning
with my shoulder
against the brick wall
in the rain
typing
on my phone
drops collecting
on the scene
blurring
the words
so i cannot read
what i’ve typed
i know
there are others
i wish
i could meet them
browsing
my options
perusing
the aisles
like a grocery store
going
to my section
and having
four shelves
ten across
and twenty deep
to choose from
people
like paper boxes
with labels
listing
their ingredients
and health facts
walking
as i normally do
slowly
and looking around
as it starts to rain
and i must speed up
if i hope
to reach home
dry enough
to go indoors
without undressing
i feel alright
undoctored
by my own doing
like usual
seeing a symptom
and writing
my own prescription
like coffee
in the morning
or a walk
for my anxiety
having
to self-diagnose
but this morning
the universe
saw my need
and helped me
on its own
just love
for everything
i think
of one person
to show it to
but can’t stay focused
and remember
what a girl
i once loved
once told me
about there being
no limit to love
when what she
really meant
was she
just didn’t love me
and now
i understand
feeling
this feminine love
to just nurture
and give good
to everything
i was doing all this
to appear
to be
one of these
and at some point
ended up
becoming one
just a little
rainbow light
on the right side
of the cabinet white
when i wake up
and walk into
the kitchen
to make breakfast
the blinds
on a lazy sunday
even if only
barely open
must be pulled tight
so the world
cannot get in
i like to get
onto my belly
and observe
underneath the couch
such a simple world
of unused space,
dust bunnies
and lost items
laying there
minding their business
welcoming
newcomers
warmly
like my lost watch
or a coin
dropped and rolled under
escaping the worlds
of time and money
to lay gently
under the couch
a young man
helping an old man
to put the lid
on his coffee cup
—they
exchange a smile
what is
already here
what more
need we make
look
and this too
all this
here for us
without us
why can we not
just watch
sometimes
rather than
always make
to claim
for ourselves
the beauty
marvel, wonder
whether we are
i wonder
creatures
to create
or just
appreciate
in an educated democracy, why write in words that are not commonly used? to sound more intelligent? at the expense of alienating a percentage of your potential reader base. better to write with common words, i think, and reach most of the masses.
an inferior
i have to
let go
for something
else superior
—but then
also risk
something worse
than the first
inferior
i wasn’t sure
i would make it
up that hill
in fact, halfway
i thought
of tucking myself
into a ball
and rolling
back down
walking on
the same sidewalk
as this morning
when everything
was completely covered
in fog
now midday
and bright out
i can see the sights
i missed
this morning
i wonder if
a machine
could make the art
that i do
i think as far
as appearance
it would look the same
or better
but the point of art
is not that
it merely
be produced
but rather,
that it be born
from a genuine
human experience
otherwise,
what’s the point
a transient
sitting against
the store wall
flicks
a cigarette butt
still smoking
impressively far
—a futile display
of rage
against everything
my art benefits from my work and vice verse. chaos crispier structure and structure controls chaos. sitting focused on structure an artistic idea will occur in my subconscious. creative trying to make my work experience will move the ball forward.
I have an idea of my body of work the rest in my mind always stretching it self and trying on new limbs. meeting other bodies there in my mind and comparing itself taking from others to add and sometimes subtracting out of self-consciousness the body of work is imagined as its whole at onceSo that I can close my eyes and edit apart or move pieces around or have a sudden realization waking up in The Morning Show how to fix something I’ve been stumped on the body of work lives in my mind
there is a moment
where this said
would ring true
in your ears
with eyes
seeing the same
as the eyes
of these lips
that said so
how a cigarette
hangs
not yet lit
stuck
to the upper lip
resting
on the bottom
pointed down
looking cool
you’re not only working for yourself; you’re working for your clients, your team, your boss, and your future family. these people depend on you the same way that you depend on others. you have a responsibility to contribute as much as you can. you have your possessions, abilities, and life itself because of what others have given you—both from your nature and the atoms that were not yours until your soul enlivened your body, and from the nurturing that you received from your family, teachers, mentors, and peers. give back to this system with all that you have been given.
i feel like
an impostor
with
the up-for-work crowd
like i slept
last night
though i was
in the warehouse
eyes closed
trying to keep
my balance
in a different
kind of crowd
the trash truck
raises its arm
shaking the bin
like a drinker
leaning back
with a glass
for the last drop
i pull
a fuzzball
apart
then roll it
back together
and pull it
apart
again
i see how
these things
would happen
now
having seen
what i hadn’t
when i wondered
how
these things
could
writing a moment is like an astronaut observing a new planet. you have traveled all this distance to get here, and will only have this one chance to observe what you came to see, passing by. in that time, it is best to do no thinking and only recording. then, later on, endless analysis and editing can be done with the raw content captured from the moment of observation, which cannot be re-lived.
the one cup
measurement
is all i use
filling it halfway
instead of using
the half cup
i wait all week
for this one moment
on saturday morning
when the drone
of dribble from work
dies down
in my latent mind
cleansed by
a friday sleep
knowing there is no
office tomorrow
sitting down now
at a desk wherever
a coffee shop
to open my writing
and have all
flow forth
what was pent up
and refining itself
like a diamond under pressure
myself mining above
now descended
to the depths
to collect
i don’t want to actually experience that artificial depression madness sadness malaise as the experience itself is not so pleasant as it is to sit back removed and consider the possibility and ponder like watching a movie actor manufacture emotion interesting to think of what could happen to me or someone i love without it actually happening
a cute girl
a stranger
sitting next to me
in the backseat
gets out of the car
and closes the door
but not before
letting the cold in
to take her seat
traffic is often
dressed in
the red hue
of brake lights
glaring through
the windshield
into the backseat
where i
lay my head back
against the headrest
and exhale
sitting in an Uber
trance music
turns on
unexpectedly
in my AirPods
as my LTE
reconnects
transporting me
to another
fast-paced world
zooming
out of traffic
and along
neon highways
i keep thinking
this is it
like the end is near
or the sickness
won’t cure
this time around
making a promise
to god
if only just
a little longer
i look back
and realize
i’ve made many
of these promises
and god
has let me live
all this time
i wake up
with my heart
pounding
after a dream
of death
realizing this
will happen
someday
i don’t understand
how space works
right now
falling over
leaning on a wall
feeling for
a center of gravity
forgetting
how to stand
walking north
on divisadero
in the morning
once i climb
to the top
of the hill
and reach broadway
that is when
i first see
the ocean
out in front of me
and then
a little further
downhill
to vallejo
is when i can see
presidio forest
to my left
and i start
to feel better
walking is healthy for me when i have anxiety. just to get out and see some new spaces and get exercise without too much risk or danger. the longer the walk the better, getting into a sort of meditative state just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. especially if i can walk from inland out to the coast to see the water and horizon, reminding me there is more and i am small and it’s alright.
i think one reason for depression of the artist is that any good feeling must be immediately expelled into the receptacle of the art form, quickly before it passes.
art is about feeling—and for most, feeling cannot be controlled. so when a good feeling comes, the artist jumps to take advantage of it, by translation into her art form. while good may be produced in the art, there is none leftover for herself. this can lead to depression when the good is constantly poured into the art and never left for herself.
this idea, however, i now realize, is partially due to my own bias as an artist, as i am the type that produces only when i am feeling good, maybe because i think this is what is preferred by those to whom i will show my art.
but now, i wonder, what is it like to be an artist that produces from the bad feeling. does the same effect take place where the bad is expelled from the body and mind, and absorbed by the art? is this why art is sometimes used as therapy? is this the type of art people will want to consume? is that type of art, consumable art, the art that should be created?
i love someone
stifling
a smile
trying not
to laugh out loud
inappropriate
in a public place
covering their mouth
and shrugging their shoulders
turning away
from the crowd
to have a private joy
with a merry thought
that popped up
unexpected
i don’t trust my ups
when i know
there’s a down
right around the corner
ready to
pull me down harder
if i get higher
gaining momentum
during the fall
wind
whistling
in my ears
waiting
with
my hands
in
my pockets
underneath
an awning
where
the rain
does not
fall
sometimes we say
about ourselves
what others once
said about us
thinking we
are now
as they say
as i lay in bed
on a sunday
an oblong shape
of light moves
across the wall
through a small slit
in the shades
at first nearer
the arched doorway
and yellow
each time i stir
more golden, warm
closer to
the west wall
like a sun dial
an object
in motion
needs to stay
in motion
a machine
revving
for so long
might even
rev longer
if left to rev
rather than
stopped to rest
a fire
must burn
its fuel
to survive
it cannot
stop consuming
more fuel
nor can it
conserve the fuel
it already has
it must burn
until all
is burnt
because that is
what it is
for a fire
to be
it all is
what it is
and will go
as it will
lying here
not there
trying to wonder
what i can do
while resting
there is nothing
and must rest
sometimes
and let go
like a flame laying dormant unmoving needing to take in to burn and grow larger and larger given more fuel burning until all burnt and receding unable to stop even for self preservation to burn is to live for a flame no other way of going on so burning all the way to ember and eventually ashes once all is consumed
how deep
dare you go
into the alley
deeper
into the middle
the way out
is farthest
from either side
ten minutes
seems like
an eternity
drinking coffee
and listening
to trance
reading
getting lost
checking my watch
to see
when i should
leave
for work
realizing then
it’s only been
ten minutes
if you go to sleep with a clear and focused goal in mind, you will wake up with the ambition to achieve it
when it’s so hot there’s a yellow shimmer like the sun has bled into the air come nighttime that shimmer softens turning orange and utterly harmless
something as
abstract as
destiny
you will understand
only when
it occurs to you
and exclaim then
to one of those
whom you confide in
confused
asking why
can’t they understand
until realizing
you are more often
the one confided in
misunderstanding
everything you think makes an impact. a thought is created when you think, and that thought does not go away just when you stop thinking it. the thought enters your subconscious and stays their in your mind, manifesting itself in dreams, body language, intuition, etc. influencing your thoughts and actions subconsciously.
the words in the music you hear, in the books you read, and from conversations you eavesdrop on; the things you see looking out the car window, on the television screen, in your own living space. all this enters your mind through your senses.
a dream, for example, causes a chain reaction, where you wake up with the feeling of the dream, whether that is horror from violence or fear from losing a loved one, or joy from achievement or love from a dream of passion. these dreams are grown from a seed planted in the subconscious by the once conscious mind.
listening to the rain
in a sheet metal gutter
on the side of the building
making a hollow sound
dropping from the top
to the bottom
then flowing
like a city stream
over sidewalk
and to sewer eventually
(turns out
this poem i wrote
laying, hearing, imagining
was a lie
or a fiction at least
as i discovered
getting out of bed
for a glass of water
that the sound
which i thought was rain
was actually the radiator)
i check things
that have been checked
two or three times
already
sometimes
just moments before
zipping up my bag
just moments before
boarding my flight
and unzipping it
to check once more
that my laptop is there
or the front door at night
turning the knob
and pulling
to make sure
the bolt is latched
before bed
or opening and closing
my wallet
counting cards and ID
putting it in my pocket
then taking it back out
to open
and check again
opening the alarm app
on my phone
to ensure the alarm is set
for my early shift tomorrow
checking my schedule
over and over
to confirm the flight
is this week not next
sometimes
just laying here
there’s no art
to be gotten from it
necessarily
with a forearm
behind my head
laying on the couch
looking out the window
wishing i had a typewriter
on my lap
to write what i am feeling now
suddenly
not expecting to
or looking for
this tree that i can see
through the window screen
moving so slowly
in an imperceptibly
soft breeze
that catches me
here laying
not expecting anything
from this moment
that has become so beautiful
all of a sudden
that i am forced
to get up and grab my phone
and come back quickly
to the couch
back under the covers
to resume right into
what struck me suddenly
and tried to enjoy
alone and unwritten
but couldn’t
just too beautiful
and had to
start writing
robbing me
of these moments
just to be enjoyed
silently, wordlessly
i can’t
have to capture
something in me
can’t let the beauty go
and can’t see the value
in keeping it for myself
from a distance
the hills look soft
until the hike
takes you there
in the thick of it
slipping on
jagged rocks
stepping over
spiny brush
things are passive
before you know
passing by
eyes unprepared
to appreciate
a sight gone by
this mountain sky
laying here
in the lawn
fingers laced
behind my head
just watching
what passes
there is a role that requires full devotion from the actor in order to act it well. the role is described brilliantly by a screenwriter. actors that read the script are moved by it and are both awe-struck and afraid at the same time of the role. they discuss it amongst themselves abstractly but they know that the role cannot be fully understood until they start undertaking the method acting for the role. they don’t know who the screenwriter is that wrote the role. they find out towards the end that the writer killed himself shortly after he completed the screenplay. it is clear that the character consumed the writer. the plot of the story itself was merely a background to the descriptions of this character. the small group of actors timidly discuss who will be the first to try the role. the main theme is contemplating what a personality can become …
a little off lately
after two
earthquakes
in san francisco
in the same week
now
taking off
and that moment
on a plane ride
when you float
just briefly
i pick up one foot
for a step
and set it down
just an
inch or two
below where i’d except
my world
shaking and flying
just a little
off lately
like i said
like seeing yourself in a mirror, not knowing it’s yourself, and judging your appearance objectively, thinking i am beautiful or i am not, and then realizing it is yourself, and also realizing what you truly are
a fly
flies around
my face
i swat at it
trying to
stay focused
on my phone
but it
easily evades
having avoided
a thousand swats
to have lived
this long
as a fly
when i realize
these things
must be handled
deliberately
i stop looking
at my phone
long enough
to get up
and grab a shoe
and that
was the end
for the poor fly
it’s when life gets really good that i’m most afraid to lose it. other times i get drunk and couldn’t care less. the foolish part is thinking during the bad, that good times won’t come again; they always do.
like a loud scream from far away
whistling between gusts of wind
like you’ve stuck your head inside
a jet engine
coming audibly through
the half cracked bathroom window
that shows light from the neighbor’s
open window next door
and in the mirror
half torsos hanging from the shower rod
that are really just shirts hanging to dry after being washed
I keep having this recurring dream that I have missed a flight that I have paid a lot of money for. It upsets me and I wake up in a bad mood. I think it is because I am so conscious of being frugal and saving my money recently. I want to make economic progress for myself and for my partner. I am also worried about my job. I have worked hard to get into this position and I don’t want to lose it. I feel conflict with my lifestyle outside of work, both my social life and my artistic life. I struggle to maintain these other lives that are important to me but could be detrimental to my professional reputation. Like my friend Lake said, everything seems to matter more now. There is more at stake and more going on at once, and everything has to be balanced in relation to one another.
Watching the lights like you haven’t before been smitten lying on my back on Saturday through the shades from light reflected off of car windows making shapes on the ceiling that entertain me before a nap between morning work and lunchtime
baby playing
a dangerous game
with a cup
of black coffee
in bed
with white sheets
i used to run
when i was young
to get out my energy
my mom would say
run around the house
but now
with bad knees
i have to find
new ways of tiring
enough in the day time
in order to sleep
come bed time
the same old lady
in the pink robe
crouches every morning
in front of the yellow
metal newsstand
reading front page headlines
through the glass door
that you must pay a quarter
in order to open
crouching there reading
for a few minutes
the full front page
and then walking away
maybe to find a quarter
Short story about a man who wonders on his bus rides home about making more of himself. Hands folded, elbows on his knees, hunched over, thinking as he usually was at this time—bumping along in the back of the bus.
i stood here
and dripped
in my shower towel
writing
my wet hair
on my forehead
seeing as
i sprung from
the still spitting shower
with a thought in mind
and only now
with it down
realize i am standing
in a puddle
and the shower
still going
poetry i can write only
once
not before or after
that very moment
which gives birth
like a stubborn
truth-telling muse
refusing to repeat herself
and shaking her finger
for the ones i can’t remember
seeing a dead bird
on the sidewalk
reminding me
that life-filled things
like this one
once flying
can suddenly
become lifeless
laying here
now dead
very dead
standing
at the back
of the bus
looking through
the security latch
left open
getting a 6-inch view
of the city
(building tops
mostly)
fighting the crowd
walking out of downtown
on the sidewalk
on the side of montgomery
making me wonder
if it is after work hours
like i thought
not used to
swimming upstream
when i thought everyone
was supposed to be
heading home
and making me think now
that i might have
mixed up the afternoon
with the morning
watching the face
of one experiencing joy
as their eyes open
and a smile creeps
at the corners of their mouth
and their cheek muscles relax
when at first
immersed completely
in the joy
until the eyebrow creases
and the nostrils flare
now wondering
how long will this joy last
shadow shapes
speed
across the ceiling
i see
laying in bed
as cars cast
their light
through the window
passing by
if i can forget
quickly
that i am a writer
reading
my own work
i can almost
offer criticism
outside of
my fragile ego
pushing up
my sleeve cuff
to check the time
only to find
a bare wrist
telling me nothing
realizing both
that i forgot to wear
my watch today
and i didn’t really
need to know
the time anyway
going back
to what i was doing before
thinking i might
leave my watch at home
more often
night
rhymes with
light
which rhymes
with right
—such
is the profound
rhyme scheme
around which
all my poetry
revolves
standing
on the corner
when you have to
cross both ways
to get to
the corner
diagonal
and don’t
really care
if it is the left
or right light
that turns first
glare really gets me
gotten out of the bulb
and onto
something shiny
stinging
like the first light
in the morning
as demon hands
grab hold
of the pupil rim
and pull it tight
to shut out the light
walking
a city block
you’ll see a red hand
come into view
at the intersection
up ahead
and maybe a number
beside it
counting down
or
if you’re lucky
a white man
telling you to walk
but the trick
is to time your steps
depending on when
you see the signal
slowing
if the red hand
is already counting down
and there’s no way
for you to make it
so as to reduce
your time
waiting at the corner
if arriving
just as the red hand
turns solid
or speeding up
if you see the white man
to catch it in time
and cross
playing this game
on mornings
you’ve decided to walk
instead of
taking a car or bus
sometimes
getting lucky
and catching the white man
for blocks in a row
it feels like a hotel
to leave the room
in my socks
and close the door quietly
so as not to wake baby
and creep downstairs
to look out the window
at the dialog box
checking the times
to see if the bus
runs this early
i want to jump up
and hang from that bus wire there,
holding on
just barely above traffic,
not so far away from the city,
but still safe for sure,
looking up from the sidewalk
corner at night,
waiting for the light to change
after a while
wondering
what your hand
has been held by
hanging
off the wrist
waiting
weightless
for forearm
to strengthen
and grab hold
i wonder about
optimizing
in the opposite direction,
for less
instead of more.
i wonder about
getting out of the city
and into the mountains.
i wonder about
tending to a garden
instead of
going to the grocery store.
i wonder about
spending my time
instead of
saving my money.
i wonder about
calculating how
to make a little last
instead of
how to make more.
i wonder if
i would get to the mountains,
and after a short period
of reprieve with less,
begin quickly again
to wonder about
having more.
fast such
that it does not
gain much
going that way
quickly
even quicker than
what is required
of any
possible
on-time arrival
I always have these thoughts walking to lunch on Monday after a hard morning having to reign in my weekend mind to work struggling to focus it first but eventually getting back into the routine and then finally at lunch getting back out when do you start Russian after just a brief period of being bottled
Imagine a bed with two lovers way up high. they cannot see how far the fall would be beneath them and there is nothing at all to see around them or upwards, other than a dull light nothingness almost like the color of a cloud. they hang their arms and legs off the side and imagine what it would be like to fall. they jump on the bed and so can understand the concept of gravity and falling. they wonder what it would be like to jump and not land on the bed. they are born this way, in love and only knowing one another and their limited mattress life, thought they don’t see it as limited, because it is all they’ve ever known. until one morning, one lover wakes up to find that the other is not there. he wonders if she somehow ascended, but is almost certain that she has fallen. then he wonders whether it was intentional or by accident. his life changes completely now, without her. he only knew life with another. he only knew life in love. now he finds himself thinking to himself instead of sharing everything out loud. he has no outlet for the physical expression of his love. he begins a relationship with himself, because that is the only person there is left to have a relationship with, unless he were to make the intentional decision to jump off the bed. he even has a passing thought that he might find her if he were to do so.
imagine a world where every human is born into anarchy and must live the first 18 years of their life in that anarchy and then on the 18th birthday can decide which government they wish to participate in: A capitalistic democracy, a communist or socialist state, a dictatorship with a preselected dictator, or to remain an anarchy. you have to imagine the invalids, deadbeats, and criminals would either remain in anarchy or otherwise choose the capitalist or the socialist state and pose as a capitalist or socialist in order to take advantage of the system. So then there should also be tests in order to gain access to each system. Presumably the highest standards would be for the cavalier society that wants competitive and capable individuals to make the market more efficient and productive the second tier would be the socialist state that still requires work from individuals but cares less of individuals less capable, dealership would have less standards because presumably the demand for this government would be low in the first place and the dictator would need lower standards just to have some volunteers. And of course the anarchy would have no standards at all that would be the state of nature. So therefore what you decide to do with the first 18 years of your life determines in a very definite way your quality-of-life thereafter and also completely voluntarySocial contract for the government you participate in. It should be similar i imagine to preordained marriage in the sense that you’re more committed to an institution that you choose yourself.
baby sleeping in
on saturday morning
says she
likes my cold hands
having returned from
a morning shift
on her warm body
under covers
you can’t think like that
when you’re in it
wondering why
you’re not out
because before
entering in
from the outside
you decided
of your own free will
to do so
and must remember
not to think
like an outsider
once you’re in
i feel that everything
is progressing
moving forward
as it must
in order for
space
that would be
stagnant
to churn
and turn over
turning into
something else
which
in this case
is so good
that I try
to churn faster
i expect the world
to develop faster
for me
having had
my coffee
and expecting time
to move faster
to match my perception
of space
coming sooner
Deep and pitted in the mental pathway digging deeper seated upright coffee keep me here elbows at ninety degree angles on desk chair armrests perfectly parallel to the desk on which keyboard rests and fingers creating on the screen what keeps mind so focused and actually enjoying with the coffee high this work as much as I would relaxing
I get giddy like a kid again looking forward and hoping excited for what’s to come like everything’s ahead and coming my way
feeling good wanting to say spread about but keeping quiet to let it be and hopefully last this feeling like a medicine spreading and making my skin warm in a sunny day at lunchtime when i am about to eat and have made plans with baby tonight
I am loose with my money in the early morning or late at night when the day seems like it may not come and my savings will be useless
I wonder if he is like me
I wonder as he walks by
looking me in the eyes
and then wondering
from his perspective
if he knows I am like him
Is art what happens naturally? What you think on your own before it’s shared? Even before your superego can get a hold of what your dreaming id produced in the night? Or is it what is edited and curated for the masses? Brought to the table for conversation so that it may be consumed and enjoyed by many more than yourself. For art seems also to be the two sides of the same coin on the sidewalk or street no matter where in the world I walk, and these two sides are the individual and the community, the ego and society. For as much as we wish to be ourselves, we wouldn’t want to be anything if not for others; and so too for our art. An artist, like me, wants so much to be unique and one-of-a-kind. The same type as a musician that refuses to listen to “pop” music on the radio or disdains sell-outs for producing art aimed at commercial success. But if the market accurately reflects the demands of the masses, though surely not individual, it seems to me to be just as much “art” as the avant-garde off in the corner trying to sniff out anything at all that hasn’t been seen before.
having to find
a bathroom
to go humanely
when any bin,
bucket, basin,
or brick wall
of any kind
would suit me
just fine
with the heat hot like it is i can’t sleep on an indian summer morning and have to get out closed tight from under the bed sheets baking in there so i can explode and spread out in the combustion and at least spread out of my skin that the sticky sheets close in
this morning has it like i know i need last night to do what is been planning to but without any energy left over after a long day so had to sleep but now up early at a quarter after four sitting at the edge of the bed wondering what place opens this early in this city so i can get out of the studio while baby is still sleeping and get to work
i saw
across the street
in an apartment
which normally
has its shades drawn
two friends
sitting at a table
talking
then two more friends
opened the front door
and came in through
the long hallway
and the friends
at the table
raised their arms
and the friends
coming in
raised their arms too
and all embraced
and it made me happy
as i had just gotten home
and stood
in my own apartment
alone
if you are sure
of what you say
you will say it
loud and clear
the first time
and not repeat
there are more
things with names
walking down
the city street
than there are
walking on a trail
in the woods
—or at least more
of the names
that i know
—being that i know
the makes
and models of cars
and names for
certain types of people
better than
the species of trees
or types of stone
—so when in the city
i can say about
the businessman
and the BMW
or the gas prices
at $3.95
but in the forest
i can only say
there are trees,
rivers and rocks
and lots of them
a sagging
metal clothes rod
in the closet
where
the hangers hang
with heavy sweaters
too often
in the middle
—still the rod
serves its purpose
just as well
as a straight rod
holding clothes
hanging
above the floor
—until the day
it finally snaps
and we’ll have to
buy a new one
in the aisle seat
of row eighteen
on the airplane
bound for oakland
another passenger
i watch
from the window seat
holds out her hand
for the flight attendant
with spread fingers
as if her arm
were a tree branch
and the stewardess
coming by with her cart
rather than
pour water in a cup
and hand it to her
would walk by
with a spray bottle
and spray her
humanoid
branch hand
for sustenance
i think of that painting
we passed on
that i liked
and stood there
looking at
for some time
on the second floor
of an eclectic gallery
until baby asked
if we should get it
and i asked the attendant
the price
which is when
we passed
and left
—thinking back now
i haven’t spent
that money
on anything else
i’ve liked
nearly that much
the feeling
of exacticity
you get
observing
something
multi-colored
against
a monochrome
surface
like a handful
of sunflower seeds
in a peachy palm
i appreciate
the preparedness
of plane stewards
making flight
seem safe
head rested against
the rained on window
watching
the wet white line
at road’s edge
trucks passing
shocking
so close
coming the other way
on the other side
of the middle
yellow line
the water vapor
rising
between trees
from hot springs
confuses me
wondering why
the clouds
are so low
not this one
painted on my eyes
a realist landscape
passed through
a watercolor filter
behind closed eyelids
maintained by some
abstract light
getting through
and some memory
refining the edges
a short trip napped out
with clear tucked in
points of entry
and untucked exits
while all else
dreamed between
remains unchartered
water droplets
on the outside
of the car window
making a light
pitter patter
each
its own shape
some thin
and long
others small
and circular
each growing larger
as another
lands on top
gaining
enough weight
to slide
slightly down
like a snowball
absorbing mass
from other droplets
on the descent
streaking
faster
until joining
the fallen ‘fore
in a small stream
at the base
of the window
only so much
to write about
in the absence out here
quiet
and mostly
staying the same
other than
trees growing
and clouds moving
surely
but so slowly
imperceptibly
nature taking its time
refusing demands
of the human world
to grow faster
unnaturally
needing
an occasional trip
like this
to step off
the giant wheel
that spins
faster than most
thought it would
they call this place
big sky
i know now
on the back deck
in a rocking chair
looking out
at the expanse
covered in complete
white cloud
without obstruction
other than
the pine trees
that form
the bottom border
of the big sky
water drops
along the bottom edge
of the wood railing
forty or fifty
along the length
each holding on
out of the corner of my eye
one drops
to splash
on the already wet deck
glancing back
and forth
along the length
trying to catch the moment
when a drop becomes
big and sagging
near the end
and loses its grip
suppose that some times
were better than others
remembering
and wishing to be back there
something now
reminding you
of what was then
to go off into this other place
and time
lived only on after
in a blurring
and erring optimistic
memory
all throughout the house
each in its own corner
a book at shelf’s end
an outlet above the baseboard
a stool underneath the desk
cushions on couch
handles and hinges on doors
glass in window panes
lived in sometimes
opened, walked through
twisted, turned on
heated, cooked, cleaned
but often left
just to be a house
out here
alone in the woods
raining outside
of the window
ripples
in each puddle
interrupted
by the ripples
of new drops
at some points
of the roof
where the flow
is frequent
there are streams
falling
from the shingle ends
at others points
there are
less frequent drops
making noise
muted
by the window glass
knowing me on a misty morning like this in big sky Montana looking out from the deck seeing my breath the same color as the clouds the nestle down into the cleavage of the mountains like a woman’s necklaceThe soft and frequent pitter patter of rain that drops on my phone screen and the wet wood will become more frequent and harder later in the day the weather report tells us which is why we walking up early to make the drive to Yellowstone
I knows breeze in cold air in my mouth exhales vapor why I see the same trees this all last night now presumably just a little taller and a little more wet from the night rain chopped firewood place stacked at the mouth of the forest quite a lot of firewood next to two stops that must’ve been the contributors onetreeMust’ve been about twice as thick as the other judging from the chopped wood in the stumps some trees fall and naturally I wonder why those were not first used for the firewood seems like a good alternative to use a dead day instead of shopping at a living thing
on after and into what wouldn’t have been possible prior to what presently is more poignant than trying to remember
It is most often between generics and specifics choosing whether to lift off and leave earth or stay grounded in a real and present reality. The difference between being that with specifics you are committed. There is a time and place and to say one thing starts you down that path so that if you say something completely different halfway through then the reader will say wait a minute, this is not what I expected. Whereas with generics there are mostly pronouns and non-descript adjectives (the types of adjectives that could describe anything).
inward skies drift outward from mind’s eye into What was once water in the lake below now drifted up into vapor from the water surface that reflects it moving on drifting so this sky is a change of sceneThe same clouds that hide the stars at night giving a sense of soft safe protection aboveAround mountain peaks in the distance soon to return earth word in this rain
Inside painting cloud so I’d like a canvas three jobs against it clearly moving just enough to know it’s still real
edited: Inside a painting on the back porch clouds so white like a canvas the trees against it the green trunk spine branched tops defined so clearly against sky moving just enough to know it’s still real compared to trees against the forest so ambiguous seeing a forest for the trees wrapped in a blanket internally warm enough so my breath turns immediately to vapor making it harder to see through the smoke into the painting
unable to tell whether the clouds have changed or not being the same white overhead and no city noise to tell you when people are getting to or leaving work and your hunger the only clock telling you the time since your last meal and maybe tired at some point in the day napping if so in the leather sofa under the vaulted cedar ceiling waking and need needing to or at least laying my head back down and keeping my eyes open thinking as little as possible letting what happen will in the world outside this montana cabin off far away from what i will soon return to
how to have an experience with water flooring for the white waterfall in between being here and closing my eyes and folded my hands sitting on the rock next to the river or looking up eyes open thinking trying to speak about it this caused a conflict between being realizing realizing to matter now do you talk more specifically like the clusters of white bubbles created by the base of the waterfall that float down the river over and between rocks protruding above the surface easily seen as the water is so clear and broken temper falling into the river poking out of the water lead up against the Rockwall creating a bridge tears of stone face showing years of the riverCutting through the college drone of the water creating a nice background so I can barely hear the edges of my voice just the water going down the right hitting each tear and tell hitting the water in the white
The world rewards persistence Neil says referring to the river cutting through the rocks creating the waterfall right now see it says give something enough time and it will have an impact I think the myself that’s a tragedy of it that we only have so much time
feeling with fingertips plant leaves reaching for the side of the trail here in the crunch of gravel under sneakers my friends carrying on conversations in twos six of us total three sets of two is that with the width of the trail will allow here in the waterfall still has a distance behind us one story takes over everyone listen to the laughs
The trail Narrows now conversations trail off the width only allowing one at a time so you have to turn around to talk to the person behind you so naturally talking last and looking around and keeping to ourselves more
Only so much you could write about the woods with words needing colors to get around the edges of each individual rock or each fine Pineneedle on the trail of varying length a word we’re just say rock or Pineneedle and less mathematically down on hands and knees measuring and describing to the decimal point each size a painting send all these numbers automatically to the eyes so a meditative exercise conjuring up general words to describe a pleasant for scene as if to just repeat the word tree tree tree leaves leaves leaves brock brock brock rock is what I meant to say and these doing the job of words to country up memories of your own nature scenes
creating making more being in what you are see you can see here feel remembering like this before wondering if it is the same and if New how knew where? At the edges? Just barely different? Or completely nothing ever seen before or the same using memory words taught and rememberedOr new words shouted naturally whispered maybe sounds recorded that may not fit letters
Disorienting at the edge of a cliff to look out and see and get so far into that site forgetting your own feet at the edge almost leaning forward into the picture forgetting you’re funny then to waiver and feel the wind remembering your own place and stepping backYour own body and its limitations causing the loss of the site and even more than that you saw it but that you were in it and part of it if not for your physical keeping you bodily
on a straight away sent now good golly getting into it having covered some distance heading the middle part they never seems to end on and on like try not to watch the time to get past farther faster checking stepping
you’re asking too much of your experience want to get to last longer otherwise be more when it is as overwhelms finitely as Humanizer created for Keeping the sensation of touch in your hand only as long as you hold onto what you’ve picked up when you drop it to pick up something else you can not keep what you had before the same as when you turn your head to trade one site for another or walk farther on the trail see to be somewhere else entirely so you must go and taken only what comes when it does and work hard to be taking in Nothing other than what has come
i get into
one thing
and find out
there is another
that has come
of the one
so have to
decide whether
to finish the one
and be done with it
or press on
with the other
unplanned for
i get more and more
up and outside
realizing
there is a mind
that decides
and sets the body
in motion
and the body then
runs along
until the mind
thinks up
something different
the realization
being that
the mind and body
though supposed
to belong
to the same
are often different
for the mind
that would decide
often does
at first at least
but then becomes
affected
by what the body does
and begins
to think a little differently
it makes me nervous
to fly
when i’ve work
unfinished
i tell baby
before i go
just in case
to publish everything
i’d honestly
rather stay
and not even sleep
until i finish
but i must relax
both because
there will be
what there will
and i have
no control
a puzzle piece
i found
fitting perfectly
between
what i had before
beginning and end
but not much more
than muddle
without that middle
bringing it all
together
tried to rise
but in that time
that i decided to wake
after i’d gotten
my head off the pillow
but sometime before
i could get my feet
on the floor
my body pushed out
of my tired mind
that waking thought
and here i am now
finally waking
but sometime after
when i first
tried to rise
an old man passed out plainly in broad daylight his arm stretched out resting on top of the bench his head laid-back and mouth wide-open add a day darker did yesterday and the leaves blowAlong the cement in a cool breeze making a scratching noise the wind in my ears as I walked bye
so long as you are yourself you must be that you cannot release completely just like the universe cannot you maybe part of it and wishing to melt into it but the same principle applied to one individual knowing that the universe at large is also an individual and some cents would cause everything to unravel so you must hold together as a building block of everythingIf everything is to remain built and not let loose and subtly destroyed
nothing added to The Girl on California Street or The Speech-To-Text Experiment from this point on from September 28
It’s like a diamond with the pressure from my work and the poetry gets crystallized in the middle when I thought it was all gone and was forcing it only getting out some that wasn’t really that good so it decided to take break which is when it was allowed to crystallize as it did in my subconscious and become more naturally those slightly less more quality coming from what I actually felt as opposed to what I attempted to manufactureAnd the pressure of being helpful so to stay energized and motivated working on something more of the world less creative but I have that energy mat by the equal and opposite reaction of art so the harder I work the more I create
the sun hits
the windshields
of cars passing
by
on california
just right
to shoot up
through our window
and into my eye
awake and into the world remembering how things are especially around lunchtime when you are reminded you must eat and go to the sandwich shop to pay with dollars that you must have kept track of and seeing all the other people eating and doing other things that they’re supposed to getting into this world all day going back to the office and sitting at your desk and doing the job that you’re supposed to that you’ve done before so keeping on this track and almost going on auto pilotIt becoming easy to keep up with your routine and home at night to rest and then wake up when there’s a chance that it’s really all new having had some time to close your eyes and think of nothing so for getting partially what is usually done and more personally what it is that you were supposed to do and not yet being so hungry nor needing more rest so being able to get away from food and shelter for a short while and left off into a blank space where could creation really a curse for me running about and waving my arms and shouting gibberish throwing it all gets the campus words that made out rhyme and notes that may be definite are attached to a world that must make senseBut here is where creation happens created being that which is new and of course must crash land at times bringing nonsense back to the real world what other times you might bring it back and others will say oh yes why have we not had this before
You can win because you can cheat pushing to appear like a fake plant in the store rather than one that is growing in the wild with only so much water and sunshine each day a plant that was built to constructed to be as big as no matter the materials being no cost and the builder being paid multiple builders even with green to back the world gets constructed this wayAnd sometimes even a fake plant looks real
My heart has now started to create a reproductive life of its own as I can read what I wrote before and it inspired me to write something related
from this apartment inside one drape pulled over and letting lighted half the window mustering energy while music plays and water runs teeth brushing barely morning on a Saturday up earlier the first few voices outside the window generating life and momentum here just ourselves to date contained in a small studio apartment that would stay here if not for the screens connected to what is called the Internet and these keyboards with letters that constitute the English language and phones that now have computers inside of themWith photos that we took last night using the camera that is also part of the same phone baby laying in bed and editing the photos I sitting here on the couch typing about last night perfectly happy to stay inside especially with this connection to the rest of the world where we can capture art on technology and send it out to our friendsAnd even new people who have become our friendsOdd to have such a connection while at the same time being so private
it’ll never be enough i know now watching my friends make their money and remembering at one point in 2005 or earlier when i was about ten two dollars was a lot for what my brother and i could buy at the corner store but now in san francisco 2019 i believe more of the stories about greedy men seeing how more made is seamlessly spent and getting used to what can be afforded but not only that but more so seeing those around you (and especially those just slightly above you) forgetting that ten year old happy with a bag of candy
baby modeling for me
taking photos
she gets this
glassy look in her eyes
like she’s forgotten
who she is
and can relax
in front of the camera
buttons being pressed promptly so the system may learn you as a keeper of the code that may gain admittance here at least just for that knowledge and the ability to press it in and hear the buzz that only holds the door open so long enough to get through and close it behind you so the next must also be a keeper to get through
things fall that i fumble with losing touch with reality in the particular ways that physical matter requires to interact such that it does not make complete sense to me why a coffee cup should stand still on an even table and slide in a slant so i’m cautious about putting anything down anywhere and walk carefully like a man on stilts quickly to each light pole holding on like the world might tip upside down at any moment
i try to get the coffee high
with the weed don’t worry
and baby pushing me forward
while meditation holds me present
so ending up in the middle
of a four-direction compass
staying steady on the first dimension
while riding all the time
on the second
there is a line created
by baby’s body
when she lays
on her left side
facing me
facing the window
from which the morning light
comes over my shoulder
and onto her chest
making a shadow
where her breast
has its fullness
creating a dark line
like a fish hook
that any human
can recognize
as the outline
of one side
of a woman’s chest
i wonder if
feeling is the same
as being felt
i wonder if
movie actors have time
to be themselves
i wonder if
those who run the world
know that they do
i wonder if
work will go by
fast or slow
i wonder if
our landlord will finally
fix our fridge today
i wonder if
baby
really loves me
i wonder if
the company
will make it
i wonder if
my brother
will be alright
i wonder if
sleeping with baby
makes my back
better or worse
i wonder if
or when
my body will start to fail
like my dad’s
i wonder if
my dad was like me
when he was young
i wonder if
my mom
still has hope
i wonder if
i’m doing the right thing
i wonder if
i’ll feel the same way
when i’m older
big concrete blocks
from construction
clanging in the lift
mixing with the idle motor
making street noise
in the early morning
marking a new city day
with the spirit of building
and “must be done”
settling into their new
truck bucket home
before being transported
to be blocks elsewhere
there are three
thing i need
phone, wallet,
and keys
—so long as
i have
these three
there is nothing
bothering me
nettles nay say
no regard
sounds like
violet beauregarde
a movie character
fictional
who i mentioned
to baby last night
about eating
too many blueberries
and turning blue
now creeping
this morning
into my
writing rhyming
subconscious
a light
above the front door
reaches out
down the steps
like an open hand
for the traveler
that might have
otherwise
walked on past
for me
it is like this
i know
for you
it may not be
i see
and for he
who knows
whether to be
or not
let’s find him
and ask him
hey mister
why not
needing to get into
this particular place
where no one need
overwhelms my
motivation
making it easier
to step off
of the curb
and not land
on the street
but rise up
even above
the building tops
even on
a wednesday
when i worked today
and will work tomorrow
but can
still stay lifted
in a midweek
of moments like this
leaving
and not coming back
seeing up
at night
dressed in
a soft light
not quite
dark as
it will be
soon enough
on a warm
summer evening
i miss the bus
and care not
because
it is
a warm
summer evening
walking
on the sidewalk
looking up
seeing a spire
in the skyline
holding up
my phone
trying
to catch it
but not
without zoom
so i walk
further
up montgomery
holding my phone
watching the spire
grow nearer
until pine
i realize
the angle
is impossible
with another building
in the way
my brain is always
trying to write
but i have to
hold it back
and only write
when it’s right
when it gets to me
in a moment
all at once
so i don’t start in
and end up
with just
half a poem
hanging off
that glare
creeps crawls
shining sneaking
from the ceiling light
through open space
and onto the phone screen
that makes a cutting
bright white light
like a knife
getting into my eye
and cutting past
my cornea
into my brain
confusing everything
like a shock
all of a sudden
i can’t see
and have to turn
the phone screen
back over
i look at the clock
above the stove
afraid to see
the time
but see instead
the oven timer
counting down
at about
three and a half
minutes left
—i am thankful
to see a time
with no consequence
for my life
other than
there are two-hundred
and ten seconds
remaining
until i need to take
the hard boiled eggs
off the burner
there are twenty
or so seats filled
when i step on
the one bus
at six in the morning
—i take my seat
toward the back
and close my eyes
like i usually do
to get some extra rest
on the way to work
—i listen for the beeps
which are each
another passenger
scanning their card
and stepping on
—i can imagine
how full
the bus has become
but i can not see
until, listening
for my stop,
the announcer says
“montgomery”
and i open my eyes
to see forty
or fifty people now
standing in the aisles
holding the hand rails
shoulder to shoulder
—standing up
i have to say
“excuse me”
and fight through
a maze
to get off
what comes from
the candle flame
dancing through
its glass holder
and mixing with
the shelf light
together
make quite a show
on the outside
of the white
shower curtain
so standing
under the water
watching
i forget
how long it’s been
i look at myself
in the mirror
in the dark
for long enough
that i wonder
if it is really me
or just another
dark object
in the room
—i stand still
for as long
as i can bear
thinking
i may no longer
be myself
but have become
something else
—until i can’t
take it any longer
and raise my arms
to see
in the mirror
the almost unidentified
dark object
do the same
—and so can
crawl back into bed
with less fear
of waking up
as something else
a massive TV
at the neighbor’s
so big
i can see
through the window
all the way
across the street
—i think of
getting out
my binoculars
to watch
what they’re watching
less as a thing itself
more as its parts
that which is becoming
resulting from
what happens naturally
just as it would
without a forethought
for what is made
from constituent parts
more attention on each part
as if it were
a whole itself
making one by one
giving each no title
no summary
until after the fact
when it’s all said and done
and can be seen
for what it is
then can finally
be called
a thing itself
I worry it will all come crashing down like what is happened won’t continue or I’ll forget to do how to do what I’ve done the tower built into the sky when all the sudden the foundation and the bottom floors CampbellWatching almost to not continue to not make progress for fear that it will disappear blah blah blah this one is a good isn’t good is not not not not
a steady stream
of honey
from the bottle
held
unnecessarily high
above the plate
forming at first
globbed tiers
like stalagmites
holding their form
only briefly
before melting
into an undistinguished
larger glob
making sense to me
as an individual
at first unique
then born into
a uniform mass
baby scares me
sometimes
like she’d leave
her hand
on the stove
if i wasn’t there
to pull it away
carried on counting keeping careful tabs calculating making sure amounts match up perfectly placed weights balancing so that records can be kept track of current and up-to-date figuring for what otherwise seems ambiguous and uncounted and therefore not understood or able to be made useful determining where there was too much and where there was two little reallocating and budgeting to spend just enough for a return of increasing percentage learning from numbers to make more and sometimes subtract accessTo ensure that cost your profits the numbers are put to work
feeling mattering more as long as you’re all right OK enough carrying on what is actually mattering only in so far as it is connected by some formula or calculation to how you feel not being completely off the sun still generally making warm and feel good but still sometimes the opposite sun burning and turning away so what there is mattering almost not at all except for what will kill and end everything needing to pay particular attention to danger but otherwise not mattering color words shapes time and events passing having no effect other than the effect that you won’t be interpreting fact by way of feeling and giving human weight to matter only in the case that it is interpreted or thought of or felt but otherwise just being on its own meaningless almost I want to say but being so humanist and I thought nothing could possibly could possibly matter beyond or outside of us similar to the thought I have about my own ego myself mattery more so I thought until age 23 or so but now thinking at least that man matters others matter but that empathy still not extending outside my species I suppose the next step by age 50 or soOr maybe quicker that empathy will extend to living things and then maybe before dying it will extend to everything and maybe nothing as well
looking after things differently even when extras and efficiency is often overlooked into the access that would seem to provide enough even after quite some time having consumed and consumed with an attitude of leaving nothing left but still more comes and produces even for ungrateful hunger asking nothing in return
watching a cafe work cups stacked in a six or seven towers each twenty tall newcomers falling into line as they have before knowing the drill paying with bills or more often cards nowadays that move around the right numbers to motivate the workers to show up in the morning and do their jobs well outing coffee over ice opening black fridge doors beneath the counter that reveal glowing white interiors full of milk and other vital morning sustenance putting lids on cups for to-goers and grinding more beans clicking cash register keys sliding glass doors that both keep pastries fresh at the same time as having them be on display for customers choosing pointing through the glass that one no that one to the left right there yes the gurgle of the frothy milk foam spout steam and more beans grinding customers waiting with their arms crossed waiting for their cup to be called and then smiling stepping forward the operation running smoothly like choreography for a play where everyone has rehearsed their parts well and act candid as if it were not a shower but really real life so the hunger and thirst seems real and they are genuinely excited to receive their coffee or bagel but relaxed not so serious like they might not eat otherwise knowing there is another cafe next door but casually and expecting it having gotten used to a life of nearly guaranteed survival that the world of order has created which makes cafe choreographed machines possible
i used to care about surviving, then i cared about truth. now i care about art, which i’ll hold onto as long as i can, until eventually caring about nothing, whether by death or an ascetic buddhist spirituality.
i know a man
under the highway
on second street;
he paints all day
on scraps of cardboard
—i noticed today
that he paints white
over the cardboard
that he has already painted
with multi-colored lines
in broad strokes
and then paces along the curb
with his hands behind his back
waiting for
the white paint to dry
so he can paint again
you don’t need
to write it all
i remind myself
—write some
and leave the rest
for later
i thought our tree,
less yellow leaves
and branches perky,
seeming to respond well
being nearer the window,
was looking better
—but now i’m not sure
it depending on the day
and my mood
how things appear
as i look at them
at once sad and drooping
and then not long after
joyous and upright
this being the same tree
that we’re talking about
which, in reality,
is just the same, all along
let it be left and lost that Which doesn’t carry on itself after anything more important then the next step looking back and seeing where it came from but forgetting to look forward and keep stepping striding even running without paying any mind to it created his legs that run as long as it keeps going and becoming the past not mattering except for its contribution to exist now
Typing a whole thing out and having it be lost the phone accidentally erasing and forcing me to think of whether it was worth it in the first place
It’s not the beginning or end of the world just eat it is good for you without becoming too hungry or too satisfied keeping on the straight road careful not to dig or fly too far
when i went home to kansas for a short while in june, i put on a st. christopher necklace that i found in a ceramic box in the kitchen counter. i wore it for the time i was home and it made my mom happy to see her soon wearing a symbol of his catholic upbringing. when i got back to san francisco the st. christopher pendant fell of the second day i was back, and i thought that was ironic. now i just wear the silver necklace. i suppose my mom still thinks i am wearing it with the pendant attached, and i surely won’t be telling her otherwise.
The fog locks you down and you were here you were going nowhere else this is it look up and all you see is white even the upper half of the buildings are cut off like anybody on the 20th floor and higher doesn’t exist walking on the sidewalk you feel safe like if the world were to tip upside down you just fall into the cushions of the clouds no hope of a son that is going to set or riser a moon that comes up at night just this eternal day the same amount of light getting through the same temperature and the same thing to be done over and over until it’s finished The fog is for working world and nothing else
her kisses are loud in my ear
like you wouldn’t expect
from such a soft thing
supposed to be sweet
but crashing loud, hurting even
so close to the drum
I was really in a good cut that riding car down the side of the sidewalk seeming wider than usual feeling good about what I had written reading it sometime after forgetting it’s what I wrote I need it just to avoid the normal rushed hours like noon for lunch at 8 AM for the commute to work if I just wake up a little earlier at six to go to lunch at 1 PM I can get out on my own and see what I came forWithout having to dodge her out so many other pedestrians and wait my turn just to see
after about it now left got up from the low but if it’s a good feeling in my chest and happy just to walk in the breeze like I forget to be thankful for so often smiling for no reason and looking curiously everywhere curiously at what has appeared to be so many times but is now somehow different seeming like an opportunity an opening at offer unless I danger less like a car that might hop the curb and kill meMore like a modern Momento of innovation of them
sometimes thinking nothing could go wrong like now sitting in the sun in the early afternoon and other times thinking everything already has gone wrong and can’t ever be changed or get better swinging like this and wondering how to stay but when I get out and spend some time and try to doctorate everything changes and can’t experience the art of emotion throwing me this way and that out of my control which being myself I love meant to a certain degree because I’m the one who asked to go through it but from the outside if I were to see it like a book or a movie but quite enjoy the art of it after all it is the highs and the lows and even the sideways that are most interesting to sit with my eyes closed and be calm is not that externally interesting like a movie but maybe if we had to take the camera they could see what goes inside goes on inside of mind and the colors and feelings that take place they’re dark and silently maybe then i would prefer that movie
take the most
exacting and useful
appendages
of the human body
—usually
always working
doing something
un-idle—
and make one
do nothing,
for a change,
other than hold
another
of its own kind
here i am at the top
of this great peak
having come for myself
and found everything else
i get exhausted
checking the distance between
what needs to be done
and what could be,
thinking of all the possibilities
in between
here i am at the top
of this great peak
having come for myself
and found everything else
needing it all to be productive even wanting my leisure time to make more for me having gotten into this bad habit of looking at everything in terms of its value and looking at myself in terms only of what value i can produce and this value system being minimally investigated though i suspect it is based on monetary american capitalist fear-based material systems and i have let them get hold of me in an effort i thought some time ago to lean into it for a while so that at some point i would have enough to live comfortable and be released and able to build my own value system with enough “free” time — yet that time has not come and i am getting antsy but know that if i break early before my money is made then i will return to the same problem having not enough money to survive and slipping below the standard of life required for the value system i would build based on non-monetary tenets so i realize the two worlds are linked by the ends of the world’s monetary system and the means of my own idealist world i cannot yet surmise that a complete break is possible especially with the lingering suspicion that a human being animal may not be able to release from his nature whereas the monetary pursuit is an advanced version of the primal pursuit for food and shelter so really wanting to split from my nature and remembering again that this is not possible – which i would not forget except for the ethereal moments when the sky opens up and shines down on the earth in a way i want to look at the world forever or a feeling for a person i love overwhelms me in a moment which i wish would last forever such that i could exit time in that moment and have that be all there is, yet it is this trade, which we do not necessarily choose to make though i think we would choose it if given the option, where the barter for more space is always to endure more time. if you want to see, feel, hear or otherwise sense the world differently than you are sensing it right now then you must endure more time. and this goes on whether we like it or not more time always coming and brining with it subtle changes in space that sometimes you don’t notice, when you’re sleeping for example, and other times you notice very second, like the final seconds in a football match. and in those moments, in a small amount of time, we reach up to the ethereal opening in the sky, but then are pulled back earthward by our animal needs to eat and otherwise care for our bodies that might die if not cared for correctly
takes time what i want to blast all at once in one big surge like a dam holding back the largest river which breaks at only one point and the jet stream that comes forth from that small crack the force of a whole river coming through that one point but even more than that because the whole river must still wait patiently for that small opening so i want the same small opening but the whole river at once rushing through with a blast that could destroy planets the same as a thousand taxis through the entrance of one roll bridge or a thousand camels through the eye of one needle which is the same impossibility i suppose i am asking for in this case that which jesus said was impossible for the rich man to pass into heaven with all his belongings but i care not for my belongings but rather do not want to leave this earth here to pass into heaven which is what i suppose i really am trying to bring all at once the whole word into the ethereal much along with me and still be able to display it to the world as art making me realize now that the belongings which i am most burdened by are not my possessions but my attachment to others and to myself
leading on after into the microphone especially when I have nothing good to say not mattering as much that the speech to text messes it up is the original might not of been good anyhow just finding time like laying in the hotel bed before going out to the pool to say something anything really into the phone thinking something and stopping myself because thinking it might not be good but then knowing Shirley my ego has a hand in it and this being the main mistake when trying to write stream of consciousness but the complete lack of self consciousness during the kids through the window in the pool outside a little after 4 PM waiting for her food to settle so we can join them another long pause that the text doesn’t pick up like music would or a live performance when someone in the crowd would shout out what the hell are you doing not saying anything up there that I would showShout back I’m thinking but really not needing to do that now just needing to let it flow but can’t maybe a swim well maybe swing will help
at the same time you still have to be listening to what you’re saying Jane not to listen to just say and let it go otherwise what is being said is affected by what was said and what will be said and what is being sad all the time can’t be gotten through without what is behind or ahead you need to close my eyes and not look at the screen as the words appear but then being conscious of the speech to text turning off after 20 or 30 seconds seconds as it does needing to fix the phone or ask able to show me howLike just now I had to restart it you can tell by the capital letter and I’m looking at my screen and conscious of that when I write best ascending into no knowledge of what I’m doing and also conscious now as talking too much about the process I need to talk about the white walls in the orange circle painted over and over on the back wall in the white drape go to bed in the window letting in sunlight at 4 PM and baby here next to me patiently waiting and listening like she always does
Leaning my head off the edge of the bed with nothing else to say at the hotel having gotten out of town working a lot recently but this negatively affecting my writing not being able to get into the mindset and create when doing the same rudimentary tasks over and over and just wanting to think of nothing when I get home and spend time with baby even now out of town but I’m usually inspired a little less so but it’s all right I suppose work going well and the art will come back I hope
neither not even having energy your inspiration to get down let’s go but I can still get something down just talking about the ceiling line always the ceiling laying down looking up in the sound outside just nothing inspired in the situation so if I say my situation and what I see which I usually am excited about relaxed enough in this case but just not necessarily excited like it’s artistic just satisfactory and making me comfortable but the inspiration idea that this is really anyDifferent than what anybody else is doing on a regular basis without that it’s hard to talk a lot and fast about it so really just mumbling right now and trying hard to no avail laying on the bed in my towel after a swim waiting for baby to finish her shower and then take a nap and maybe dinner later not really matter and I think needing to remember now just to be thankful for when I’m comfortable and not having to create so much all the time
speech to text working well now and wanting to take advantage of it when my words are worth written down clearly but at the same time becoming conscious of the fact that there is no excuse if what is written isn’t any good so the instruments of production are precise enough that the fault lies only with the producer and really having nothing to sayIn this moment other than what the technology might mess up for me
baby brought onto me
a distracting feeling
for her and nothing
else, even the road
driving, trying to
steer straight
or the hotel, trying
to drop my bags
and take off my jacket
but can’t even
baby pulling me
through the open door
shutting out behind us
the attendant and
any other distractions
there are objects
you can throw
soft enough
to be caught
like a pillow
letting fly
plumes of feathers
and other
soft things
thrown
alright
until
a night lamp
in the corner
gets knocked over
or someone
grabs a tea kettle
or something else
heavy instead
In the car driving making reality matter more whereas when just sitting shape shifting when I look at it could be one thing or another no matter what in the driver seat with a hand on the wheel what there is
In the car driving making reality better more that it does as I said with my hands folded in a chair on a bench at the park for example watching as things pass by people walk and branches blowing all of it can change as artistically create whether I want to imagine the people at something else like blobs expanding and contracting or the trees as castles so constantly re-creating the world as it isn’t what I wanted to be this big part of my heart to constantly reimagine and see differently however this is not possible and driving if you see a stop sign and imagine as a green light or see a one-way road and imagine it has two there will be trouble reality as it is needs to stay that way in order of everybody on the road to be following the same rules such that artist shouldn’t be allowed to drive I don’t think not because they don’t want to fall the rules or because they’re not capable of knowing them but because their mind will re-create and then them to be understood differently on the road to where everyone understanding things the same is the most important part of traffic working correctly so now behind the wheel on the one heading south with baby driving for the first time in a while it is difficult for me especially wanting to get out my phone and write this and also seeing a red light and thinking of all I’ve written about red lights and what they made and how they can be interpreted differently but in this case I need to just determine it is exactly what it is a red light that means stop and Nothing More no Rick re-creating it as something else especially not getting distracted and thinking about it so much that I don’t notice when it turns greenAlso this been wanting to go faster and faster and not necessarily follow in line and dodger on cars regardless of what I can’t see on either side that because it’s the right thing to do it because it will get As to our destinations faster and more so just because it’s what I feel and what I want but those are not the borders for driving feelings and desires is very much about following the rules driving there’s nothing really to do except for exactly where you’re supposed to and that is just not what I’m used to doing
The red light opens up and ceases to become a red light reaching past the scene itself as it appears just to my eyes and seeing into a submerged layer of the reality such that almost the feeling or the emotion of it gets through to me in my eyes Shirley are still seeing in the sense that they are processing the light but something deeper takesThe primary focus of my attention it is the same when I write sometimes and can imagine how somebody will read it usually one particular person when I’m deep in conversation or exchanging messages so I right now to create a grammar recording to have a sound read out loud read over again I can imagine they will skip the articles or read the verbs loud I need a few synonym verbs to really give the idea of the action one after another not separated by commas as they should be for conveying what is meantAs I feel it whether that is how it is normally communicate it or not
I love sitting shotgun consuming what I see through the windows but at the same time want to control the wheel controlling what the windows show and where we go but have trouble doing both at the same time sitting in the driver seat needing to pay attention to the road but wanting to recline my seat and watch writing the passing scenery reminding me you cannot be both god and a liver in your created world
I kind a like the headlight take such that you could pick up the pace and go for it not instructed by trees or climate clients crawling down towards the beach whitecaps ordering so blue meeting Paige
signs say call box now open etheldore st cross walk ahead chevron with techron historic moss beach distillery el granada 2 half moon bay 7 speed limit 55 driving by on the one doing about 40 just over the speedometer says signs showing me that trees i always fall the same, just tree, maybe tall or short, or green in spring and orange in fall, but mostly just tree, whereas a sign always has a name like speed limit 50 radar enforced princeton coral reef avenue el granada ave alhambra oceano hotel & spa pillar point harbor and other words telling me where i am and what i ought to see pointing in all directions other than where i am right now and way what i see right here without any sign having to tell me
she holds her lips to the back of my left hand that she holds with her right as we wait in traffic on the one merging two lanes into one so even slower now but not mattering with baby and our music here in the far feeling just fine not even noon with all the road ahead of us down south along the coast
a newsstand
turned over
onto its side
turned into
a park bench
for those
waiting
for the bus
driving
in the backseat
(so riding
i suppose)
watching
out the window
i treat
like a movie
with the frame
of the window
as the borders
of the screen
—or a gallery
sitting in
the same chair
staring at
the same picture
that changes
expect that
the picture
is really real
and if you opened
the car door
(once the car
has stopped,
of course)
you could step out
and be born
all of a sudden
into any picture
that just moments
was only painted
on your window
all along outside even after in goes others who wouldn’t waiting need to wait to just get through the editing phase before going back again to making and benefiting from the momentum of one being surrounded by front and back to learn itself less scrutiny spread out
the city is an ambiguous thing
a mass
a place to be gotten to
but not necessarily understood
or remembered
intimately
like a person living there
able to sit in their apartment
with their eyes closed
and imagine walking on the sidewalk
in any direction
and seeing the storefronts
and usual coffee shop
and even the imagining the worn chair
on the second level
where one usually sits
—the city becomes
a place lived in and known
rather than a general black mass
holding a spot on the map
that one reads
for places imagined
rather than places traveled
and even if you have visited
once or twice
and remember specific places
like what a specific room feels like
the sense of knowing the whole city
and the places you can possibly go
and how to give directions
and where to lead newcomers when they ask
only comes with time
when i write poetry i don’t sit down and employ a creative strategy or exercise to first get an idea and then open a dictionary or other index of words to figure out what will fit the rhyme scheme and meter—going along like this slowly spending time to think between words and building slowly brick by brick like a house. when i write poetry i’m often standing up in an experience that is making me feel or think something and start my fingers typing on my phone with what i can only identify as the energy of the experience itself that comes so fast my fingers can barely keep up and sometimes i don’t recognize what i’ve written until after it’s done
the world is shaking moving
making faces at me
in the candle light
the tile floor gyrates
beneath my feet
the little white
hexagon tiles
each bordered
by gray grout
pulse back and forth
confusing my sense
of where my feet bottoms
meet the ground
mocking my
impaired mental state
i have stand up dinners
when i’m alone
because i have nobody
to sit with me
You just Gotta go on creating what you do being who you are digging deeper into the trench (edited, was “Trent”) you are born into past what may hold you back seeing others do something similar or different way do you like that you should or should not be looking out ahead and seeing what will come of it or looking backwards and thinking that this doesn’t match with who you are forget all of that it doesn’t matter but were you when you were in it and really beating chugging along wheels are on the rail punches are being thrown the water is boiling it’s time to go now being in it and God that’s it that present that time when it’s just you and you know you’re doing it or maybe somebody’s with you and you’re doing it together but god that’s the moment and all other times you’re just thinking of moments that I’ve been before and why it’s been so long since the next moment that’s to cut that start to come so you wait until it’s upon you and then you’re not prepared and can’t catch your breathBut have to make do with the breath you’ve got to sprint on (edited, was “spread done”) through
just make it won’t you man make more for me now while it’s here because it won’t always be talking in abstracts using adverbs instead of verbs not wanting to commit to much to any given idea right now but rather wanting to just express the feeling generallySitting on the edge of the bed now holding my Head in my hands my elbows on my knees my left finger is resting on the back of my right calf to talking to my phone I can hear the refrigerator in the apartment in the garbage truck outside in the bus that says one California to Gough and Clay looking at my phone surprised that it typed out those street names correctly and the bus takes off leaving me with only it’s Noise and nothing else to talk about the beep of an alarm and tell the car door slams still the fridge wearing onomatopoeia‘s are recorded very well by speech to text always got that word but not this out of the fridge just me alone to talk to myselfAnd being caffeinated so not wanting to do anything else
I don’t really know if it will last but it something right here now to me and that’s for sure a lot of goodness in life at large seems to be this way because it only so much can get to a size or last long enough for Manny to hear over years and in different places and see or however it may be experienced but the vast majority of things which are good seem to be experience on a smaller scale maybe only one person drinking his coffee in the morning on his usual bench watching the morning or lovers that of been together for sometime returning to one another after a brief vacation there are many of the small simple things
there are steps and rules to follow holes to slot quarters in lines to walk between buttons and computer keys to press laundry to fold instructions to read carefully emails to read and delete watches to watch and schedules to be on time for
with love, drugs, and other sorts of emotion, the main problem with getting up high enough is that you have to come back down
I think it’s interesting to compare the parts of the human body that create art and the parts that consume it. For example our hands create art that our eyes consume in sculpture and painting for example. And our mouths create art that our ears consume in singing for example.
So can’t get a title to figure out ahead of time what the pieces have to get into it and it first overwhelmed reading and having more and more words come in so having to process each word well also figuring out what the thing is as a whole and make up a title on your own
I get to Ohio where it all comes out but for me at least there’s never a plateau never consider flat always a climb up and fall down sometimes it controlled climb like a hike or a staircase taking steps up other times like a rocket ship straight up into the air with a rocket boosters and cheeks flapping barely able to hold on and then a brief period with a booster stop Ingraldi starts to take hold and then come back down can either be a slow decideJust sad sometimes I meant to say dissent dissent with an ED said dissent dissent dissent I can’t get this word but to go down is sometimes like the opposite of the staircase where you’re stepping down slowly or hiking down and other times it is like the fall from having shot straight up into the air and falling without a parachute
i lived on oatmeal and the eggs that baby hard boiled for me that saturday when she was gone and i had to learn to be alone again and realized when i woke up that the bed wasn’t going to make itself
The world are not to see me as I am not at (ought not, having to type this part) As I am I can’t perform for them I can’t do this in front of people I saw Terry practice it is to close my eyes and go into it if I see anyone or know anyone is their messes me up do you ever lose that self-consciousness I can only do alone
Hearing something in the other room and thinking oh that is just baby in the other room but then remembering the baby is gone and wondering what it could be a little scared at first but then remembering what it sounds like to be in the house alone
things are fast and rushing frequently enough that a breath caught and soon let out makes only a momentary stop when any premature flex of muscles while inhaling will cause a choke and then it will be coughing and wide eyed slow
left now longing after looming likelihoods have transpired or not and so what was wished for has been bitten into like a bite seen or has swallowed air deceived such that shortly after is a great sense of satisfaction or otherwise disappointment but it mattering little either way truthfully for the next bite, whether real or perceived, will appear soon after and drive a stomach that seems always to be empty to carry on looking longing leaning forward
i have no desire for food, no desire to take in; only desire to put out
suppose you do come through with what it is that you say you do but then leaving me with it done but what is that four fridays ago leaning off holding my hand out waiting what no longer waned out of mind’s front and center finally slipping beneath and slinking off never to be thought again
almost like an expectation normally would show you what you’ve already conjured up some down swimming where what i really need to do in this dog fin situation is to open up a little and let each word have more possibility rather than letting the limits tighten and each subsequent predicate so closely on the prior there it is the sounds of the words dictating what comes next rather than the meaning but nope there i just switched back again to the meaning and still now but let’s see here if a dear so long as touched what wasn’t much mostly after long nights nevered along such that a never verb were so definitely permanent it needed and action to continue conveying its meaning
a little drunk off of it in the bed at night or morning in between hour at 5am taking this opportunity with the normal connection of my brain to body to reality slightly distorted as drinking will do so laying here writing some and seeing what will come out that wouldn’t normally
going to the light
to the beam under the shade
brining what needs to be seen
like the page of a book
or a pill bottle label
in the middle of the night
rather than flipping the switch
and blasting the whole room
like a grenade
for a bullet’s job
a pill bottle in this case
so i can see the label
and cure a hangover
in the middle of the night
and make sure i don’t poison myself
with the wrong bottle
i can really drive like this on after what eludes me in complacent hours passed almost not noticing and sometimes just because i’m enjoy myself and not so hungry or otherwise needing to survive as i am when it is right there in front of my nose
feeling it better now to just talk into my phone as I was trying to edit and place things carefully and work that I had already written but up so high I haven’t had coffee and not eaten that I’m more in the mood to speak and create new things rather than shift around all things like I can try the freestyle or the stream of Koch this out loud more easily in this mood where the rug runs along the floorboards and tell up the legs of the bookshelf along the walls and tile horizontal where the top of the shelf supports a television that looks like a frame against the white wall and realizing constantly that when I start to do this stream of conscious it is first things I see that I start to say so learning my pattern for performance and would becoming self-conscious inevitably hearing my voice and thinking about that but trying to raise higher from the self-consciousness and just put out what is there what I am sensing coming closer to describing just what I am being in the moment with headphones in my ears trying also not to really hear my voiceBut just let the phone hear it and write it down so that it is more natural
let’s try to get a run along going here with my eyes closed and pulling more from just the dark nothing is in my mind rather than what I am seeing where a word rides I can almost see them typed out reappearing one by water replacing the next one not even thinking of these words really just saying what happens in my mind and that being more like preposition conjunctions because there are no nouns and verbs when your eyes are close and there’s nothing to put together other than maybe pronouns but not pronounce more like add verbs like such an ass and more this ad is this and fastness just the way things are rather the things themselves his wifeMy mind is blank except for when I pull out from the depth which is really probably just a memory or else something primordial that were born with
eyes closed or you get it in the darkness but even now seeing the slight differentiation and shades of darkness behind my eyelid some parts more misty white if you look closely and not even abstract shapes or a granularity that almost looks like sand white gradient specs in the blackness similar to the sound you hear is silence your mind still trying to pull something out of nothing and when I open my eyes to look at my phone to make sure it’s a recording of clothes that again the lights that I Saul like the light from my screen on my phone at the light for my laptop or the light from the salt lamp all become scar is in the back of my eyelidsThat it first resemble what I saw before closing my eyes but then less and less the ice can remember as the lights fade and I can only assume my pupils dilate again trying to hold onto the light but less and less coming in from the darkness now
really thanks so much now my God lifted up and out all along just really mumbling almost into my phone really barely even being able to pull the definition of the word out knowing that I want to keep making a sound but he really almost wanted to be just noise and wondering what the phone is picking you up if I were to just mumble or hum (edited, was “harm”) like but somehow as those words get out and the sound of creative self in my stomach before they can reach the phones microphone my lips and teeth and tongue curve just enough to make them into words that I somehow remember I believe that I’m still talking because this comes from somewhere that I don’t know not really even talking to someone are trying to make sense of it but it really just flowing are coming out somewhere there is a primal force in my
wanting (edited) to talk more about this concept where my energy for creating starts in my stomach or maybe below my stomach maybe in my sexual organs and drives up and in that driving up through my abdomen through my torso starts to define starts to become something at least more than the force but say that in my sexual organs it is only one one for us and then in my abdomen baby becomes defined into one of five or six things and then when reaching my trachea maybe one of 100 things and only in my mouth where my brain also seems to influence it doesn’t define into one of 1 million things or I don’t know how many words I know but somehow before it gets out and into a word and reaches the phone defines itself all most of its own accord into words and normally we are rationalizing and choosing logically and meaningfully what those words are they get out based on what we see or hear or what would be appropriate but now while trying to return to what I would maybe do as an intelligent baby or what I would do if I had absolutely no self-consciousness really the words are just polled at random but they don’t sound random because they put themselves in together and do a string of sentence so maybe there is some order in as I even try to think now really just forgetting that what I want to do is just put it out and let it go and let it be and I’ll
that is the thing I think that these words really come from somewhere else that it is only when we look out and try to find out ahead of time what is appropriate that these words actually become so tied down specific in the common words are used most often that people understand people understanding being the predication of what we want to use when we are alone and the words are closer to the guttural force that drives up for my sexual organs then the words can really be anything and left to just flow and not even having gotten there completely yet do you still these words just make sense but closer I think to the way it is that a baby just makes noises or mumbles because that’s what comes up naturally from their core and they have a largeAnd they haven’t you learned yet how to make words that sound appropriate to others
these meditations were interesting to me at first to capture just while I straight up consciousness as Dan is removing as many barriers as possible from what goes on in the mind to the words that would actually come out to get close to the fighting what goes on in the mind and I don’t think this is the only medium of art to do this words I mean definitely could hand somebody a paintbrush and have them just paint what they feel but still than having to have eyes open and dip the brush into a specific paint maybe music I think is actually even closer than words because then you can just make sounds and harm more yell or go high or low or pause or go sideways based on how you feel but the words and give it a little more definition so that you can go hi like motivated excited exuberant left it exuberant left it where is with the hi Noise there is only really the one Hein Noise where his words give it more definition but now there is the second part of this meditation or experience or experiment I mean where I am having this concept of an energy that comes up almost that reminds me of what I learned in Catholic school about the word big divine or holy something about the wordBeing divine are holy the word really is one it starts as a unified universal thing there is a word the capital W word and that starts in your midsection and your sexual organs I think in your creative area and then is defined as it comes up through organs that have to sort calories and especially in the trachea and mouth and teeth that developed to speak so humans can relate to one another by then the word become so defiant and needing to fit into a physical world that is differentiated but it comes from a universal world that is all one primordial that is why the word is W
and maybe recording this mindless meditation instead of putting through speech to text so that the pauses and the sound of my voice can be captured but also thinking then that it is only this out it is more like music that they only have the recording and there is something about putting these words down to definition where they are written and seen in the world real world that makes it more than just the sense of your own but also the sense of sight so that you can see the words and thinking that that transition is very very important but curious about the media by which those words are written because my hand cannot write fast enough these words that I’m thinking it is only the microphone I can pick up and transferred a text that captures it fast enough though not clearly enough but that is also upReally my fault because sometimes I mumble the words or say something that even I don’t understand so sometimes the technology understand me even better than I understand myself by completing my sentences
Not knowing how much longer I can go like this quite hungry now and not having eaten since early last night costly feeling that my art is best when close to my aunt getting more and more hungry and more and more delirious and wanted to keep going wanted to resist the urge to eat I just keep recording answer my phone until I wonder if I could almost go even farther and farther and if they would actually be a medical issue Shirley is only been hours since I’ve eaten but whatIf I were to go days since eating what then can I create what kind of thoughts would come to my mind what I even be able to speak that is an experiment I want to try creating art without eating
A little more nonsense now just from the urge add a little more but pretty empty it being weird how it is like a cup or anything else that feels of where I pour out of myself there’s only so much there I don’t know where it comes from whether there is like a battery where I have to wait to charge up and fill up and just by living my normal life and maybe sleeping stuff is added it to me and when it comes time for me to put out are I pour it all out and try to get it out and get it out at some point it is empty right now if you are there is nothing more to say but still wanting to say having the energy having to drive but none of the content of the actual matter like a fire or the potential for a fire but no locks no matchSo it is for art in particular the artist that only so much art can be created you cannot read the whole world you cannot see the world from all the different possible perspectives you are human only your small physical body and can only participate in your slice of that time and space I cannot expect more and so settling down into making out with the time and space you have in being satisfied with that
I got really going out can’t even focus on editing trying to think about the world will think of something but having no concept of all of the world will think anymore haven’t gotten left it off so much into my own head of my own space or wherever I’m at that when I look back at the larger piece or a book that I’ve tried to write and figure out if I should delete or keep a section of how I should edit it I can’t have any of these thoughts because I have no concept of the objective no concept of the objective to which many subject themselves so trying to average those objectives to come up with an objective answer that is what will be popular and that is my main goal would giving something to the world but not knowing that now being so drill down it’s my own subjective where it is that my art comes from which is a great irony of art that what you are bringing to the objective or the universal is truly a deep deep subjective that is only only for itself but there is some part of us objective another subject of that is that enjoy seeing one other than itself so the greatest start is between two I love our relationship a sexual act between one and the other a very very deep subjective meeting another very very deep subjective or perhaps it is a long subjective inside of a deep subjective one coming into the other that is the sexual act the ultimate creative act of one going deep into another one extending in one receiving One extending it one receiving the longer in the deeper the better and are you not so much just the space of the length and the depth but also the time being able to hold it away in that moment of ecstasy and so going as deep as you can for as long as you can and the other receiving all the link that they can draw the tide and they can both holding together and experiencing what it is for one only one to experience another it anything more than that one tried to experience to or what I’m trying to experience many or Maddy trying to understand one or any other creative union other than one and one is a perversion and even wine and wine being different than one alone experiencing itself so that I am now wondering if there is a way to many to experience each other if we all can participate in the same union and I think that is what it is to have a child for that sexual union do you give birth to something that is actually one of the long is gone so deep for long enough that the two literally become one create a third that is themselves but is it self not separate at all it is not the left off from one of the right half of the other it is one completely and so what would it be for everyone billions to write dissipate in a sexual act that would give birth to one and returned to GodMaybe that is it the whole story of life that God and some divine act obliterated the capital 01 and to Manny and it is our destiny buy some creative sexual divine asked to return to the one that we all were originally
Breathing and dBrief focusing feeling humble now I can’t fall and I guess I didn’t now have fallen back and try to scrape myself together and restart it matter how much you make there’s always more to make and you almost forget what you made before even when you are proud you forget those moments I could become not proud it all soon there after like you’ve never made anything in your life
I am going after everything driven primarily by an interesting curiosity and it all right now so eager to open or walk into a new place or hear a new sound or touch a new thing just wanting the senses to come in wanting for the world as it is shown to me through senses but other times I want to close my eyes and shut it all out right now I just go from one thing to the next and I was completing their completely forgetting the thing before and thinking now that there is so much that you never run out of things you can go on go on go on go on go even for a whole life opening new doorsHearing new sound seeing new things meeting new people feeling new feelings learning new things you’ll never run out in this way it is good we are small and limited that we can only do so much at once and be in so many places at one time is it allows her to be diversity and newness in our experiences such that by restricting the abilities of man you have multiplied his possibilities
do you want to get it all done at once and can’t barely wait for space to catch up almost exploding with all the desire in one moment that a body cannot contain in a second and to yell out or a great display of strength breaking something is the only way to express my needing to take all that energy that would blast like a grenade in all directions and channel that in between deep canyon walls that I lower the river to rush and define to a point or like a pressurized tank with only one opening and that opening is where your heart comes from but the walls of the tank must hold strong must keep the yard in and condensed so that when it comes out it is defined so the real charge for an artistIs not to keep art coming out of the opening but rather to keep it closed in everywhere else
Sometimes being more reserved and hiding it only showing some one now releasing an open the doors wide-open and letting it all be seen even my own work I think all should (edited, was “she”) get out
i’m most creative when i wake up early in the morning around 6am and have one cup of coffee and don’t eat anything and just see how long i can go before i get light headed from not eating because once i eat the creativity stops
i want to have sex with her all the time, but i don’t always want to have sex. i feel my love for her well up and i want to express it physically, but i am tired.
my severe survival instinct in this safe and plentiful modern world only had art to grab onto
coat hook
being my favorite thing
in the apartment
whereas before
i would throw my coat
wherever
on the back of the couch
over the lamp
on the floor
on the stool, bed
back of the chair
wherever
but now
there is a place
the oven beeped twice
when’s it’s normally
only supposed to
beep once
so i walked from
the living room
under the arched doorway
into the kitchen
and looked at it
the oven i mean
and it looked back at me
and said nothing
Upstairs in the apartment waiting for baby I hear the door slam and my heart jumps I hope it’s not like last night when I did the same waiting for baby sitting on the couch at one point I wanted so much to see her that I resolved to jump right up when I heard her key turn in the lock and felt all that love for her sitting at the edge of the couch cushion especially around 8:30 because that is when she said she would be home and was waiting especially for a heart full of love around that time and playing it out in my head how she would have her bag and maybe be stressed from work or happy from a good day but either way would run up to her with a big smile and lift her off the ground with a hug and kiss her face and neck and arms so much that she would giggle like she does and forget her day and just be happy to be home and be together with me and playing it out so clearly like this made me want more and more to hear her key turn in the lock and listening for the front door and even pulling the trap to the side to watch the bus stop not knowing if she would take a car but when 8:45 came and then 9:00 and 9:30 that love that welled up all at once began to dissipate and I could only sit on the edge of the couch for so long and had to get cleaned up myself and go to bed to wake up for work the next morning so I got ready and did my nightly meditation and read a few pages out of my book and turned off the lamp next to the bed and laid down so when I finally heard the key turn in the lock I was half asleep and raised my head to give baby a smile and was happy to see her very happy but not nearly as happy and filled with love as I was earlier sitting on the edge of the couch
there was a time
when i was
in front of it
lately
i mostly
just try
and keep up
i am setting out on this trip to write, to be honest. i am a writer and intend to be just that in going. if i am to meet someone or have an experience, the thing itself will only be secondary to its being written.
one person
steps off of the sidewalk
and the rest of the morning
pedestrian crowd, follows suit
without looking up at the light
when the sun blasts and blasts
in the early morning rising
so you wonder how
can it be so bright already
so much your sleepy eyes
can’t stay open looking at it
often all it takes
is to slow down for a second
and wait for what comes
when everything else stops
trying to do
what i did before
to get the same effect
but it’s different now
watching homeless men
sleep next to
sewer gates
breathing steam
sometimes
in the middle of the street
to stay warm at night
it’s loud
with the window
open
it’s hot
with the window
closed
clearly everything is seen right now without much to distract just being allowed to be and having my eyes work and not so much noise that the few noises are heard clearly and loud and heavy eaten just enough and enough time passed since a small salad lunch that I’m not running to my next meal but also not passing out from hunger and so greatly satisfied all over and curious about what I am sensing is the perfect formula to just be talking into my phone and having it makes sense and also taking time to pause and let it play out what I am sensing and in this case mostly thinking just staring really at the art gallery wall the baby and I put up in the apartment but not really seeing the art mostly just eyes glazed over seeing the words in my mind and seeing isn’t the right sense but thinking is really the right verb which to me has been interesting lately as I have thought in most cases art is a matter of sensing but from my writing it is largely a matter of thinking which at times like these with isaac lost over has nothing to do with sensingYet thought is mostly nonsensical without senses that at one point informed the very structure and language of thought
baby sniffling car going by outside fridge whirring another car going by and skateboard wheels and a heavier vroom like a diesel truck or maybe a sports car and starting to listen closer to the car noises and being able to hear the difference between just wheels rolling and when the engine is revving
simplifying
everything
eyes closed
no matter how
complicated
seen things
can get
remember
you can
close your eyes
wanting to do
everything
going from
one thing
to another
and end up
all the time
in between
doing nothing
one going so deep
for the multitude to see
but that one
not being able
to see back out
everyone looks the same like the same person
wanting my trip to be the trip and so not write just to stay here and be with moment …
being in this moment everything melted together so that I can barely feel my feet touch the ground in the sense of my stats as well as my fingertips skipping the phone as I talk to it or less potent or not even there so that whatever drives me my mind on my soul is more the focus just driving and no focus on the appendages that result from the driving just the soul moving through and seeing people inspiring a face to smile but it’s really the Saul doing all of this in the body just listens to the commands of the soul and so now it should be the commands of the soul and more clear the commands of the soul and my clear waiting on my friends thinking it’s funny that I’m talking to my phone off away from them and they’re waiting to walk back to the party so I should really go with them now baby looking so cute tying up her hair and all these people around so many people here in the music in the distance and the fog rolling in over the trees in Golden Gate Park really looking amazing not knowing whether it’s just the nature on its own or whether it’s me tripping do you need to go back now but still looking at my friends laughing and having so much fun just being together making it so happy the baby my new girl is talking to John and Krys my old friends and they getting along so long everything is good right now we need to start writing to be more in the moment and not really being the crux of this having to stop writing or having to stop being I mean not being able to be in the moment while riding and having to step away in order to talk to myself so people don’t look at me weird
Picked a good part of the forest wondering what thoughts I have a worth writing and what sites should be wet just pass so meeting in the middle by writing everything later but having this theory that it’s all good
Feeling good and great directions like for the trip now fully in it past the turbulence of the come up so just soaring and even taking more needing really just focus and be at it does pass just talking because I’m trying to write
Realizing so much more and more that it’s the self-consciousness that affects the art even just now talking to John realize the conversation we were having his art it self and so not necessarily the consciousness of the self the gist of art be created a fax with whatever not oh my god this
feeling the fear of experiencing it while not writing and then it’s gone and I wasn’t recording and I can’t get back that exact feeling that led to what could’ve been written and even now even now my phone is having difficulty recording what I’m saying with all the people on their voices around so the moment is harder and harder to capture which makes me wonder about moments that must be captured presently yet or out of reach of art forms that can’t be capturing in that moment feeling the same fear of forgetting or missing out in general but specifically applied to the art that would’ve been created in that moment and really wanting to survive and get down to it to have life be created and recorded and not lost or forgotten being the driving force of life and the driving force of art in the drive
So overwhelmed with it all feeling what is all here always but unable to live like this with so much overwhelming just becoming exhausted all the sensory inputs and empathy for others and looking at someone in the face and not knowing them but feel exact with the feeling
The same feeling I feel for something written down and then lost as I feel for life lost in life really just being time but time needing something to pass in order to be itself so life big time and space
I forget who is who falling behind in the crowd with my group it’s in the back of one head and it being a difference the back of another the trip so that everyone is the same
Looking at people and being there and not wanting to interrupt that with being myself
So much going on if I’m to be the one I’ve learned you can’t write it all at once you just can’t write it all at once it takes time life has to play out overtime even if you feel it all at once you can’t write it all once at least not with words you by feeling that one moment so much do you want to explode in that moment obliterates with Human and you but you just can’t write it on the moment
And being with the moment thinking that I want to be here but what about myself I came before that I want to keep being before or not thanks so much and see you baby far away laughing and really realizing now that I stepped out of the moment and seeing all these people that know that I’m tripping look like the same people I see your face and looks like a face from my past but really all the faces are the same and I feel more connected and more caring and more easily able to find excuses for the fault of others just like I find excuses for my own faults
even one person
propped up
isn’t the one
with so many
to support him
the same many
who in idle hours
taking short breaks
from supporting
wish to be
the one
they support
the yellow rectangles
painted proportionately
across the street
between the parts
of either sidewalk
where the curb
slopes down slightly
to meet the street
for pedestrians
to step off safely
and cross
in the dead quiet
of the night
i feel so awake
and out of place
while everything else
is so dead
and there’s nothing
not even
the neighbors
to talk
or the cars outside
to go by
my hands
often hold
the reminder
that we are real
as i stare at
my open palm
and fingers
stretched wide
turning my hand
over in the light
exclaiming silently
at space
in general
to even exist
and more specifically
as something
i can see
and even more
as something
i am part of
and can affect
with a body
to which
these hands belong
even passersby
stepping on packets
not noticing
a ketchup packet
SPLAT!
on the sidewalk
someone must’ve
stepped on
making art
all the time
i know here
what there is
and can expect
what comes next
after changes
and subtle shifts
in expectations
only when
what has happened
previously
continues to recur
consumer radio silence bouts between on and off priceless interactions soon after met with pressure
dark and light shapes blinking my eyes blotching abstract art over reality
the night seems nice to me tonight waking up at 1:45am whereas sometimes it seems scary
at the front
of the bus
between
the handrail
and the rest
of the pass-
engers
holding on
i don’t get out
near the water
enough
where i can
breathe easy
in the open
ocean air
outside
of the buildings
all the way
down the road
dotted
with headlights
crossing
the intersection
watching
for drivers
not
paying attention
imagine if cars crossed
into the intersection
at once
from both sides
but didn’t crash
standing
with my back
to the wind
pant legs
flapping
leaning back
just a little
hands
in my pockets
sound
wooshing by
my ears
waiting
to warm up
between gusts
every girl
walking by
the window
with her hair
waving
in the wind
behind her
i think
is baby
as i wait
for her
patiently
i am motivated most
by the fact
that all at once
it could all be over
and whatever i did
moments before
would be
the last thing
imagine being
thrust back
into your body
all people
have this energy
and it goes
somewhere
into self-destruction
sometimes
or outward
looking at others
always
or inward
but the point
is that
the energy
is there
being spent
always
like a train
that cannot
be stopped
by standing
in front of it
but can be
steered
by curving
the rail
i feel light
like i left
my bracelet
and rings
at home
or maybe
forgot
my jacket
less
to weigh
me down
but that’s
not it
inside
more energy
maybe
each line is shorter, forcing the reader to pause and think deeper into simple subject matter that doesn’t require any deep thought in its face
always trying
to advance
and move forward
with no time
to settle down
and pay attention
to what now
is quite wonderful
and in
a circular
way
is that which
you chase after
all the time
right here
watching
tea steep
leaves infect
with color
the rest
of the clear
water
so
wanting not
more
than your share
but wanting
at least
what
you came for
everything rendered
into this form
at one point
or another
needing a base
to return to
after such varied
newness
and shape shifting
needing now
to return again
wanting
immediately
for the three dots
on the bubble
to pop up
needing
the conversation
to continue
as if
in person
—this being
our only
substitute
forgot how
to be alone
being so much
with baby
my two
favorite coats
on the
two-pronged
coat hanger
next to
the closet door
art
being all
and needing
to press on
into
after
overwhelmed
with
the rush
coming on
all at once
seeing
exclaiming
wanting it all
to stay
this way
knowing
it won’t
so trying
to stay focused
while it does
like this laying on my back and having it all pour out especially after days dark interspersed with tread wondering if this is it in the yard has gone like I always do fearing I have nothing to offer and will be me anymore or maybe just afraid of being worthless and unproductive and untalented really not mattering what identity Woodcalm for all identities being the same and melting into one another but really just the primal need coming through and this being what is requiring of the ego a certain consistent and persistent success whereas otherwise just to wake up and be even completely different wouldn’t matter just as the rest of the world does anyway and especially less apprehensive to become another and melt apathetically completely into the interest of anything else even unmotivated even for Survival even dying maybe and being all right with it because not coming from an ego needing so badly to live
goodness like a drug it comes to be so unexpectedly today just from having left work a little early and paying so much attention on the bus into the buildings on the walk to the bus especially and now back in the apartment laying on my back on the rug and looking at everything the off-white ceiling and the leaves outside the window blowing lightly all of it just as it is any day that I get home but on this day just a little earlier it all opens up and gives back to me the art and ability I so selfishly miss and fear to never have again when it’s gone so reflecting now while I have it on why it is that I miss it so much when I don’t interesting especially is the thought that it will never come back and believing so strongly that this is true even though for the last little while now so many times back-and-forth I thought this and it certainly does come back but I suppose the fear is Stuart still real that one time it won’t and then what will I be nothing maybe different maybe something else maybe I will be all right with that too I have been mostly all right with what I have become and suppose that I have become different things but really now thinking that this one is it and that I only have so much time and so many chances before I lose my mind or disintegrate or grow old or get killed suddenly so I want to rush all I had at once and really wish I could if I knew what it would take I think I might have the will to do it but just being in a body and mind that can’t I’m kept private and so have been taught patients as a result but still Hoping greedily for more time so that the limited mind and body I do have wind spread out can achieve what I otherwise would all at once
clearly everything is seen right now without much to distract just being allowed to be and having my eyes work and not so much noise that the few noises are heard clearly and loud and heavy eaten just enough and enough time passed since a small salad lunch that I’m not running to my next meal but also not passing out from hunger and so greatly satisfied all over and curious about what I am sensing is the perfect formula to just be talking into my phone and having it makes sense and also taking time to pause and let it play out what I am sensing and in this case mostly thinking just staring really at the art gallery wall the baby and I put up in the apartment but not really seeing the art mostly just eyes glazed over seeing the words in my mind and seeing isn’t the right sense but thinking is really the right verb which to me has been interesting lately as I have thought in most cases art is a matter of sensing but from my writing it is largely a matter of thinking which at times like these with isaac lost over has nothing to do with sensingYet thought is mostly nonsensical without senses that at one point informed the very structure and language of thought
let’s see if I can give you an example here of what it is two cents in the sea thought looking now up at the off-white drapes crumpled and connected buy black been screwed into the window cell and glass window surrounded by gray metal frame where just be on the glass is a branch of leaves that are about 6 inches wide and five or 6 inches tall blowing on their branch and occasionally pressing up against the glass window see that was site that I was sensing now if I switch to hearing I hear my own voice and close my eyes to make this easier hearing car is outside and a rustling that is rather pleasant that I cannot tell whether it is the cars or the leaves Rushleigh against each other blowing in the wind now a release of wind that sounds like brakes on the bus and the room of the electric engine in the door of the apartment building shutting heavy downstairs and now the bus taking off from the stop and hearing the chime on the phone that tells me my voice is stopped being recorded so opening my eyes and seeing again and switching to that sense thinking now of smell and taste which I have said before really aren’t strong senses artistically certainly taste is with the Colaneri arts and eating but just laying here with nothing to taste or eat my taste buds are mostly useless and tasting dry saliva nothingness in my mouth and my smell especially sensing less if I could just drive it it would be nothing this as well maybe clean I would describe it or like fabric or like air and feeling are yes I should’ve said feeling before taste and smell because it can be quite strong abstract I describe it like it often makes abstract painting make more sense to me whereas undefined things are seen with the round and rough sketches but nothing clear as you would see with site feeling now my hand my left pinky and ring finger against my abdomen and the palm and some against my lower ribs and my left foot on top of my right shin and my behind pressed against the rug slightly sore from laying in the same position for a little while and my elbow against the leg of our living room table and the fingers of my right hand holding my phone in front of my face in the back of my head also Preston gets the rug is similar to my behind and really quite a lot if I were to focus over a grade about a time I want my body is feeling just my body itself I imagineThis being sent as art
ver if you were to say my art leads to nonsense usually when I get a rush and have a lot to put down but then still the motivation stays well there’s nothing left and so results in me saying whatever comes to mind even though it doesn’t make sense and really just wanting the black great against the sky to keep going so the art doesn’t run out without much content referring back to what I said earlier about a body and mind only be able to do so much in a limited time but Pricing I’m not the last talking faster running almost out of breath and wanting the light to show like it does on the ceiling shadows really just waiting for baby to get home laying on the floor alone and all my poems out of me feeling better actually having gotten something down and leaving a legacy if in this moment I were to die which is a large part of what drives me I think to leave something if I die to make something while I’m here and preferring to leave this motivation is not so clear as to let them drive me and be human and normal without having to discover and explain everything because then as I have beforeJust getting a headache and then losing the motivation and that not being good for anyone
like a little space behind the mirror leaned up against the wall in the corner behind the radiator or dust bunnies collect and protected not so open these small spaces make me wonder of cloistered worlds where cat paws with scratch and food falling off the dinner table will get lost and marks on the wall unseen won’t get patched or painted over and light won’t shine as often if long enough turning to paint a different color
staying with an idea long enough or moving on to match our attention spans wondering what length is right between gravity and well explained so if it in the beholder that will read brilliance into one wordAnd otherwise is in patient won’t sit long enough to get anything out of it anyway and all around all story short and long playing out just depending on who is there to read them
The need to create constantly pressing on me but needing to relax and remember that what will happen well and creation happens always just by living a story is told in just by seeing a painting is painted and just by hearing music is made so all the time the heart is there and the only variable is not whether I create it but whether I am open to seeing and hearing it
wanting baby to come home so badly just sitting here talking to myself not realizing how much I miss her until now being able to hug her and talk to her and just hear her breathing or working or rolling over in bed and looking up to see her watching her live her not life as she normally does and being so interested in it and her being interested in mine and making comments and asking me things
So much art really all around just a matter of capturing it and sometimes having to decide between capturing it and just enjoying it
days
when i should
have stayed
and did
in fact
but wondering
frightfully
if i hadn’t
and quit
up and left
and couldn’t
have ended up
here
where
i like it so
and would have
certainly
pressed on
had i known
but could have
just as easily
not
not knowing
what
was at stake
looking at
what was
a mirror image
of myself
that now
looking too long
has become
un-
identified
and broken into
constituent
crooked teeth
and an un-
recognizable
smile
the floor creaks
clearly
when no one
else
is home
to hear
lines of power
across the sky
that would be
perfect borders
for buildings
only that
depending
on which corner
of the street
you stand on
looking up
at the lines
that most often
cut right through
laying
in the apartment
on the floor
during an odd
off hour
having left
work early
and waiting
for baby
to come home
green leaves
outside
the window
showing signs
of stress
blowing
on branches
flexing
in the wind
not
so calm
as it is
inside
watching
laying back
looking up
at the ceiling
realizing
it’s not quite
as white
as i thought
a mind
behind
closed eyes
wondering
where
in the world
the body
has gone
i used
to do nothing
all the time
now
just a chance
to lay on the rug
alone
is a novelty
sitting backward
on the bus
is quite odd
moving
with your back
to the progress
having to turn
to see the signs
for your stop
looking back
on the bus
watching the inside
bend
like a snake
as the wheels
crawl
over hills
and the passengers
rise up
and down
in their seats
like kelp
on wave crests
sometimes
there is
what’s wordless
to carry
a moment
and relieve me
of the need
to write
commuting
all hours
moving
to get somewhere
maybe
just making time
seem not so spent
still
and stretching out
by step
or wheels turning
often with others
never going to
exactly
the same place
standing
on a ledge
just
six inches
feeling different
than life
six inches
below
everyone
in south park
on their phones
walking
in circles
with one hand
in a pocket
and the other
holding
the phone
to one ear
talking
supposedly
to someone
somewhere else
putting away
trying
to sleep
my phone
into the drawer
of the nightstand
then thinking
of another
poem
and having
to pull my phone
back out
dynamic
and creatively
together
in new ways
combining
bodies, novel
new senses
of touch
it’s a noisy night
with the news
from the open window
in the bathroom
and the traffic
always the traffic
and the neighbors’
conversation
through the wall
behind us
the blinds open
just barely
so a slim
stretch of light
creeps through
keeping
me awake
a bend
of light
stretched up
and around
the ceiling fixture
like
a boomerang
i want for
the little square
of green light
on the wall
to turn yellow;
i don’t know
why exactly
but i do, maybe
just for something
to change
or because
i know
what comes next
so well
that i just
want it to happen
already
so when it does
the satisfaction
is short-lived
and soon after
turns to red
so soon after
does the signal
send up smoke
that you wonder
who signaled
and how
did they know
think of all
the cars coming
and if you were
for the first time
in the city
unaware that
cars are not
supposed to
cross over curbs
or run red lights
and so not even
wanting to walk
on the sidewalk
or crosswalk
or other walk-y thing
that seems
to be safe
based on norms
and probabilities
but really
isn’t safe at all
if the whole world
didn’t exist
i’d still do this
but if i had to choose
between this
and the whole world
i’d still
choose the world
commute
like clockwork
works so well
that you can
close your eyes
and not need
to worry
about
getting there
scary shape seeing
in the dark
groggy
and scared easily
in the dark
early morning
pant legs
on the hanger
and a shadow body
moving toward me
i put on
the glasses that
i’m supposed to wear
all the time
but usually don’t
and feel overwhelmed
in the grocery store
from all the
extra information
on the labels
that i can’t
usually read
what saves
is written
on the up
and survives
through editing
on the down
i turn the key
in my front door
and it doesn’t
give
right away
reminding me
not everything
is supposed to be
so easy
a dirty
chewed up
tennis ball
rolls in
the cafe door
and i’m wondering
where’s the dog
like the fan blades going
and the wire
inside of the light bulb
hanging by a cord
from the ceiling
and the sound from
the speaker in the corner
just slightly louder
than the headphones
in my ears
a sliver
of morning light
shows itself
on the left side
of the square
wooden table
where i work
in the cafe
casting a shadow
beyond
the cup of tea
still steaming
—the same
table
on which
there was
only darkness
an hour before
everything
is done for me
because i’ve lived
the same life
the same day
many times before
—so my shirts
are form fitted
from having been
washed and worn
on the same body
and the same people
i already know
just say hello
and less
nice to meet you’s
and i still
remember
the way to where
i usually go
so less looking
at a map
and trying
to figure it out
and i know
what i like to eat
so i push my cart
in the same path
at the store
and only stop
when something
is out of stock
oh the morning
yes it is
what i thought of
last night
when the day
had become too much
and in need
of something new
when wonder weighs
what won’t be held
it’s hard to keep it quiet
though sudden sways
in ocean waves
and wind outside the window
make it so
that even though
breaths are held
just waiting
it all will come
from a summer’s sun
that shines so all can see
brisk cool walking feeling good and even open even though foggy and dark and windy and blowing in my face and walking downhill that up peppermint on my skin opening my nose tree leaves overhead stopping at intersections and keeping rhythm with the clacks of my heels of my weekend shoes that I wore because it’s Friday night and waiting for a car at this intersection and it goes so I can patch voices in the distance to my left
San Francisco being quite a really beautiful city and people laughing which makes me happy doors close it got parked cars that start their hinges it make me wonder why everything is plural because it was really only one car cars cars cars cars I’ve said this before but if you walk up the sidewalk in the city it is really car is at Phill most of your consciousness either listening to them or try not to get hit by them or looking at the ones that are really expensive are the ones that are not expensive it makes so much noise
I wondered why the Google maps app said it would take so long on my phone the walk I mean it was only a mile or a mile in 3/10 baby but now I realize it is because of all the stops at the stop lights and having to wait for cars those are the stops that make a mile walk take 30 minutes
So much here yup I’m sure of it now even more sure than I was when I packed a backpack and moved from the Midwest to come to the coast the people who had been here told you was great now I am one of those people that will save myself that it is great this wind blowing it’s seeming like it is not so great in the city but he thinks cold and dark but I know it is from the ocean that is not far away it’s so ISmile is just as if I were on the beach in LA
it’s quite easy now really to flow just the immediate after work hours on a Friday after I’ve worked and worked and worked and slept and woke it up and work some more and slept again so that I get into the mood of just doing the same thing over and over and getting good at it and measure the bed not being able to do anything else so now on a Friday when I finally have some time and want to make some art which is what I really enjoy doing I can’t because all my buyer wants to produce is the workI think that that I won’t ever come back but it really just takes a couple hours for everything to open up
Passing around a crowd her and I from either side had the same idea and so crossed on the left her right and almost ran into each other around in the crowd not being able to see
And so wanting to see by golly just show me what we came here for and can’t wait anymore to let her eyes have with anything but the same for it is for any of the senses sight especially just to have a change of pace
Meditative walking so not thinking of getting quite far pay attention so much to surroundings that you don’t realize how much this route exit changed and now looking up at the street side to realize you’re in a whole other part of town I should’ve known for the way things look different but the changes were so subtle that every small change one by one doesn’t equate to a big change all at once
Just capturing all of it without discussion like this and this and this and that and that and all of it so great so beautiful overwhelmed with my camera out hitting the trigger button pressing captured so many times over and over just spinning in circles taking a picture of everything up and down my shoes in the sky in the building for the people in front of me and trying to write down what they’re saying when they’re talking and trying to record my own thoughts and also what my senses are telling me converting stimuli into words and writing down the words on the street signs in the markets are the gas prices and running out of breath saying this into my phone
seeing home in state after a long walk and getting excited to see you baby having to wait for this last light counting down with the flashing orange hand and yellow rectangles across the way where pedestrians are supposed to walk I can see the apartment from here not our window but I know it’s the window right next to it and I know baby is sitting there waiting for me or maybe try to distract yourself like I am right now thinking of anything just to pass these next 20 or 30 seconds before I put my key in the door and get to see babyLike I wait for all day lately it is but every day that I weigh like this and I suppose it could be every day here after
While working in the city I’ve found it difficult at times to both keep up at work while also finding time for my writing. Because of this, I started writing during “small pockets of time” like sitting in the back seat of the car on my way to work in the early morning, holding onto the handrail on the bus on the way back home, waiting for the elevator in my apartment building, waiting for a friend at a restaurant, lying in bed at night before falling asleep, etc. During these times, I was still “on the go” and couldn’t sit down to open my laptop or write at a desk with paper and pen, but my iPhone that I always had with me anyways was the perfect tool to record a passing thought. (I know this might sound like an Apple advertisement but it’s really just the authentic story. I tried my best to read into the copyright laws about using the word “iPhone.” Please don’t sue me Apple). Combined with the fact that these moments in time were when I felt most “free” to focus on my writing, while I was also “getting something done” for my personal or professional life. It started as just texting myself with the Messages app. At the very beginning, I was trying to write a novel or short story. So I practiced writing scenes or character descriptions, and then would try to piece everything together on Saturday when I had more time. At some point I realized I was better off just keeping the pieces separate. This was my introduction to poetry. I was capturing very short and specific passing thoughts or a quick snapshot of what my senses were telling me—like looking up at the buildings downtown while waiting at an intersection, or closing my eyes in the car and listening to the traffic noise. The next iteration was using speech-to-text. I noticed there was this little microphone symbol among the keys on the iPhone keyboard. I had seen my dad use it sometimes to send messages for work. I started using this feature to speak my poetry out loud, especially when it was coming too much and too fast for my fingers to keep up on the tactile keyboard. There was also a more natural “flow” from saying the words and hearing them out loud so it was easier to make a correction when the rhythm was a little off. This allowed me to be more productive and contributed to most of the contents of this book. Now that I have had the chance to think about it as a completed project, and more removed from the natural way that its production came about, I think there are very interesting ideas about how our technology understands us and allows us to communicate with one another. I have often texted a friend and thought that the conversation could be dialogue for characters in a story. Further, I wonder about the stream of consciousness that everyone has naturally, and if technology could capture it. In producing the contents for this collection, it was often my goal to let my thoughts flow as seamlessly as possible—from what came in through my senses, and back out through my words, whether spoken or typed. I wonder if the human error, of my experience being translated into words, could be removed, and the experience could be translated directly. The same could be done for other art forms: a movie playing exactly what someone sees, or a soundtrack playing exactly what someone hears. Anyhow, here are those thoughts and experiences to which I have referred, recorded and copied by the methods I have described.
why crunched so much into a form that has passed for fear mostly of being formless so holding on without realizing that it is all still there and a brief detour won’t erase the whole map as long as the journeys traced with your finger are taken at some point or another or even that tracing itself is a location or event on a higher order of maps
why crunched so much
into a form that has passed
for fear mostly
of being formless
so holding on without realizing
that it is all still there
and a brief detour won’t erase
the whole map
as long as the journeys traced
with your finger
are taken at some point or another
or even that tracing itself
is a location or event
on a higher order of maps
left after a week worked hard in the car and my shoulders starting to relax a little as they do at least until a gradual tightening come sunday evening but just happy now to be headed out of downtown and back to where i spend my nights and the city has somehow kept the building under control and so is more natural to see the sky and easier to forget about what is other than a mono blue or white or even grey at the worst but even the fog on a rainy night i prefer much more just to sit inside and take time to boil water for tea and eat then steam or otherwise relax and spend time without having to get a return on the investment
reaching into a thoughtless mind wondering again if the poetry has gone like i know i have thought before and without fail the poems return but for some reason like before i think again that this time is different—that it has really gone for good this time.
three quarters cracked
passenger side car window
blowing past an empty seat
through my hair in back
flashing lights
when i turn my head
too quickly
and think
oh god
am i tripping
looking like
ran around
so it goes
and other
smothers
or shmoops
that a litter
of first letters
sound the same
or similar
a plastic bag
on the sidewalk
under the bridge
in the dark
blowing slowly
looking like
a raccoon
sleuthing around
building tops
and walls
downtown
against the sky
like my girl’s shoulder
against the mirror
in the apartment
—simple things
made even more
simple
and clear
outlined against
other
simple things
contrasted
by difference
so the line
is clear
suppose i said
what i should have
all along—
would it matter
now, after
all that’s
already happened
i feel myself
wasting away
when all
the attention I’ve paid
is to the out and out
on going out side
of myself
where most
meaning is made
and drives me on
but a body can only
be driven so far
by meaning alone
until physical matter
must be upkept
so only sometimes
several waking hours
when spent as if
time won’t pass so fast
and really left
to look deep down
into what’s always there
but often glossed over
in favor of other space
made important
by limited time
i raise my head
from the pillow in bed
as a brief flash of light
comes under the curtain
and catches my eye
just enough
to wake me up
i talked to cloud
and sun could not say
whether we are waiting on
high, risen, or setting
today
talking too particular
leaving less space
for words to mean more
so that
a sideways glance
means less harm
left so long
that the offender
looks like
a statue
wind open
window
rolling in
cooler than
closed
a traffic light
against the sky
speaking
so clearly
with colors
cement split
like a natural crack
only that this one
goes so deep
as man has made it
while a crevice
may run to the core
tip toe tag along
prancing praying
you don’t get caught
doing exactly what
everyone else does
words make you feel because you use them. if you heard a word, but had never used words to mean anything yourself, i wonder if you would hear anything. words are fat with the weight of past experience. different words are more important to different people. the reason that writing can be so emotional for me is that when i write a poem or make up a story, the words i use are inevitably defined by how i’ve used them in my personal life.
when you realize
looking last
that nothing
in the past
kept same enough
for an identity
that holds together
but instead
rubbed off
and ran through
all other parts
of the big whole
i find myself
all the time
looking up
at building tops
that outline
the sky
it’s actually the work in the office all day focused on what has answers that crams my art into small pockets of time so it becomes less like a drip which spread out doesn’t pack a punch and so means nothing much in a concise enough form that can be read and impressed upon like a flood where if you let the good build up behind a dam and mingle together creating in your subconscious what comes forth all at once after work on the bus ride home scrambling to hold onto the rail with one hand and type the poem that’s been waiting all day on your phone with the other hand
worrying about
the freckle
on my chin
that will be covered
by a beard soon
anyway
there are two ways to write poetry. one is to write words as they come to you, somewhat randomly. the other is to try to think of what makes sense or what is true or what people will like—and then write that. even when i use the second method, however, i find that sometimes it will doesn’t work anyway. and on the contrary, with the first method, i can write something random, in a sort of stream of consciousness, and it turns out great. so with my poetry at least, i’ve given up control, and resolved to just keep writing.
how making
remember
when tired
that the morning
need is there
for you
to wake
sometimes
on time
i used to sit so
things felt
only contacted
out of place
like one leg
slung over
the other
sitting in a chair
looking cool
but only feeling
the leg pit
or the knee cap
of either leg
at once
and so worrying
that one leg
isn’t working
so not even
sitting cool
do i get a break
from my mania
open free
feeling
quite alright
after some time
in unconscious flight
woken with
a bounce
or a bump
and nothing at all
feeling closed
or impossible
quite yet
at night
not knowing
stumbling
in the dark
preferred
still
to knowing
to avoid
the fear
more than
the object of
at night
keeping lights
turned off
to avoid
a return
prematurely
to
the waking
world
lights
turned on
returning
to a seen world
that eyes
were grown
to survive in
little light
left over
long for
shadows
to recede
showing
more of
what there
is
to be seen
at first
thinking
being creative
to do
something new
then
notched down
and in
to a groove
having worn
the same path
ceasing to think
and feeling less
human
more machine
if the writers
keep writing
on the other side
of the muffled voices
apartment wall
and late afternoon
brunchers
and bakery
line waiters
all saying
some words
that spill into
my dreams
i shared a moment
with a woman
i didn’t know
at the bookstore
her and i
both browsing
as jazz music
played (no joke)
a little fast
and her and i
in this tight
little alley
between bookshelves
i wondering
if she’s interested
in the same stuff
and her wondering
i wish i knew what
and i stepped out
to write this
and she left
and it was over
my phone
is on the desk
across the street
haha she laughs
you know
what i mean
(on the night stand
right next
to the bed
in the apartment,
she meant)
i see it so simple
what i can’t capture
with a camera
or painting
so try to capture
with a simple world
like simple
which crams
a castle
into a shoe box
filled into
these forms
that have been
filled out
enough times
to becomes forms
i write it
again and again
learning
nothing new
shaking
my head
like a cocktail shaker
with the same
few ingredients
in the meantime
meeting moments
that come and go
casually, often
enough so that
most space
has a great indifference
to the time
that washes over
such
seen before
in fact
exactly
like this
before
in fact
wait a minute
has anything …
where am i?
less colors
with the lights down
so everything
is closer to black
conforming
and becoming one
until
a revolutionary
non-socialist
morning
when individual
color rights
will have
their day
time rich skin sheets
a little hot under covers
crowded to the edge
baby hogging more
than her half
so side leaning
to make space
and leaving a leg out
to cool off
a moderate
amount of pain
just
to make time
last
a little
longer
i think
in terms
of words
that sometimes
sound poetic
looking up
seeing art
or head down
walking past
what’s there
either way
a lot of the time
it’s just how
the words sound
and not
what they mean
just like
it’s the light
and not
the object
the evidence
is quite
consistent now
that this man
is crazy
and needs to be
treated
every time
i walk by
another
on the other side
just like me
going
the opposite direction
jumping up
to avoid
a chip bag
blowing
in the wind
you might die
tomorrow
but what happens
if you act
as if you will
and then you don’t
give some of my
energy and love
to baby
and some
to my work
and even some
to strangers
remembering that
none of it
is mine to give
—i am returning it
to where
it came from
window drapes
like a dam
after a flood
in the morning
holding back
all that light
wanting in
to wake up
and start the day
thinking
if i can just
put out
this much
and then
i don’t know
but at least
i’ll have
put out
that much
until now
i’m realizing
there’s no end
and you have
to keep
putting out
meditation and poetry contradict because they both take you to the same place but with meditation you get there and keep going further whereas with poetry you get there and exclaim then try to take the meteorite flight back down to earth with the wonder in tow
with meditation
you get there
and keep going
whereas with poetry
you get there
and exclaim
then try to take
the meteorite flight
back down to earth
with the wonder in tow
don’t always
close your eyes
and go so
cerebral
open them
and find what
our primal senses
are more familiar
with understanding
sometimes
they are smooth
like the ocean
sounds
of cars going by
so i sit
on our rug
in the apartment
as if
i was on the beach
in the morning
meditating
listening
to mechanical waves
before
you know it
you’re moved
like driftwood
downstream
with all
the other
debris
that moves
with the river
to the same end
regardless
of where
you started
you rush ahead
wanting more
and more
until you get sick
then you just
want your health
and nothing else
at once i think
of future possibilities
and hope forward
for the next thing
working myself up
to be let down
which is when
i try to find
a real specific thing
right now
like the crystal knob
on the bathroom door
or the semicircle
archway
over the hall
and the morning light
or even just gratitude
to see another morning
i woke up this morning
because i kept hearing
the dump truck outside;
it must be garbage day
really sending
it strong now
feeling fast
and flowing
for the force
of momentum
that drives
an artist when
he appreciates
his own work
this is where
i can write
albeit
uncomfortable
it is the
discomfort
in fact
that picks up
the pen
walking home
with groceries
so i have to stop
every half block
and put down
the bags
to write
some poetry
walking
with a brown
grocery bag
in my right hand
i see another
of about
similar
height and build
and a grocery bag
also brown
in their right
i wonder
is there a mirror
up there
at the intersection
suppose a centrifuge
of square shaped
triangle patterns
filled your sight
long enough
to render regular
seeing things
obsolete as
gills for dry land
a blue
sky canvas
makes things
simple
and clear
what we have
down here
compared to
the simple sky
so you would say
a night’s day
never left from
no time before
still needs some
surety sent soon
in order to even
consider a noon
before a dusk
when it will end
as it does daily
then lately
those waits
have lasted
longer
meanwhile
waiting for
what wasn’t
there before
seeing
my reflection
walking by
glass
storefront
windows
wondering
who is that
it seems to be
all coming
so you almost
want to sprint
even to death
because
this is it
but must balance
with the possibility
there is more
still to come
after a rest
and a meal
so still sprinting
to get somewhere
but not so fast
knowing
there will be more
just staying
the same
for long enough
is enough
to be great
sometimes
a beautiful city
even more beautiful
after you’ve been
away for a while
like the cathedral
unassuming
among victorians
stop
and go
stop
and go
at stop lights
in the morning
when
the stops
are almost
unnecessary
given
the few cars
up this early
except
for the speedster
that might
blow through
and ruin it
clear cold
misty morning
white white sky
seeming all to be
the same white
from a barely
risen sun
that shows some
of its light
but none
of its color
being in
whatever
you’re writing
so when
you forget
what to say
you can
look up
and listen
to what
it’s telling you
something about
having your head
under the faucet
and shower water
rinsing out
the shampoo
brings every thought
you’ve ever had
rushing forth
at once
fog clouds
over the city
like a pillow
with all
the feathers
pulled out
writing what i’ve
written before
because it’s safe
like a freestyle rapper
using old lines
without courage
to risk a mistake
and let everything
come out, as it will
saved by routine
back in the city
settling into
what i know
not so chaotic
as vacation
waking up
each morning
with the full set
of possibilities
—refreshing
for the first
few days
then exhausting
and wanting
to get back
to what you know
on there
open wise
there’s not
much more
than
a closed mind
you’d be
surprised
contrary
to
the wide claim
in a dark room
noting the moonlight
through the blinds
that is normally
drowned out
by the ceiling light
some time ago
seemed like
things wouldn’t
ever change
like knowing someone
that looks different
over time
but you knew them
all along
so they look the same
went
all the way
out here
just
to come back
and see
what i was
seeing before
now
just a little
bit different
seeing
an old world
with new eyes
waiting
for the plane
to board
back
to the city
and take
a car
to the office
and resume
the life
i was living
before
with so much on the line and one step meaning disaster you end up paranoid thinking you could lose it all at once especially when you’ve given up so much to get here but there’s really no other choice some level of commitment and sacrifice required to make progress so the cure is to come to terms with the possibility that you might lose it all up to and including your survival and when you can commit to the work and sacrifice without that attachment to what is gotten then you can really chug along unhindered
like sleep
is the drug
that does it
between dreams
needing
to forget
one world
to see others
if expecting
to write
not being
able to
because trying
to prepare
like making
the bed
for a child
that will sleep
on the floor
anyways
and so needing
to look away
and act
surprised
when another
comes
so long
say goer
sent from
the dream
cherubs
that whisper
so softly
only sleepers
can hear them
working
in the night
as long as
i am
breathing
working
creating
is what
it is
for me
to be
keeping
(or at least
trying to)
a certain
rationality
so even if
a poem doesn’t
sound good
it will
at least
make sense
like roots
grab soil
her hand
grabs mine
the space that i’m in
seems more open
like i’ve only just realized
the bubble outside of
what is sometimes
called “personal space”
and am now
in this moment
a little more aware of
space at large
sunburned
on the first day
of a beach vacation
like tourists
the scruff of beard
rough on my fingers
chin scratching
writing best
between naps
like fishing
going under
to dream
and reeling
one in
above the surface
to unhook
and place
in the boat
then drop
the line
and re-enter
into
dream waters
and wake
with another
on the line
hearing
my heartbeat
clearly
in each ear
my left pinky toe
scratching behind my right heel
my right instep
flat against the fitted sheet
covering the mattress
my left ribs and shoulder and tricep flat too
lying on my side
my ear and jaw and part of my cheek
against the pillow
a slight strain in my neck
inclining to reach the pillow
baby’s forearms
pressed into my back
the second sheet against my right knee like a teepee
and against my right pinky toe too
like a second post
the back of my left hand outside and on top of the covers
folded with my other hand like prayer
holding my phone
typing this
my right index finger on the power button
on the right side of the phone
and my left index finger
on the volume buttons
and my two thumbs on the lighted keys
that i see with only my right eye open
and my left closed
submerged in pillow case
and the inside of my right bicep
slightly sticky against
my right pectoral
and thighs laid flat
like books stacked
not top of one another
dry tongue in mouth
feeling breath roll over
like ocean breeze over
a sandy beach
and slightly chapped lips
a half inch apart
eyeballs behind eyelids
closed while i think
and nose just being there
not particularly felt
other than a slight blockage
in the right nostril
and other parts felt
just being there
like eyebrows and forehead
center of my chest
and insides
and second and third layers of skin and muscles and bones
all being there
mostly unnoticed
expect for the occasional practice
of laying physical attention
fingertips enhanced
with eyes closed
like ears hawkish
with lips pursed
and mind sharpened
with none of the senses
any sense strengthened
without others
to crutch for
its shortcomings
abstract feeling stumbling in the dark feeling blindly for the bed interlacing legs feeling only the warm ceiling of covers creating a home between mattress and sheets and baby’s legs on fire like a heat rock and fingertips touching my own heated chest and back reaffirmed by comfy flat mattress all this with eyes closed feeling for a simple world made up of bed time sensations and abstractly with broad brush strokes telling of a bedroom in the dark just as it speaks to skin absent light or sound
she holds my hand
and i can’t tell
if the rings
are on her fingers
or mine
you go up the stairs into a building and forgot completely about the street so if you’re feeling some way just go up a floor to a different setting and feel differently
a man holding a sign walking down broadway in santa monica past tourists and shoppers reciting bible verses into a megaphone and the sign says something about how there is a god and a man on the other side of the street shouts, get a life!
hands shaking
like businessmen
under sheets
juxtaposed
with bodies
interlaced
having a pleasure
doing business
words to classify sort and name specifically:
Tom
Lots Angeles
Copper
Twenty-Four
and words to group evoke feeling and express generally:
love
people
movement
time
i tend to find myself using the second class when poetic and the first when story telling
sunburn sends
and peels away
part of an outside edge
that needs to be red
and let go
to reveal
a new shade of skin
showing summer warmth
everything looks the same in a store with rows and rows of clothes so i’m confused when i want to walk through and take a step then have to stop when i realize it’s a mirror reflecting the rows of clothes behind me so on the next turn i’m hesitant even though it’s really a row that i can walk through this time
cityscapes with harsh lines steel and objects versus brush and green overlapping trees with their trunks hidden and even the edges where the mountain shoulders would meet the sky dressed in greenery until you take the mountain road down and emerge into the first intersection where there is a sign with gas prices and boxy storefronts and street signs and stop lights that are all angular and pointed
generally safe
on a two-way
if between the lines
on our side
dependent of course
on the same
coming from
the other side
and nothing
over the middle line
which we can’t control
anyhow
so resorting
to a more relaxed
focus on our lane
and what will destroy us
coming the other way
is out of our hands
several days ago a message would have been sufficient but now that we’re here and it’s upon us without warning there is nothing to be done but to act suddenly which is almost better because the natural response may be better than if we had prepared
looking up
from under sheets
longing for light
that won’t come
until the morning
we feel love forcefully for the first time before it softens and quantifies itself to try and last and be a rational thing of the world that doesn’t spill over its bounds all at once but tries to become more of a lasting and domestic agreement than an all-consuming blaze
body boasting its soft round plumpness to soft sheets plush enough tilting the bed so you slide through the floor into the under dream world where you grow and sprout again into what mixes with your waking reality
at night not mattering
anything except
i can feel baby
and her and i both
exist completely
in the feeling
(muddled by
no other sense
in the noiseless dark)
of her fingertips
tracing the same path
on my bicep,
over and over
until she falls asleep
looking this
and that way
for a piece willing
and confident enough
to present itself
all at once
and completely naked
so there is nothing
left to invent
as long as i can
keep my eyes open
and write quickly
before
the moment redresses
writing at night
on my phone
with baby
in my arms
and only
the light
of the screen
in the dark
and my fingers
noiselessly
tapping
baby breathes
and i can focus
comfortably
lights wired
alongside
pipes with
water running
and rafters
barely sagging
a little more
each year
in a house
built to be
torn down
into a cerebral space regardless of what the senses say where a thought can start itself like a fire without fuel telling stories with pieces from different puzzles and letting a close eyed wanderer leave the necessary time and place of a body into a directionless mind travel that starts and sustains itself even dreaming when the body rests
baby and i
trying to hold
each other closer
pressing harder
trying to twist
our legs together
and wrap my skin
over her bones
pressing so hard
it almost hurts
a phone in bed
is a complex thing
among simple sheets
but the human in bed
is complex too
earlier at the beach in the waves out deep enough so baby could barely stand with her head above the water and especially had difficulty when a big wave would come and when we’d had enough and went back to shore our heads were pounding either from there being water in our ears or from the waves hitting our heads over and over so we tried to remedy the first by laying on our sides to let some of the water out but that didn’t work so we didn’t know but by then the sun had made our skin dry and warm so we forgot about our heads and fell asleep dreaming in and out with the sounds of the boys playing in the sand castle and the waves crashing a constant background noise until i slept for a while and baby woke me up saying she wanted to go so we got back in the car and drove along the pch and the traffic wasn’t too bad except for a short stretch right before we turned into toponga canyon and now we’re back in bed in the studio with a bird chirping outside and our host running the hose to water his bonsai trees and the dog trotting back and forth upstairs
like a bright light
that you look at suddenly
from darkness
and close your eyes
and look away
waiting for your eyes
to adjust
but still seeing
that scar of light
on the back of your eyelids
that is a symbol
of the actual light
you saw
but it is not
the actual light
it is just
the scarred memory
of your eyes
telling you what
you supposedly saw
and more
and more abstract
if you watch it
off in the one corner
of your vision
the edges softening
more and more
until what resembled
a lightbulb
in the ceiling
and then a circle
of light melts
into the general bright
of your vision
at large
as your eyes adjust
you get caught up
in thinking
what is worth it
with a working life
so on vacation
you’re thinking about
how much time
do i have to spend
back in the office
in order to make
as much
as this is worth
until you wonder
if you should
just spend
all your time
in the office
because nothing
is worth what
is required of you
to get it
i make a bunch
just so there’s some
to pick from.
it’s all there anyhow
in one form or another
and you can experience it all at once
if you spend enough time alone
but have to labor getting it down
one by one
and picking the right ones
if you’re going to share it
with anyone else
talking more about specifics like being on the pacific coast highway driving south from malibu to topanga going about forty miles per hour in a white five-seater sedan listening to electric feel by mgmt in the left lane on a section of road with construction where fines double at 4:37pm and the license plate on the dodge truck next to us is 93074H2 at a red stop light at the intersection of corral canyon road on saturday, july 20 and a blue sign on the side of the road says call box and on the other side a P in a circle with a line through it that means no parking and a discount succulent nursery and house number 24818 and a 45 mph speed limit sign and john tyler drive and now the song take a walk by passion pit the singer says i love this country dearly now to malibu canyon road and road work ahead again in a diamond shaped orange sign and the words signal ahead in all caps white letters on the road beneath our tires a sign that says sold in red capital letters for a parking lot apparently malibu lagoon state beach for which a few applies and the singer says rip apart those socialists and their damn taxes a dad running with a stroller and his blue shirt says malibu running across the intersection and a store at the corner that says food mart and car wash
back there, i’m building
out here, i look back
and see, what it is which
i can’t do while in it
like being unable
to figure out the width
of a river
while underwater
sometimes one art is more descriptive than another depending on which sense you’re trying to appeal to – i point to three roads that are relatively close. i am trying to point to the one in the center. i would be better off using my words and saying, “the one in the middle.”
funny that the time 4:21 means nothing on a saturday on vacation but on a weekday back in the city it means it’s almost time to go home
seeing flashes and feeling
movements in gravity
or the ground beneath my feet
so i almost say woah
and topple over
unless i’m seated
then
i just get a weird feeling
supposedly
just saying it
isn’t enough
when action
takes more
than an inhale
and curve
of your tongue
but rather
to spend time
that you only have
so much of
especially for
the sake
of another
is much more
than a few
uttered words
just needing a good sun nap
to forget everything i know
and fry my brain like an egg
so the art comes back into the void
from all around where it lies
in wait even when i think
it’s all gone but it’s really just
because i’ve been hard boiled
and in need of a scramble
after so much time in the dark shadows of buildings and fog walking fast on sidewalks always getting somewhere most often to work crammed into the bus with everyone else doing the same and so feeling the same and so thinking nothing of it or of doing anything differently or least of all leaving but staying concentrated where a desk lamp or an office light makes clear the paper or computer screen to be focused on in contrast to the dark overcast often sunless and cold where the ocean water is freezing so even if you make it to the beach you stay on the rocky sand and still think about work because it’s really not that far away both in terms of space on the coast of town and in terms of time over a short weekend and all of this contributes to quite a lot of production and ego building and economic growth until you get on a plane because your girlfriend says it’s time for vacation and drive in the night so you can’t see up to a house in the mountains and fall asleep exhausted from the work week and stress of travel but then wake in the morning to find a different world where the sun sets higher and brighter and drive down to the ocean where the water isn’t as freezing and the sun not dressed in fog shines so that everything seems to be one and the ego is less of a concept not because of any spiritual realization but just because you can see a thing other than the brightness that melts it all together and makes you want to close your eyes so your not even seeing but just feeling the warmth of the sun and then before you know it laying back onto the sand with a smile on your face and waking up hours later well rested having forgotten everything you left in the foggy working city and thinking my god i could cancel my return flight and stay here with baby and let my landlord figure out what to do with my stuff and be like one of the beach bums that live in their cars that line the pch and haven’t moved for years
letting salt
frothy foam
rip a green tide
brown in between
white capped
blue waves
so shallow
so far out
where the waves
can’t decide
how tall
to stand
at the zuma beach, we ask the parking attendant if she has a map. she doesn’t speak english very well. she says, no, just beach.
one thing
after the other
pushed along
into the next
and the next
needing
more
and more
freeways are
too fast for me
flinging forward
hunks of metal
kept from
killing you
just by
painted on
white lines
sitting in the airport waiting by the window as the sun sets for a flight to los angeles the flight before us deplaning and travelers a little sleepy less apprehensive for a flight not far just to LA at 9pm on a friday maybe tired from a long week in the office and getting away for the weekend like baby and i on our way to topanga canyon and then malibu beach on saturday
there will be
one night
when i get up
to use the bathroom
at 2:21am
or some other
middle of
the night time
and check
the front door
to find
it is unlocked
having forgotten
to lock it
before bed;
i just hope
it is not
the same night
that the burglar
finds it
two bodies
getting comfortable
together
like one body
i think about
screwy things
like nails
nailed into
the insides
of pipes
that touch
whatever
the insides
of the pipes
touch
like drinking
water and
anything else
that shouldn’t
get rusted
it was the head trauma at 267 N. Sumac that caused the migraines that discouraged me from pursuing anything technical like air force academy or wall street because i’d have the migraines any time i’d get too stressed even though i could handle the stress before and just push on through without getting the migraines
in the night
my poetic mind
is greased
without the corners
of the lighted world
to catch it
i wake up
with a knot
in my stomach
that needs to be
untied
with some
deep breaths
there are some days when I think the whole tree is done drilled into particulars and young resign just to breathe and think goodness until the night when I get up to use the bathroom and it open all comes back at once
edited: there are some days when I think the poetry is done drilled down into particulars and resigning just to breathe and look outward thinking of nothing until the night when I get up to use the bathroom and it all comes back at once
i’ll put my hand on baby
in the middle of the night
and she won’t wake
until i take it back
even though
it wasn’t there before
Sitting waiting seeing for it all to be written even though it is always written. All sensory inputs could be described with words. Some inputs we don’t have words for. Imagine looking out at a scene and being able to describe it perfectly with words. So much so that the person seeing the words could see the scene perfectly just as you see it. Or the same for a sound. Imagine being able to describe it with words so the person reading the words could hear the sound perfectly. I suppose that is why we have music. Which makes me think that there is an art best suited for each sense. Music for hearing, painting and drawing for seeing, dance for movement and feeling, culinary arts for tasting. But what sense then is writing for? For imagination? For mental capacity?
an abstract painting
painted right side up
turned left
and upside down
still right side up
the paint
on my fingers
juxtaposes
the mono-peachy
skin
quite nicely
feeling feet
one foot
on top of the other
seeing bookshelf
black against
white wall
hearing motorcycle
outside and
baby sniffling
in the kitchen
and water running
feeling seeing
hearing feeling
seeing hearing
feeling pajamas
on legs under covers
seeing paper
and pen in hand
hearing cars
and bus
whooshing by outside
tasting nothing
dry tongue until
i close my mouth
and salivate
smelling nothing
the bastard sense
along with taste
lying dormant
and ignored
until dinner
Baby sniffling
sniff one Mississippi
sniff two Mississippi
snort snort snort
there are only so many combinations of words, punctuation, and spacing. only so many letters in the alphabet. so the set of things that can possibly be written is finite. it is like our physical earth. there are only so many possible combinations of DNA. a presumably finite number of elements present on earth, combined in different ways. the only difference is that they are already all rendered and out there and the difficulty for an explorer is to go and find them. whereas the difficulty for a writer is that some writings, while possible, have not yet been written.
a building
in open sky
with itself
and no other
buildings
on its edges
allowed
to be like
an object
painted alone
on wide
open white
canvas
several times it went
round and round
returning only to see
if the philosophy
was still true
so long a stray says shorter than the last walk left without direction gone again to the listless less given grace to one not gone astray and stayed straight
it is
what it is
what it is
what it is
having baby allows me to put my sexual energy into my art; my sexual energy for her is extra and overflowing, as it comes from pure love. i suppose my love for my art should be the same way. this is interesting. not motivated by popular opinion for my art. just by love for the art itself.
i’m dead and all the art is out of it and there’s nothing to be said
(when i write this into the blog they seem kind of funny because i see the art before and after it and know it certainly wasn’t all out; but i treat these seriously because i know i was really feeling down at the time and had to push through to get the art out)
a pleasant sensation of numbness as my fingertips melt into the cement bench and my forearms stretch leaning back and looking up at the sun there is no discretion between fingers …
blurred colors come into vision
like the sliver on rings on fingers
and the green on leaves on trees
spinning around in the park
and the peach of fingers typing
on phone screens and blurry streaks
all of it like paint strokes with colors
that run and melt together
i see simple things
like a hand
grabbing a yellow rail
and a button
that says stop
on the bus
in the morning
packed with people
trying to relax
before work
one thing gets
just slightly off
and i wonder if
the whole world
has changed
and everything
i knew, was a lie
a tree branch
with leaves
through the grate
through the window
bobbing
in the wind
at night
the light hits
the window frame
just right
so the red and green
guide traffic
in my dream
the world is wide
and possible
placing parts
where new wholes
change your view
from few
to many
like a man used to
the chore
of having multiple people
need his attention
he deals with each
in turn
buchanan slow down vrooom
webster slow down ch-kkkk
please hold on beep vroom
fillmore slow down stop go
ch-kkkk beep beep click click
doors are opening ch-kkkk
please hold on beep beep
steiner and california click
click-click click-click (turn
signal) click-click click-click
doors are opening stop go
please hold on vroom
vrooooom (speeding up)
pierce click ch-kkk beep
please hold on vrooom
stop (stop light) go divisadero
(my stop) doors are opening
the whole bus shakes
riding over construction
unpatched bumps and
potholes in the road
rattling squeaking
like an earthquake
really more than
you would expect
like the whole thing
could fall apart
i close my eyes off into musical light ecstasy dancing to the rhythm of abstract shapes moving colorful behind my eyelids before opening my eyes to meet a harsh defined reality where colors are bordered in definite shapes and move again according to math instead of according to the feeling of dance
my outward appearance
isn’t my art right now
while my aesthetic attention
is placed in painting
and moving words on pages
so i look like a bum
with my hair disheveled
and my baggy shirt untucked
nothing slows down
like you expect it to
when things get out of hand
and you can’t keep up
but you don’t worry about it
because sometime soon
you’ll have a hold of it
to put things in their places
and make sense of what
comes so fast
you can’t hardly tell
what to do or who you are
but it’s still not worth
sacrificing the newness
to stop and piece
together the oldness
judging my life
only by production
so when
the production stops
everything stops
and ceases to matter
hanging head
upside down
off the edge
of the bed
wives get weird names
when they grow up
and marry lasts
that weren’t meant
for their firsts
a little drunk
so normal things
let me lean in
past sober rules
like good posture
cars whoosh
by outside
the stop light
changes colors
in the window
the hardwood
stays put
for the most past
so one thing
in the world
stays the same
peaceful placed
where restful minds
look no farther
than what might
disturb a peace
meant for this
drunk a little
left in line
waiting for
i’m not sure
what just
comfortable
to stand here
otherwise
inappropriately
drunk, but
here in line
perfectly
in place
when you’re sad inside you have to get outside and live in the joy of others and the beauty of your surroundings
eyes closed
on the bus
feeling the inclines
and turns
stopping
counting stop lights
trying to guess
how far
and which stop
i need to open my eyes
and stand up
to get off
i write something
when i feel bad
even though
it might be
the same thing
i would have written
feeling good
i’ll throw it out
and only if
my good feeling self
digs in the trash
uncrumpling and
exclaiming, framing
everything that my
bad feeling self
threw out
but the point is
the lens is more
for both reader
and writer
than the writing
itself
an idea starts as a word
which then multiplies
further describing
its original self
with more words
looking from one angle
and seeing no more beauty
so thinking of leaving
to find more elsewhere
then seeing from another angle
and finding abundant beauty
right where you found it
from the beginning
and so feeling foolish
like a boy with no loyalty
who can’t remember his promises
two words
and a new line
read silently
to oneself
and spaced
with a rhythm
a frown at face value
for sadness not looked past
facial tissue merely masked
over a technicolor soul
an itch
turns into
something else
when left
and watched
with eyes closed
an annoyance
then a pain
that calls
for attention
a bug
perhaps
that has landed
beneath
the eyebrow
asking
to be scratched
i dance around the room and lift up the rug and make some food and leave it in the pot to take a shower and rub my eyes to see abstract shapes until my skin prunes and turn on music genre after genre until i’d rather have the silence and then eat the food cold and go stand outside and look at people funny and walk with my hands in my pockets and worry about how i look and sit on the bench just to find one lousy poem that starts out like this …
anything i’ve seen
or heard before
makes me
want to jump
out of my skin
and into
something
anything
new
it’s marginal
what makes
the whole
such that
a fingernail
claws the body
over the edge
sometimes
when i’m happy
i wonder why
have i not
written any
when i’m sad
now that i’m sad
i know i can’t
write like this
several separate times
tend to show space past
premature dreams
really can’t
forcing myself
to write this poetry
can only paint i guess
while depressed
be what it is
say what you feel
stand while you can
look and see
leave what’s behind
there’s no way to describe
with exacticity the melting feeling
of depression other than
the paint that i drop in globs
on the canvas and let run
by titling the canvas side to side
wasting my time
and dreading the morning
crowded on the bus
germy yellow hand railing
everyone looking down
at either book or phone
phones mostly
a few looking out
of the windows
the whole bus creaking
and parts shaking
crawling up
and down
san francisco hills
cars passing by our sides
stand clear of the doors
says the recorded lady
but the doors don’t open
and we keep moving
stopping and starting cars
on either side
so you can’t tell who’s
moving and who’s not
so quiet on the bus
just the ventilation
the bus stopping in traffic
and then starting
with a jolt
a dog bark
on the sidewalk
two motorcycles pass by
the fare prices posted
three dollars
for an adult single ride fare
and other ads
some peeling off
of the diagonal sections
between the windows
and the off white roof
out of downtown making
some progress now
my hand getting sore
from holding on
a beep, then two more
please give seats to seniors
and people with disabilities
says a recorded voice
a man this time
and then in other languages
the same message
presumably
doors are opening
says the woman’s voice
almost forgot
to pay attention
to whether
this is my stop
it’s not
but i better pay attention
getting off
at divisadero
everyone looking smug
to live in this neighborhood
trying to see too much art
and your lens gets muddled
looking at a tree stuck between
being painted and written
same as between a world
being worked or recreated
a light open lunchtime world
outside at high noon
with everything bright
and seeing for distance
other people around
and voices can be heard
and everyone awake
unlike last night
in a dark room
close down under covers
hiding from the abstract
dark monster peeking
through the bathroom door
from the top corner
of the mirror
giving me terrors
in the delusion of having
woken up
in the middle of the night
and being scared as hell
without even knowing
what i’m scared of
but certainly made possible
by it being dark and nighttime
inside a small room
with nobody else around
a little cheap art
that doesn’t mean much
but is still pleasant
enough to make
an economic invalid
worthwhile
i don’t have the energy
to pour out like that
leaving nothing behind
while all i’ve got
is just enough to get on
nothing extra for art
that requires survival
and then some
i have to get
my worldview right
before i can make
art out of it
keep writing carefully craft odd to 17 long straightaways shooting a lock side segment Rhodes Ryan with White Dash Ally is leading into intersections that turn in all four directions and clog with cars especially now after 5 PM when everyone moves at the same time showing Salads at a commotion of a city kept under fog it it’s on Lucid glass globe Jamie world
left-leaning long time into words I will pick up whatever they want anyway pouring over loud noises heard yelling at the tight loudness until we spring in the open ducking head past people who walk bye distracted constantly by billboards and try not to get hit creeping past wall art of cars of all shapes and sizes and colors underneath bridges it over shop windows a maze of homes and places and paths to walk through so many cars in an auto shop hard to think how they got the ball in there dirty sidewalks
wondering if it doesn’t matter if my words are to change anyway if it’s really the machine that’s making the yard so I can really say anything as long as I keep talking and the successful man nowadays it is one who leads deepest to division letting most of the work be done for him without him push of the button that’s Aussie does the right button to push it’s a Holick these devices that have so much power at the key nowIs to unlock the power of the device sometimes more is in the power of the Madame self
you can’t always hit hot spots
hoping beyond canyons walls
when crevices down deep enough
that the sun could set across the whole sky
and you’d only see for one second
at high noon and even that would
be enough to notch
one more step in the rock wall
and reach up
what shadows appear
when the lights are turned off
hidden before in a general bright
appearing now from
a more focused light
framing the doorway
from the streetlight
beneath the drape
ceiling showing light
passed through from
the bottom eighth
of the kitchen window
uncovered by drape
showing a triangular
section almost white
like a car headlight
shining at night
morning through car window in city watching man sip his coffee slowly and auto shop attendant sweeping out the garage yellow lights on the back of a parking patrol vehicle people waiting at the traffic corner with their dogs on leashes for morning walks man walking in one direction in his turquoise scrubs and another man walking in another direction in his vest more people on the sidewalk as we get closer to downtown trash cans waiting by the curb signs outside or storefronts some of them already open at 7:27am jazz playing inside the car giving a soundtrack to this window movie a man in a suit carrying nothing maybe going to an interview a white van coming out of an underground parking garage with its left blinker on stopped at a stop light the sign on the building to our left says the ross building turning right a dozen people waiting outside in line their backs leaned against the building one man crouching most people walking with bags over their shoulders and headphones in their ears stopped again at the intersection of market street missing some things as i look down to type on my phone and the car keeps moving now stopped by the richard stephens building mailboxes blue four of them lined up next to each other neatly trimmed small trees in large yellow pots a construction man with a yellow vest waking around in the bed of his flat truck another construction man on his phone with his hard hat on a blue bucket lift with the bucket raised a large construction site about a quarter of a square block with a large cable crane already working and many men in yellow yellow and orange vests waiting to right turn the corner as predestinarians cross the crosswalk
a pocket
opens up in time
like waiting in line
at the laundromat
watching the whites spin
hearing the machine hum
i wonder about
where the socks go
i get lifted
off into where
there is no
balance sheet
or rulebook
to tell me “no”
or slap my hand
which i need
sometimes
to stay grounded
i dip in and out
dancing over lines
that separate
trying to be
two people at once
one california
to gough
and clay
i hear
the same
bus stop
outside
all day
writing
what i feel
sometimes
results in
not understanding
what i wrote
when i read it
later on
delicate enough
to take
the right amount
and not more
and exacting
enough, to take
no less
i love art
so much
on the weekends
that some
sunday nights
i think i won’t
go to work
when i wake up
on monday
but then
soon remember
the yin
and the yang
the day
and the night
the dance
and the sleep
art is the leap
but there still
must be
the landing
and the takeoff
which must
go well
before
and after
the air time
that is art
and can go
just as it will
but money
and survival
and physics
and rules
and relationships
are still there
when you land
you read into words
too much
which is when
they mean more
than they were
meant to
limited as they are
they can only
be trusted
so far
to convey
what is trying
to be said
when dissatisfied
with the present
i look to the future
mistakenly
as the future
has no cure
for present ails
other than
to surely spend
presents
and shortly after
spend presents
that were
futures before
i write poems
between bus stops
because i know
there is nothing
else to do
during that time
i was born a goldfish
as much as i could
have been
born an octopus
i try to return
to the consciousness
i was before
i was born anything
taking the muni bus
5 westbound on fulton
toward ocean beach
on sunday morning
to play soccer
i watched an encounter earlier
when i switched from
the twenty-four to the five
where a woman wanted
to bring on a trolley full of
recycled cans and bottles
two trash bags full
but the bus driver said no more
there were already some
folks on the bus with trash bags
full of recyclables
i figures the lady would just
wait for the next bus
but she was shouting
in a language i didn’t know
and then another woman
that was coming onto the bus
aided the bus driver
in pushing the woman
with the bags, off the bus
i felt bad about it
watching from the bus stop
at the other side of the street
but didn’t know
what i could do
the pick-up game
is normally in north beach
by the ghirardelli factory
but the pitch is different today
on account of it being
july 4th weekend
we’ve gotten to 8th avenue
in the time it’s taken me
to write this
i’m looking forward
to playing
and not thinking
about anything
i check my bag compulsively
to make sure
i brought both cleats
not that i’ve ever brought
only one before
but just to make sure
i get overwhelmed
on both sides
thinking it bad
sometimes
and other times
thinking it good
as long as i don’t
go too far
in either direction
things get done
around the house
and i can’t remember
whether it was
me or baby
i feel things
and can’t decide
if their baby’s
feelings, or mine
i know i can
do something
but am probably
accounting for
baby’s abilities
rolling over in bed
and feeling with
my one leg
another leg
and not knowing
if it is my second
or baby’s
making dinner
i worry about
making for baby
what i wouldn’t
make for myself
deciding and
considering now
baby’s desires too
looking for cars
with two seats
and maybe three
one day
stumbling to the shower in the dark i’m feeling like i’m out of mind where all is abstract without edges shown to me it is only the fuzzy loose and generally vague feeling that tells me i am still a sensing thing so turning the faucet and having the cold feel accentuated in the dark and waiting and having to leave for baby to use the bathroom and coming back to find the water hot and all this stumbling blindly with my hands out in front of me and working from memory of the apartment trying not to stub my toe
my lips are faster
than my hands
as a medium
between my mind
and my words,
so i started
to speak my poetry
baby and i bought art today
and argued about how to hang them
without any objective correct placement
to act as a third mediator
so left the arguments be
and all the paintings on the floor
i think baby will probably
hang them herself while i’m gone
better that way
she’s probably right
about the placement anyway
i was as productive
as a poet can be
those months in san francisco
with baby supporting me
in her apartment
on the corner
of california and divis
on top of the wild hare
a bar that shut down
and the bakery with
a constant twenty person line
i say months because
it has only been five
or maybe a few days more
but not even a half-year
and i talk in the past tense
from the perspective of
an old poet
in another city
having lost baby
because i see that to be
the probable outcome
by no will of my own
but the will of the world
that has moved my life
up to this point
for the most part
at the gallery
wanting to buy
expensive art
but having to
compromise
our artistic
preferences
for what we
can afford
for long last
does time pass
tentatively
taking on more
space spread
out over what
came before
walking around the mission
with a backpack full of books
selling for 50% consignment
which is about four dollars
expect for the store that
told me to sell for more
so i got five dollars there
and not counting the copies
that got damaged either
in my backpack
or from baby thumbing
through the copies at home
—those copies i gave
away for free
where to place the word
fuck, or fucking
to add emphasis
is a word that means
nothing, other than
pure emotion
as if to put the word
that follows, in ALL CAPS
sometimes i step
up onto a chair
just to get into
a new headspace
a little higher
you did a hard thing
which is getting
your first step
out there
and so now set
a course to continue
keeping on stepped
in the same
general direction
as progress
of some sort
is all that really matters
just to keep from
getting stale
and stagnant
i expected
to be met
with resistance
but passed
easily through
that point
and even
overshot
my mark
with extra
force saved
for a greater
adversary
time is so full
and passes
quickly which
seems to me
an oxymoron
as i look back
and see not
so long ago
on the calendar
a moment
which marks
the starting line
of a race
which seemed long
yet not so
strenuous
even though
much was seen
and great
distance covered
so i wonder
which is best
to pass life
full and fast
or slow and
more empty
maybe it evens
either way
bones crack
like gears turn
without grease
to creak on
playing the music
of age
nascent never tells me
about itself until it’s already
halfway down the road
and surely a good one
i can see clearly now
but now so far past
i wonder whether to
run on after
or wait here patiently
watching cars counting
drops from the faucet
seeing when the next nascent
will rear its head
and hopefully catch on
early enough this time
to hop on like a train bum
making the leap
just to get on board
then laying back and
lacing my fingers
behind my head
as the right nascent ripens
and i’m just
along for the ride
when to stay
and when to
float away
to some-
thing new
how to tell
if it is written
and dug out
deep down
so fully explained
and all told
so there is nothing
more here
like an empty
gold mine
for a miner
or a dry glass
for a drinker
but wondering if
it is ever this way
for a writer
or if one thing
can really be written
over and over
and never
running out
of things to say
if you write
deep enough
creeping morning light
between the drapes
into the living room
brightening the edge
of the white rug
and putting a shimmer
on the hardwood floor
giving to my eyes
information for what
in the apartment
needs to be done
and pulling me out
from under-
neath the sheets
caught up and moved along like a pebble on the ocean floor stopped being myself for so long and just went with the waves that are my emotions and the luck of circumstance and the demands on me from others and ended up here now as a product of all that which is also what some people call the self and not really sure if what i was trying to do before being myself apart from everything else was any different or superior in any way or just unnatural and spinning my wheels against the way things are
when it gets too hot
in the apartment
you have to choose
between sweating
and opening a window
to let the city in
with the cars and
the voices along
with the cool breeze
we bought a bookshelf today
i built it with the manual
following every step
so all the books
(over a hundred of them)
that were stacked
in not so short towers
on the living room table
and beside the table
and underneath the table
are now all leaned up
against each other proper
in four compartments of
the newly built bookshelf
sleepy time tea
hot enough to
force a window
open to cool
the room from
hard to breathe
to open nose
inhale clear and
crisp enough to
stay under the
sheets silked over
with too much
i tell baby that
we should have
gotten the cotton
gone in
to genuflect
for tears jerk
against my
better
judgment
i’m exhausted by the constant need to create conversely kept inside all this time waiting to be formed into words what touch his skin and glaze his eyeballs so that there is a balance between tiredness from saying and overflowing from remembering best left Lewis to come as it willAnd I think about much other than staying alive and letting him know as it always dies and everybody just from getting out of bed and walking out the door and hearing and seeing and trying to have read enough to put that into words
me and baby making furniture together and unpacking boxes finally feeling more moved in a sense of building a life and settling and establishing it domestic existence that I am in complete control for the first time being here with baby and feeling like that scene in Benjamin button where they live on the mattress in the middle of the floor in the empty apartment and wondering if I think back years from now on this having been the start of the rest but more than anything happy to have come this far baby doesn’t like the legs on the bookshelf because they’re plastic and don’t fit the aesthetic of the rest of the apartment she wanted me to build it to see it first but I have a feeling she might see it and say it’s OK for a day but then see the plastic legs a week later and want to get rid of it but I am happy to build it either way baby laughing at me as I say this in my phone I’m also excited toMove the stacks of books off the living room tables into the bookshelf
leave alone so the art can recycle itself and come back to new ways of looking at things with enough time to have seen and heard novelties not yet conceptualized
talking so much in abstract terms as opposed to what is specific like the word peers printed on the curb that borders Pierce Street and the cement and the bus that says wine clean air vehicle California plus Gary in the parking it’s only for two hours from 8 AM to 6 PM in the redfin real estate company in the Zephyr real estate company at the gas station has prices of 399 for regular gas and 409 for price and the clearance for the gas station roof is 15 feet and 0 inches and the license plate number 7WMF175 on a Chevy
The feeling that everything is going well ups and ups punctuated by self doubt and downs until a resilient light or an unexpected Bright brings you back on the up and sometimes not even and up on the net is necessary but just a change in direction from going down down and trying to get off this like the Buddha would tell you not to be attached but finding more and more that if one is to be part of the world part of the family a friend one who hopes and strive to succeed what is it in it inevitably and thus emotional because there’s the emotion sometimes that makes art (edited) good and friendships worthwhile and loves passionate so the ups are worth the downs
baby sitting in the sunlight steam from 2 cups of tea coalescing the sound of bus brakes stopping and starting always outside the pancakes on the griddle sizzling made with oats and bananas and no flour steam and heat from the griddle making my face hot This is all doling quieter until the spatula flip turns over to the other side and this is always louder a little more burn on each successive pancake as the griddle gets harder and harder and less oil
so my style it seems has gone from poetic to more storytelling which is interesting specifically used for speech to text because with poetic the misspellings and words that go in differently are all right because within the context of poetry there’s more flexibility but with the style that is more storytelling it seems to be a little more important that each word is correct otherwise the context doesn’t make any sense Like the word harder instead of hotter but even then it is not totally misunderstood and still some value in telling a story not even thought of
steam and smoke in the studio kitchen so I asked baby to open the window washing out the remaining batter in the griddle quieting down the Fossett dripping and the sound of water farther down in the sink pipes car is always car so much that it’s monotonous at this point but interesting because it was only when I started to try work writing what I hear that I realize it is always the car is the Phillies are here in the cities
after only hours
empty hearts are stored
with mind’s memories
racing past
logical parapets
to an emotional core
keeping sacred
time spent with those
two and many
almost becoming one
for the times that
walls and moats recede
for hearthy warm
merriment
remembered fondly
a pillow case
soft as skin
for its belly feathers
to deliver their
plush softness
without being exposed
to contact with
the rest of the bed
and baby’s hair
especially
a cord hanging
from the shelf
unplugged
like a fishing line
looking to hook
an empty outlet
dog getting antsy waiting on a leash with her owner pulling whimpering waiting leash packed taut for the light to turn green leaning forward up on her back legs so the color pups into her neck jumping barking until her owner with a finger tells her “no!”
what a window
wide open
letting light
like a painting
framed from
outside into
the dark attic
so that
the window
and the shadows
it casts
are the focus
in a diagonal
wood rafter
attic otherwise
dark and musty
if not for
this window
breathing air
and light in
a purse full of mushrooms and cocaine from pen caps sitting near on open window in the attic of the officer’s quarters in the presidio. waiting for fireworks that we might not be able to see because of the fog. chase said last year the fireworks were just red and blue clouds through the fog and even the booms were softened. brick chimney and wooden rafters in the attic all of us sitting on the floor and hand me down furniture. people talking as loud as the music is my favorite part of a party when everyone has had enough to drink to no longer be strangers even if they only met an hour ago. all gathered by the open window in the whole wide house that has 10 bedrooms and four floors but we’ve all gathered here naturally in the uppermost corner of the house after being on the porch and in the front yard and all spread out throughout the house before. baby and i in the love. my legs rested up on the couch and her legs over mine. keeping cool from the breeze coming in through the open window
a very foggy spooky night where car lights show suddenly crept through unseen yellow light tunnel haze taken the highway to divisadero with baby’s hand in mine resting on the leather backseat radio plays softly and driver politely offers water in a river of straightaway stop and go lights and cars like ours following the rules waiting patiently having coming down from the presidio now so you can see farther than 10 feet ahead lights are really all that shows the eyes other than dark and in that way the fog is more like the dark hiding parts of the city view on the car ride home
Dark to bright light eyes adjusted so some shapes could be seen at the outer edges before but now everything information overload color all at once just long enough to get paste on the toothbrush and then light switch back off but still not quick enough to avoid peoples contracting and now in the dark even the outer edges disappear so the dark is really complete and I have to wait a moment beforeI can see the edges again and find the faucet (edited) handle to wet (edited) the toothpaste
i follow my train of thought
so aggressively that i forgot
i have a body; i come out of it
like a dream and say something
that doesn’t make sense
perfectly placed
parentheses punctuate
a thought within
another thought
impregnated
and unable to live
on its own
baby blowing smoke into my lungs so music sounds better laughing laying on top of a made bed in the afternoon when we should really get out but perfectly content here with outside coming into us from sunlight pouring in through tall windows framed by drapes
abstract rubbing
closed eye patterns
seeing shapes and colors
that remind and then melt
into memories and draw
the attention away
from eyelid backs
and drift off
opposite of
the comma
is the word “so”
letting reader eyes
pass on like
a green light
you’re not really living
left to the devices of systems
that move without you or not
and take your humanity
and cram it into inanimate processes
of production and eventually calcify
your joints to move in certain
mechanical ways you get out
and stretch and remember
what a human can do with
some open space and time
and now on the weekend wishing this
would remain and the week
and its system wouldn’t come again
where bone
raises skin
giving structure
to outward beauty
like fingers pressed
from the far side
of a bed sheet
little foot marks
on the stool
where she stood
higher
last night
framed by
the storefront light
coming in
through the window
holding the drape
pull string
twirling and
dancing
smiling at me
A nice car gets out to drive early in the morning when it has room to run
A night owl opens it eyes in the dark to keep from being seen
A tree grows at mid day when the sun is mostly there
A man eats in the afternoon after work is done
weather Waze one says shirtless stays like the nightfall walking alone talking to myself all baby sleeps keeping careless words kept unheard convalescent collected oh man the morning smells fresh and good getting out of the apartment so baby can sleep she’s tired from the long week of work going whatever way is the light turns so open on the sidewalk being able to talk just myself a walk now just to let leg stretch walking faster I realize for no reason I slow down The wind is so cool at 7:37 AM and so few cars a white fog overcast so all I can see what I look up is in Erie white consistently the same way in all directions and going up and up forever it seems Man the morning is it Great Erie odd place in the city were so many are usually walking casually strolling enjoying do still in the air wearing a shirt with a neck and a flannel and pads to stay warm feeling cozy in the secure barrier between the apartment door and the rest of the citySeems unimportant now that being outside to see him safe and at home
left a little longer like a moon drawn stare standing at the corner looking at numbers counting down telling me I only have so long but no matter for a direction this man as the numbers on the other side will start to count up after the other numbers have finish counting down and so the white man that I always listen to for fear of being hurt tells me I can crossShadows from an odd forest of the city where trees have grown to go to Hall
left lopsided lazy lake left lopsided lazy like left lopsided lazy like left lopsided lazy like a broken record who’s break isn’t all together on welcomed thankful for some repetitive NessFor a world that stays the same but we try to catch our breath from the dance
between Peers and Scott on California sitting on my favorite green yellow bench that one of the homeowners has been so kind to leave out to tired pedestrians I can just sit here in the morning when nobody else has woken up but the sun is surely out and the air is as good as it will be all day like my dad used to say; It still says it I suppose I just haven’t been home to hear him in a while
looking straight there is the empty street and cars parked all along the curb looking slightly up there is the second-floor windows and slightly further out there are wires in the tops of punctuated trees and then the roofs and more wires at the tops of telephone poles until the never ending overcast white sky that truly has nothing not even a bird so differentFrom the four-story world beneath I am Magine if I were a painter I would take the higher whereas if I was a family man I would take one of the four stories
Green leaves on the bush look classy like Willy Wonka would say you could pull one off a need it they Russell and make contact with her neighbors like they are communicating to one another that the wind has calm I cannot hear this Russell with cars pass by which makes me wonder what it is like to hear what only nature has to offer even in the city we here sometimes but all the people in cars and buses in factories and shop orders and construction workers and sirens and everything else is quiet down we hear the wind of the leaves that are more natural
breathing brisk through my nose summer starting to wake up now so I have to share the morning wonderworld not binding especially because I would like to know the others who regularly and why and where they are going on a trip or to the gym or to meet someone else to weeks early I am glad to sacrifice the clean air for some of their companionship
other pedestrians walking by wondering why I am just sitting on a bench looking at me like don’t you have somewhere to go Mr. even more odd when they see that I’m talking to my phone if I ever say something like be there soon babe just stepped outside or have a great weekend see you on Monday or something else that is normal to say to your phone but not saying poetry to your phone that is not normal
Remembering that today is July 4 and I have a greed to grill burgers and Brotz on the beach with Greg and Devon and so now having a purpose again and getting up off the bench to walk to the grocery store to buy the supplies it is a bit harder to think of poetry when you have your purpose and your mindset but one good for the other to go back-and-forth I think
it always strikes me now when I walk by another person with all their clothes on and carrying many bags talking to them selves seemingly saying nothing but no difference between them and I such that I would like to turn on my speech to text and walk with them and let them talk into the microphone and hear what poetry they have to say
still connected
until off
and out of touch
then disconnected
until touched
back down
spread out
in open air
while up
and away
until tunneled
and dug deep down
upon a return
earthward
left in all
directions
with wings
while met with
the resistance
of mass
that requires strength
to push away
what has taken
the space already
so needing the light
lifted wing nature
of a bird
to live a life up
and out of it only
to return and find
your wings useless
for pushing aside dirt
and debris, needing
to eat and weigh
yourself down to life
in a world of mass
heavier than air
bus whirs outside
arms catch on wires
brakes let out a breath
rest at the stop for a second
eat a few passengers
regurgitate a few others
some stops are a big meal
swelling with a stomach full
until the stops downtown
provide some offloading relief
crawling all over the city
always demanded
and even chased after
until broken and then fixed
and put back on the schedule
born into a purpose
of making the city run on time
right after thinking
of nothing
then something
pops up
so thinking of it
for a while
until gradually
thinking one
after the other
before remembering
to think of nothing
back and forth
like this
until the somethings
grow shorter
and the nothing
takes over
keep with what exists already
wanting after not so many other
derivatives and replicas and slight variations
that may seem to please marginally for a second
but really just bleed a strong self into boundless life
either of which works well enough
unless you planned to do something by way of “I”
and risk forgetting you are part
of everything like a colony ant
while having a higher chance
of accolades for being something like a lion king
in the dark world
nothing scary
if remaining dark
only scare
for what comes
out of it
so dark forever
is not so bad
save what
the light might show
in the dark
sensing
by touch
i realize
it is the cause
of light
that i have
been writing
with my eyes
in the dark nights
open mouthed yawning
dreamed upon
days not yet
woken
i leaned back
and sighed
i felt so good
i forgot
i was standing
and almost
fell over
hair like a mop
for shower water
wet in bed
towel covered
pillow case
for a fifth of the time with which was spent watching clocks counting the first four so much that when the fifth started all the time was spent remembering the four anyway a shame for the four were spent expecting the first so the only time they’re really wise when they handed some small point crossed over the four
come on over as it wanted to be my poetry dries up work having been so much recently and wanting really only to write but knowing money is needed for everything I have and so feeling this conflict at times honestly but not wanting to speak so honestly is this when trying to write poetry knowing that world is different but not being able to write anything else because this is what I am thinking ofAnd just hoping it will only take a night to get into the artistic flow of the weekend especially this weekend on the eve of the Fourth of July when we have a long weekend to really get into life outside of work which is the reason why we work now baby going to bed
naked baby looks like all the life I ever wanted wasted lotion skin and shampooed hair curly dark on Carmel shoulders back rib bone showing through bend over breasts dressed in curls collarbone framing small neck holding throat hands twisting hair
epic eventually owning what would have two lips tear their seeds away from Stamos grass cut deep in the soil without limits between roots blood into the open air that separates nothing sky from something ground offering what little color there is to take form Against a never ending blue or gray or night darkness it seems to take up all the space other than what we can sense immediately sending started to distance planets that one Shirley explodes now
same with speech to text as with the lines certain words sad but recorded differently makes me wonder if the original words were any better than the speech to text replacements and so you start to speak quite freely wondering if your word will be recorded correctly anyway and then wondering about the skill of your craft as it seems any wordAnd any line placement will do
arched doorway just tall enough bent into the lines of the apartment human size build boxes stacked between streets blocked bordered by sidewalks in newspaper stands in parking meters and light poles like tracks and tables and steps and darted lines in straight lines for things to all get going and keep going and avoid running into and stopping anything else from going jazz plays lightly across the street punctuated by undulating cars that come from far away and then near and then far away again now past I am realizing when I always listening is the cars you constantly here in the city and the sidewalk and street that you always see unless looking at the sky for long enough and then you can forget you’re in the skate city all together
it all melts away and folds apart past raised edges that all of them self just enough to be differentiated from what lies on top and bottom and to the left and right and maybe even behind and in front if you move around November 3 dimension realizing now trying to make order and say what makes sense without flowing and shadows that right circles in depth of lines that really just flow when you are trying to find words
like it ever meant anything before past poor old defined words that I wish to keep abstract not wanting to capitalize the first letter names needing it to apply to all and not a time place or person that a reader might not now let alone my future self that might look back and forget referring it to be so general that it almost comes to a point where there would be a one word poem and that word would be all or this or is or it or some other short and abstract and all telling noun for that is how I feel when everything opens up and lays it self there such that one who tries to describeFines is not more words but less that describe accurately all of existence that tells of itself all at once
some light shows what I’ve seen before trying to see news so that I have something to write about but seeing the same an apartment that I know alcohol home with baby here and plants that make it like home home that many generations ago would know stacks of books and rug and couch legs all on hardwood going together like the magazines would have it and impressing upon ourselves mostly but also just in case the visitors that come to her three times per year as long as laying in bed behind drapes that won’t open it till the sun is allowed to shine star Kadian rhythm be damned wildlife in the city is so made by man anyway
It is interesting when the line breaks are set by a poet in a certain way, but then one or two lines are too long when put into type, and they spill over onto the next line—such that you wonder if the poet was correct in his line placements in the first place, or if it’s even better with the words accidentally forced onto the next line by the formatting.
parking meters
poke between
parked cars
staircases
up into
slanted homes
lights inside
restaurants that
make their money
on friday nights
trying to
write the city
but mostly seeing
and so thinking
setting sun
on buildings
and faces of
people sidewalking
would be better
painted
store windows
show through
and out of
store windows
on the other side
so you can see
who’s coming
around the corner
simply seated
so enough
passes by
to keep me here
paying attention
young people spend so much time looking inward. people want to read what is outward. it is easier to look outward and write outward as you get older.
You get taken a little too much
by the world that wants and wants
and never stops.
Without waiting to see
what will come to you anyway
and only going after it all the time
trying to grab what is there.
Some still to start
until less and then
eventually nothing
because you were only grabbing
and not putting any back.
So learning I get to stay still
and listen for the world
to be something again.
And then really realizing when
it is yourself that must
make the world what it is.
the light
from between
a barely
open door
and its frame
cast upon
a carpet floor
in an empty
dark room
abstract yet
so defined
and clear
Walls of leaves shades of green
like what is inside there
must be teeming with life.
Adjacent skyscrapers
bursting into the sky
like what built these
must have been godly.
Commotion uncontrolled
in the streets of the city
like what lives here
instigates itself.
Cars constantly revving
until waiting at lights
like mufflers are talking
to one another.
Signs glowing prices
even without buyers
as if the glow itself
is commercial.
Graffiti art started
sidewalk parted
like the leaves grown
over the half of it
were on purpose.
Steps of so many
pedestrian walkers walking
like the place to be gotten to
is always moving.
Construction noise
in a new foundation
unveiling dirt a rare sight
that will soon return
to being underneath cement.
Pigeons pecking together at scraps
like city trash vultures.
Such is the spooky light showing some shot shadows admit days straight away into the tree line interspersed with buildings more buildings than trees actually seeing only so much that’s not so different than the other times I’ve walked out what do it what else I haven’t noticed.
i get out and into
a slow mind
before returning
to a fast body
with feet
moving somewhere
that a slow mind
has forgotten
just so they
can put their finger on you
is part of being remembered
or commended
otherwise they see once what they like
and then go back looking
but even when they find you there
standing in the same place
if you’re saying something different
it’s not the same to them
and you might say well look
a new crowd has gathered
but for them too
it will not be the same
when they return
so part of being remembered
or commended
is just staying the same
a light tea
actually quite bodied
pleasantly tasting
like more
than just water
and hot to boot
something so
universal
so well
explained
what so many
have experienced
many times
without words
to recall
and name
or otherwise
classify what
ceases to be
experienced
once it’s
been worded
the prize winner
for popular demand
and sacrifice of
everything sacred
about the self
a spooky order
made out of chaos
that would have
been better left
misunderstood
i remember that
my parents said
to be careful of
sharps in the ball pit
i’m still cared
of ball pits
even though
i didn’t know
what sharps were
at the time
the time intervals
with which
you measure things
grow longer
as you grow older
by the time i get enough
knowledge to be useful
by then i’ll be dead or senile
modern poetry is something different; it is not like Shakespeare and rhyme scheme. it is literature more well suited for modern thought processes that have become brief. it is micro fiction without the necessity of plot or character.
in my finest
moments
i’m good as ever
in my darkest
moments
i wonder if
i ever was
so great
to come into
a warm place
from the wind
leaned over
washing
my hands
in the sink
glancing up
through my
eyelashes
to see baby
in the corner
of the mirror
framed by
the doorway
sitting on
the couch
in her grey
morning gown
looking beautiful
as ever
say what works whether it’s a word or not working only by the music and finding accidentally that some words both sound right and end up meaning something that fits the context or at least makes you think of something that you mostly would have said but now it sounds more harmonious and adds a a dimension which brings along a new perspective
poetry, for me, is more of a lifestyle. it wouldn’t work as a job. i need my life to gather inspiration. it is a commentary on everything else more than a thing itself. it is a lens through which to record things and express myself. i am not so much a poet first off as “i am” and then that is defined in terms of poetry – whether that makes me a poet after the fact, i don’t know.
In the morning oh my goodness all that light opening the blinds and hearing honking and all of a sudden remembering the world that goes away when you go to sleep and starts again just as sure as you’ll wake up again to find it there and be a part of it yourself
paintings have frames for a reason so they don’t bleed over and take over everything and become another reality
So much art all the time offering itself to onlookers willing to see what’s always there waiting with itself being as it is only the onlooker changing and choosing to see depending on everything other than the beauty of the art itself though that beauty is subjective to being seen
you get up and away until you get pitted and slotted and eventually spent; up and all over and capable of being anything until alluded by the relational quality of being something and having a name that you can say to others and have a hand to shake and a personhood to pass on but at some times so defined you want to lose it all and spread all over again if only to experience a brief relief from identity that is not necessarily a natural form so the coin minted and made from metal and placed in the slot for a machine made to operate melts and might even rally the other coins to jump of the track and burst from the bank that the machine has collected so those who slot coins start to question what they were spending all along
You have to rev (edited) up like an engine chemicals mixed just like muscle is it possible to go from cold to hot but instead cold to less cold to warm to hot So slowly starting instead of jumping from bottom all the way to the top And getting your wits about you before you’re fully in it and needed that time to see all of what’s going on and now at the peak of knowing that the rest and slow start were needed for having any sense of a fast life lived past all moments that make up what is first pinchedAnd then exploded as you experience it and then pinched again as you try to rememberAnd in evitable that neither dreams nor memories can match the visceral large exploding overwhelming all that is the present
tabbed out taken a trip from terrestrial to extra in a flash of color changing shapes known to new ways of seeing things melted into each other so a painting palette where blotches mix makes a world more than usual
touching and thinking
something I would have
thought on my own
baby says to me
and i am confused
about whether my mind
talks like a girl
chase on after
hold on tight
know no master
need not quite
going into a
sing-songy seven
which may interlude
waiting for the pause
to pass pick up
per usual places
standing out from
the stars said
the universal bound
press on dear space
keep carefully creeping
so that after some time
having crept inches ‘come miles
been back in blasted
corduroy off-season class
come conflict with hot
days threatened sweat
soft and plush palace
put aside per usual
malice for miles
at no comfort’s refusal
so sense
turned over
and time
turned back
so truth
got twisted
like a
bottle cap
given size
and so few
focus deep
down low
might make
the far
my muse
everything is related and interspersed and overwhelming and excessively showing the other that it is what it is stretching to the balance of itself and risking becoming something else just as we thrive on dividing and packaging and parceling and putting together to make money and be proud and push forward all Intel the night comes and we look for a release to dads to sing to hunch over a drink and a quarter in the bar and dance in the crowds are individual steps can’t even be seenAll to lose the selves we built up
reaching out
expecting to have
touched something
touching nothing
stretching farther
and still nothing
wondering if
there is anything
anymore
but really
just grasping
for the wall
in the dark
awake in the night at five dark clouds move screen sliding doors painted over just barely blue from our son Scott barely waking mumbling saying words spell out wrong on the screen needing to talk louder for not having the strain i’ve been after it spent a night sleeping leaned forward moving into an exciting yet elusive future for their cubs the corner keeping Street walls that are willing to wait pausing thinking more with my dream brain less attachedTo the waking world and facts and figures that are no help if you talking to my iPhone in the 5 AM (edited) dark cloud barely blue sky nine
forced and needing sleep but not wanting to stop creating producing taking advantage of life and the time we have and being afraid of death constantly mainly as an equal and opposite reaction for being lean forward and wanting life to come and not stop it being good right now and hard to remember what is tonight when I remember what nature service about one moment making a whole lifetime worth it more sober the side thoughts that spell out correctly and they look at the screen and talk slowly and tried to say more correct last stream of consciousness more editing being done without marks but still filtering my thoughts before they get to my mouth
seeing what I can’t capture with Camera wanting someone else to see it with me wanting for it to be more than for my eyes only wanting to capture it and save it wanting to feel this way again by looking at it wanting everything to stop so it stays the same not even so it stays the same to you enjoy it but more so to stay the same so I can take a picture or write it down or otherwise capturing like a bird in a cage wanting everything except for watch for the actual thing that it is right now and graciously for me onlyBut I give it away to other wants
just now honey I didn’t one word this I wanted that one word to be what it said so much so being honest and telling you the reader that sometimes there are words that I’ve gone back and corrected but now realizing this undermines the whole values of peace so leaving that one word that I’ve already corrected but try not to correct anymore to maintain the whole point otherwise it becomes an edited piece just like anything else in all thereOther mistakes are undermined
it’s weird to talk about
a valued thing
in terms of its value
in a valueless world
As a writer I hear words very loud; by “loud” I mean clearly no matter what else is going on. Like everything else disappears and I live only through my ears and sometimes see images that the words create. I can’t help but listen to conversations that aren’t meant for me. Because I think of words constantly and describe all of my own experiences this way, I can’t help but eavesdrop when other people are talking.
falling in love
with everyone
and everything
for the time being
while the world is grand
and clear
and nothing hurts
and everyone smiles
or are at least not suffering
not visibly
now i wonder
oh hell
there i go again
making a good
thing bad
birds fly
in the apartment
blue door
window frame
between buildings
like a picture
the closest you get
to silence in the city
is sitting alone
in your apartment
and you can still hear
the air moving through
the ventilation system
walking on the streets
i’d wondered when
it would happen
without noticing
the headlights
maybe at night
and the pain
probably none
if hard and
fast enough
and nothing
but curb
keeping me
and all these
other innocents
from meeting
the machine
people often answer the question about what superpower they would want to have with an answer about the ability to read minds. stream of consciousness is close I think. based on language of course, and therefore as limited, as it is revealing. I wonder what is the stream of consciousness version of other art forms?
walking home on the sidewalk staring looking down people looking thinking about what I am saying graffiti PG and E bricks and more graffiti dirt and blue and orange paint for the construction workers and trees in squares planted so perfectly outside of Major parking fuck me up with “self and leaning against the wind and with the wind let up lets up a little shouting you can hear myself say oils Rush Limbaugh and gets me cars going past the opposite direction waiting now at the stoplight having to talk quieter because there are people around looking at me weird
caught something in my eye rubbing one eye open trying to see where I’m walking talking quite the same under the highway bridge by Perry Street and third nice waterfalls in the flower baids fuck and the white man that tells me I can walk and now the redhead with numbers telling me soon I will have to stop and the wind really really blowing like a tornado and a loud voice and almost getting hit by a car and I think they can turn on green but I have the white man so there is a conflict and I think the pedestrian windsUnless the car goes and then the pedestrian never wins
Horn honking in car alarm engine revving quiet now all of a sudden car is in traffic at standstill me having to talk quieter when I passed people on the sidewalk still not so brazen as to just keep talking nonsense with people around the buzz of a parking gate lifting one of the ones where car is almost drive straight into people out of the garage I have a walking through an alley made into a wind tunnel
Limping from the blister on my big right toe that I got playing soccer on Sunday today is Monday and the blister is still big and on popped so walking like an invalid and the right outside of my right foot has started to hurt is the big toe is on the inside
Steam from an apartment laundry room smells like clean clothes still limping the screech and squeak of sneakers and basketball bouncing a squeaky toy too confusing maybe a dog a park after all cars of course always cars everywhere you walk in the city cars other man on his phone looks like he actually talking I am sure saying something different the scrape of a shovel on asphalt a truck louder than cars trucks are more rare here hey mom with her two daughters I am assuming the Skweek of bicycle tiresThe rapid tech of a chain circulating through gears a motorcycle revving my ears being the dominant sense while I walk as I switch to my eyes a pigeon trash weeds pulled his car is still still cars I can see and hear the cars
You can stay as many of these as you want to the only rule is that you cannot edit them so go back and sift through and talk as much as you need to believe them as they are and keep moving forward making instead of backward changing save them and leave them but keep saying
Mistakes matter, I realize as I read these texts interesting to see words that are not what I intended but still sounds similar and so in someway makes sense and even makes more sense in some cases showing me what I had said from a different light the sameWords said but written differently almost like having a conversation with someone else having a conversation with lines of code inside a computer phone that can actually be a pretty good poet sometimes
at some points
i scratch my head
and wonder
how things have
ended up like this
and other times
clear as day
it makes
abounding sense
that things are
the way they are
“Poetry is the closest language gets to feeling” – a statement like this is banal because the person stating it is claiming a truth which barely belongs to him. An eight-word statement comprised of common words could almost be said accidentally, such that there seems obviously to be little skill involved in crafting it, and by extension, little mark of the crafter’s identity. It takes something wider and longer to truly test a statement so there is more room to make a mistake.
so now waiting for what has passed wanting to go back knowing it is gone but looking forward now which is really the problem for not looking right now
its all good and flowing and what comes in goes back out shortly thereafter so that nothing can stay stagnant for long before it’s refreshed like enriched air with oxygen to come back to me
i was rushing
to make it
to soccer
on time
the first game
starts at 8:50
and it was 8:20
but i had just
made oatmeal
and tried to eat
but it was too hot
so i forced
a couple bites
and burned my tongue
then packed it up
to take it with me
to the pitch
with poetry
i throw out less
than i would
with a novel
strictly because
each and
every poem
doesn’t
have to fit
on sunday morning
the roads are empty
and all the lights
turn green for us
as if i needed
to get where i’m going
any faster
i look around for data
for something to process
to let me know i am
where i should be
catching a glimpse
of the driver’s clock
on the dashboard
and looking out the window
at street signs
to make sure i’ll get to
where i’m going
or putting
my hands together
for one to tell the other
that they’re both
still there
or waking up
and looking around
to make sure
i’m in the same bed
i went to sleep in
or answering a question
with another question
to make sure my friend
is still here with me
wonder what day it is
and how old i am
to make sure that i am
behaving appropriately
looking at my
business cards
(that i never use)
to check my title
and see if i am
in the right office
trying to remember
a memory to see
if it was mine
or just a dream
or something else entirely
all that time
i could have been
a little more productive
if i could have
channeled the flood
between river banks
a little square
of light
on the wall
above the bed
from the
rectangle
between
the bottom
of the window
in the kitchen
and the shade
that covers
the rest
shined through
the doorway
to the living room
split in half
to become
a square
by the plant
leaf hanging
in the doorway
changing from
green then
quickly yellow
then red
a pleasant
light show
on the bedroom
wall above
the bed
at 5:13am
all the way
from the stop light
at the intersection
of california
and divisadero
So the shower is novel
Like I’ve never felt water
On my body before
We’re just in it right now, I say out loud, sitting on the couch, next to her in bed. This is the moment for sure, I say. This, right now? She asks. Certainly, I say. Thinking of what all will come and wondering if we’ve really reached the peak.
the deeper you can get into your art on the weekends the harder you can work during the week
feeling high
my breath comes
smooth through my nostrils
my skin feels warm
from the sun
my eyelids make shapes
for the entertainment of
my closed eyes
like a movie if you
really pay attention
to everything that
is always going on at once
if you really pay attention
at 2:53pm the patio
is covered in shade
on the far side
of the cafe
so we take our chairs
closer to the curb
to sit in the sun
that barely peeks over
the building top
loose laces left hanging
outside white shoes
at the bottom of jeans
white washed and baggy
cover legs crossed over
one on top of the other
so the left shoe protrudes
two chairs pulled aside
from the coffee shop sidewalk
to sit in the June soon
as a car sits engine idling
and older men compliment
each other on their clothes
while young men walk by
holding their chins up
and their shoulders back
so i take off my long sleeves
with my baby sitting next to me
and the engine still idling
until the brakes let off
and screech for the car
to pull away and no more idling
replaced by a garbage truck
stopped at the light revving
hot almost sweating now
and leave pieces blowing
in circle together with trash
bottle clinking on the cement
that trash man dropped
golden dog with owner
waiting to pass until after
trash man is done digging
out the bottom of the bin
and baby sitting here
being patient with me
trying to write listening
to what i read in the bookstore
on the back of a book
by a critic who said that
this man did well to write
not about the man that writes
but about what he sees, hears
so i try the same outside
of myself for once
in a bookstore
getting inspired
and feeling worthless
myself as a writer
picking up books
and thinking about
how much
there is to learn
god there is so much good
all over and i wonder
how do i go for so long
doing the same drudging thing
while there’s all
this good around
“keeps his focus not on the man who speaks the poems … but on what that man sees and on what he can hear”
out ahead of me is open air and possibility leaving
behind a railroad track bolted down
and pointed between parallel rails
a train from the past shoots off a cliff
in the present and becomes a bird
that can fly in any direction for the future
up and down over and sideways
or hovering flapping its wing
just looking down at everything below
this saturday seems sent
to hold its place before sunday
and after every other day
from last week
though i know a day
only lasts so long
saturday is the one
i would choose
left alone by itself
just to be a normal day
where anything can be done
because that’s what
a normal day should be
not like friday
which is the end of the week
or sunday
which is the beginning
or any other day
which is just the week itself
and the week is boring
but necessary
but if i didn’t have to
eat to survive and make money,
i’d want everyday to be saturday
Somewhere between novel and song is where you’ll find it most often. But beware of anyone who reads anything and says this is or is not poetry. I found some poetry right in the middle of a Hemingway novel once.
Honestly, I tried writing a novel. Tried a couple times actually. But I was too young and impatient. Even now that I’m a little older I’m still impatient.
I kept trying to write scenes and character descriptions in short amounts of time. When I was out at a bar in between conversations, on the bus on the way home, in the middle of cooking dinner. And then I’d sit down on a Saturday and try to put all the puzzle pieces together into a novel. But it wasn’t working.
Until I realized the puzzle pieces were actually pretty good on their own. So instead of trying to cram them together into a novel, I just left them alone and started calling them poems.
you see all skylines
and they’re all the same
you see one skyline
a hundred times
and it’s different every time
i’m just awash in it
torn in every direction
my heart tugs
through my eyes
at the same time
my mind pulls
through my eyes
and everything
makes me want to
laugh or cry or
i don’t know
just overwhelm
good god words fail
ah fuck forced for me to come on need it now grabbing at the art i want to ring but banging modal mad common sludge so gosh god gurgle wanting to curse only for an exuberance of emotion and want for it without the means or in this case words to nail down border and deliver an escaping rain cloud and flame that ceases to be itself when tied up and choked and delivered like a flower that dies in transit from the lover that picked it and the lover that never received it if only they could have been the same person in the garden in the first place and just left the flower there unpicked
common enough
to be just barely beyond
possibly accidental
or universally replicable
but not so esoteric
as to be inevitably alone
or impossibly accessible
so picking words
with six or seven letters
right in the middle
for the masses
to know just enough
continuing on after
lagging barely behind
satisfied enough to stay
but still wonder about
what one doesn’t know
as if history
would repeat
when things
are never really
the same
so long goes
what lasts largely
as shorter still
matters mostly
in the near life
that only ever
perceives at once
curbed corners
crack carefully
so cement
can breathe
sewer gates stay
open all day
without any trust
for weathermen
razor wire works
around the clock
protecting empty
fenced in car lots
highway bridges
criss crossed
in all directions
sending riders
all over the world
trees planted
right in the middle
of cement sidewalks
reaching some soil
beneath the city
i spend all my time
trying to keep everything
moving in the right direction
when all along i could’ve
let go and watched it all
move along just fine
all by itself
only if an ornery edge
dares to extend so
the original can grow
will a wider world
worry less about
over stepping
artificial bounds
it seems so easy to lay here in bed all day satisfied without any green a.m. to get my melted body out from one of the sheets baby cooking in the other room sun kept out by shades in the 8 PM longest day of summer nobody knows how long to stay awake Orbis melting there late into the cracks into the hundred thousand apartments curated for mankind to invade a peninsula with their buildings and restaurants and cars and stoplights and commerce
letting words just run as they will waking up the mass of clay as haphazardly as thrown on the pedestal from bank to open late but not mattering just to have a starting point and at least get something out in the open deck and then be shaped and refined by careful eyes needing just something to work with and doing the refining no matter why so better to have it out haphazard and just get a start rather than nothing at all and refining thin air and making the mind sick by refining itself for lack of anything else
slipped into the corner where two walls meet the ceiling the most comfortable place in the room if not for where the same two walls meet floor and all dust bunnies eventually meet on their way to the broom Like Travellers going along in the wooden floor cracks being born from a gathering of the shedding rug and meeting other masses form from the same place but having traveled different journeys
baby playing music in the next room cooking dinner chopping peppers I can hear the blade on the cutting board I can hear your music L being nice to me well I still try to sleep lazy in the next dark room hangover from being high all day and surprisingly napped a long time but now I can have energy to lean up And talk to my phone about baby cooking in the next room
everything I am feeling right now actually felt by the five senses and I thought up or redefined on my stomach pillow thing textile covering from my bellybutton to the bottom of my ribs and the bed covered by a sheet slightly depressed based on the shape of my body supporting my whole body perfectly comfortable mattress designed to be supportive The back of wanna go more so my heel on top of my other foot inside of the elbows keeping the pillow in place on either side index finger and middle finger of left hand and pointer finger and thumb and middle finger finger in the back holding my phone in front of my face I was taking in the words on the screen watching the bars of the speech to text bounce up-and-down as I speak looking at at the blue and black and red and pink and a different shade of red and a different shade of blue and gray and white and blue all on the phone screen and shapes rectangles mostly in some circles and a few triangles that are really arrows and the time on top with too much information already even in addition to the battery life with 79% left in the time ETA 7 PM and the music in the next room. in my ears hey Slobey sounding like a part in my own voice in my ears as I speak this into the phone the noise of trashcan opening as baby throws away while cooking dinner and now the sound of the sink running over her hands in the water gurgling in the drain and the ripped paper towel crunch between her hands drying her hands a package opening maybe the meat. maybe a baggy to cover the honey container that she said was leaking this morning and the rest of the room in my eyes really so much to describe the light coming in early between the shades still light at this time because it is the longest day of the year June 22 in the bed beneath me and the pillow over me like it’s on my vision below and the light coming in to the doorway the visa the kitchen where babies cooking and books out of the left corner of Mayeye not moving much. to try to keep the experiment the same experiencing the same thing really so much all at once is the point so much to keep noticing and keep talking into the phone and never run out of things to notice and talk about if you really look deep down like the rug underneath the table that holds the box or the couch before the table that is gray and woven with some white threads to be a lighter gray in the ceiling that is painted the same color beige but maybe different colors by the light a glare just to the left of the ceiling light and darker colors of beige where the shadow is more thick and and even in almost blackness where there is a ledge between the walls and the ceiling that keeps out the light giving a border black to the beige ceiling and an archway to the right where you walk in from the front door and barely a scene of the bathroom door with shadow through the archway through the open door of the bathroom and a light switch around the corner of the Archway right next to a mirror that reflects what I saw on the left side with the table in the books and me in bed riding covered with a pillow on my stomach and all of that being just what i see. using my eyes this whole time adding Noring what I could say I feel like myself and my trousers or my thighs against each other or even my bones inside of my muscles if I really focus enough reason my stomach and intestines inside my belly and my arms where they crease to hold my phone in front of my face or my hair is against the pillow and the backs of my ears just barely touching the pillow and not even what I hear now like the brakes for the truck breaking outside as it stops for the stop light in the rubbing of a motorcycle engine like a chopper and still the voice of that singer a new singer now I think more acoustic and baby quaking a spoon against glass in the click of a lighter lighting a candle I move my head to look at her breaking the experiment but seeing her have a good body making it worth it and I am moving my feet too and rubbing my skin together and have you forgot spell being one that I really notice. unless there is something wrong or something good smelling like food or flowers it mostly smells like air and the taste is also one that I pay attention to last more the feel of my tongue in my mouth in this thick saliva after having woken up from a nap and having smoke before I fell asleep but the tasting not much other than thinking of the food baby is making for us and how that will taste like it has tasted before and feeling being pretty powerful so I guess in order at his site and sound first and then feeling and then smell and taste last and then also there is thinking only about senses if you can manage it but also a Over a whole other world of thinking about other things and creating concepts that are mostly derivatives of senses that one point but also another world where language keeps itself and mix it itself so that I wake up with phone sometimes or feelings faster and mix together and make actions at some point and unknown ideas and creativity‘s come from nothingness so there must be something there other than just the senses And a whole other exercise could be done just in the thinking
A piece of art it would be to have everything on edited and Mia just talking into my phone about real things and leaving it just as it comes out first of all the way I say it but also the way the technology interprets it which has something to do with our modern times I think and what my results from human things rendered into technology but in someway still being human and even made more human by the speed and efficiency which which technology delivers things like language and art and connections between people so that practically this piece. altogether by the way pausing now to know that when there is a period like that it is because the phone stopped using the microphone and I have to click the button again and the inserts that. Which just showed up as punctuation when I said the word for the grammar or the punctuation point for it. I mean back to what I was saying about this piece altogether is a 24-year-old man from Kansas talking into the speech to text function. and his iMessage with the screen cracked on the left side and spiderweb being across but if you are the type to read into things more there are many things to be right here about a life and Art and how those two are rendered through a piece of technology but that not being the point for me to pigeonhole your experience of almost feeling bad for usSo in the interest of leaving things on edited I will leave it there but wishing now that I would have just said this is me talking into my iPhone and left it at that and let it be whatever it will be for any reader because me and her been my own art makes a very lonely world rather just make it and let it be and see what happens so here you go
almost not wanting to stop now talking so much and getting on a roll having it all out but not knowing what is good and thinking there might be a limit order so much becomes an editable and it would’ve been better off trying to get something good at the start rather than throwing out a mediocre mass in hopes of refining to good just so that there’s something to work with but really needing some good to start for anything good at the end but still cathartic at least and good to have it all out so talking still and letting it flow so the only reason to startJust start is to get up and do something else I make sure baby is it mad at me for making her cook while I sit here and talk like a madman on my phone
this guy piecing all together just to try to get it all out at once so to be more honest and divined into one time that doesn’t change as much I was dragging it on over more time that makes different man making the heart and so I charged you or blessing you are to have the maker rendered overtime and so change the peace and making it impossible to create a whole piece of a whole feeling all at once like one big red splash of paint or one I know just how they’re the same as a moment That doesn’t change unless drive down overtime like all the world just been one point and one thing without any differentiation if not for time that stretches out space and devise it in color is it in shape so it gives it sound and other food for senses but really starting this just to stay that I’d rather write 100 pounds all at once and get it out into this book so it is actually an honest snapshot of a man rambling on and hopefully having something good out of the mass but as long as the mass is made in a way that keeps to the same point that shows something not shown before that it was done it’s job
So many words can be sad like this after and after each other just on and on I keep yapping and make me so much that I do before when I sit down and really react my van brain and toss out so many options just to find something good and then when I have something that I think in my mind there is a password from when I put it down the paper and some is forgotten and then it becomes different when seeing it on paper and affects the next line is that this is different to just talk on and on and let it go completely unedited coming out of my mind and letting it affect it in different ways without fear for being able to follow
getting out of bed to talk to baby while she’s cooking dinner for me just to make sure she’s all right and also telling her about this idea to keep talking to the phone and keep this project cohesive and hopefully make something modern but also telling and revealing of how I can get us closer to an honest form of art with stream of consciousness and really into what her mind is thinking and she said OK so thankful for her to be cooking and now me back in bed continue to talk to my phone like a madman like I said earlier and hoping not to run out of things to say but wanted to stop this one together my thoughts little bit and think about the next one
thinking a little too much about it now. Something I do with my family tree anyway which is just to let random words together like creeping back quietly into the fire alarm ceiling sky keeping in the dark and blues outside and cons wearing in a depressed chest underneath a concave pillow kept inside sheets and walking down the stairs outside where is the last safe as of the apartment but also if the other possibility which is the theme for life to leave safety in order to get something good like an animal that must leave it’s habitat or cave rather for food like a bat we saw on the TV show that leaves. It’s a cave to catch bugs at the risk of being caught in itself by a hawk. Admittedly use my fingers to edit a hawk there because it’s at our and somewhat regretting it but now including in the peace having said it that there I made a fax with my fingers
self-conscious of how they sound and if there any good but thinking also that I might be kept shallow by these thoughts so trying to think deeper again about the feelings and the site and the sound that I started with like the water boiling in the kettle for baby not knowing really what she boils water for being that the rice is already heated on the stove maybe she’s making tea but I digress from my actual feelings like my hand on top of the sheet and the sheet on top my stomach and my feet still crossed over so my physical feeling stays relatively the same last I go into my mind and close my eyes and think about grass and nothingness above the grass and ends. my eyes closed so not saying that the phone had stopped recording I was talking about Winnie the Pooh and a beach ball baby calling me hold on maybe Rakesh me talking about him yeah let’s use all of it it’s only like less than a pound she asked me about how much steak we should use for dinner which reminds me at the grocery store when we asked for it it was precut stirfry steak and when the butcher put it on the scale it was only .87 of a pound and I asked for a pound of .87 was enough his baby and I are trying to eat less meat like a lot of people in San Francisco that I’ve caught on to it not being so good for you or for the environment and hearing the meat see you’re now on the cast-iron skillet that baby is fond of it you don’t have to wash it and it retains the flavor of past meals and closing my eyes again but worrying about the phone not typing no matter what see how far we can get with the tree but this I think for us by me trying to think of something really seeing the black of my eyelids and light shapes that fill the black me opening my eyes just to check that the phone is still typing needing to stop this one to start a new one so that I can be confident it will go for a while and really catch with my eyes closed
OK now I’m starting a solid stream without self-consciousness with my eyes closed seeing the black in no shape yet but noticing a texture in the black are there on the small white Dodge that make it more light and there is a difference with how close my eyes at her and how light the black is but really just seen black if only looking at the physical until I realize I can look into my mind Zai and see other things like a rope swing from the tree or some store or a light tower or things created by fours but somehow not being able to control what comes up opening my eyes now to check sending this one to do another
eyes closed again now focusing through my mind Zai and not just the physical violence like I said before seeing a plane or rather a concept of a plane not actually seeing it but thinking of it and wondering where that thinking happens trying to see you now actually a canna Plato with an orange lid and a hand smashing the lid and a hammer come out from the word smashing on the workbench that reminds me of my dad and my association with a hammer and a workbench and now my home in the basement door that was next to my dad‘s workbench that leads into the basement and there is stairs on the right. to go up into the living room or continue through the hallway and be in the basement with a bathroom immediately to the right and my brothers bedroom door in front of you and the rest of the basement to the left with a small workout room for me and my four brothers or the TV that is really the centerpiece of the basement where we go to relax and I’ll lounge around on the couch and so reliving being in my childhood home I heart beating with blood now as I try to think of something else looking like a kid and even not that I know much of her organs look like a deer thinking of it looking out as I have seen in videos when they hear the crack of the gun
Good smells now like I mentioned earlier about smell not being a dominant sense but becoming so dumb it when one is hungry and baby is cooking something good in the other room the steak I think or maybe the range that I’m smelling not having a defined nervous but knowing for sure when something smells good especially when I am hungry
back into the minds eye to see what we can conjure but getting to stay active he is wanting to be with baby and getting hungry and hearing the skateboard outside but also wanting this piece to exist with enough content to be what I imagined it to be so thinking in the mines dying of a scooter maybe because of the skateboard wrapping on sidewalk cracks and feet with sneakers pushing it in the cost of the chains on top of the sneakers at a bus stop where the senior citizens way like baby has told me about when she travels back from work through Chinatown in the bus wheels on the cement imagining the big white rectangle is painted between sidewalks. To give pedestrians a place to crash through street where cars pass and traffic lights keep everything orderly so people don’t die from car crashes every day with so much going and amazing that it can be kept orderly and a city has so many peoples with her own emotions stacked on top of each other and kept in line by Ruisch and paper and money and lights separated by so little as a red that means stop and a green that means ago that we were all agreed-upon
Getting somewhere now really achieve inquired ever received from Lange so I’m in bed I miss spoke there now I lost my train of thought having misspelled oh yes I was going to talk about getting somewhere from just a start as long as you can start with anything whether it be a color or any word or anything at all really like the fire alarm on the ceiling that I was talking about earlier and now thinking about fire and imagining the fire that Ford and I had by the river maybe shouldn’t have said sports name maybe should’ve called him baby or no baby because baby is baby but maybe a friend or brother bear or brother to protect his identity so calling him brother now me and brother by the fire next diversion over in Utah where we sat in the river all day and really a hot day on the sand of the beach by the camping resort where we stayed in the river really rushing and saying before we started the day in the morning that we should not get in the river but by noon both of us chest deep in the river having the greatest time sitting on the stones in the middle talking and letting the water rush over our backs especially with the sun being so high and high in the sky the river was the necessary counterpart To keep us on the beach all day from sunup to sundown and really now thinking more of concepts as opposed to having my eyes closed and reliving the senses that experience
Maybe it is not necessary to have this all done in tonight maybe I can let it go for now realizing that the piece might be more wine if I take the same lines to different moments rather than just laying in bed on this one night but maybe still keeping all these pieces together to give the piece of*it’s of the ideas there and notating the times but still having separate pieces that need not run on all together but can be marked by date and time and still certain time and place by my words if I’m careful to explain
keep after it keep after it keep on keep going like this since I got hold on baby calling meantime your food is ready see if it will capture how many more minutes baby veggies are still seeming she says seven minutes OK do you mind if I keep talking for seven more minutes yeah she says just giving you a heads up but now I’m back to thinking to keep after it like the trip by the river when the sun was out and we really thought we were after some thing crunched over notebooks writing onto the pages staying as long as we could on the beach and resisting the cold cool river Just to keep writing this is like that we’re here it is in this moment in this moment will only ever be right now a little after eight on June 22 and the 24th year of my life with baby here and everything going good and having been a little high all day in this moment seeming to matter so much driving my hair with my left hand and almost being overwhelmed with that but still knowing that I need to keep talking to keep Cab Shane in order to have a drill down into one point like I talked about earlier otherwise it could spread out and differentiated like everything else and is an allowed to be itself because of time and space and everything else that changes what is actually having the in religious and ethereal if left to be alone in touch but everything else like this
Good God or after eight now getting into it and really seeing past what really makes my eyes were talking straight into the a Bolivian that exist when I close my eyes usually and now needing to keep it in the words and not almost go crazy and talk about too much other stuff where if we really takeoff now the word start to fill fail I mean and I really am only just feeling in so get too far away but what can be worded and almost dying to stumble with my words and just mumbling now because I feel it so much and really don’t have anything to contain and then gripping the hair with my left hand Tyler and really like a train off the wheels now going after a good God there are no words for this or maybe my vocabulary lax and I’m really just trying to talk so fast just to get it out but even the speed of my language is an enough now good God the climax oh my goodness like being on a drunk high right now or you’re really
Keeping it on going in singing in starting in China to artificially keep the emotion but just let it flow even though I had to stop there to start a new text and press the microphone button and that someone interrupted but now I’m feeling the engine start to read it again with only a break or five seconds or so I can pretty much keep up with the same stream of thought that I had before but still not feeling it as much so slightly returning to the word world where I start to pay attention again to the base ceiling with the fire alarm in the dark practice between the ceiling and the largest of the walls that keeps a shadow black ordering the beige healing and not wanting to talk so much about the design of the room but get lifted back into the space where I was going after it and talking so fast and sewing down a little bit now. and realizing I have to let things be what they were in the moment and just let them be and not try to re-create them so shifting the legs and letting my pastor relax and sit back and be a little more calm and open to whatever might come close in my mind Zai to think of a leprechaun which is the mascot for where I went to university but now seeing a darker polygon I think it is like a square with its two side shifted Way over and opening my eyes to make sure the phone is still typing and recording what I’m saying probably four minutes left now as baby told me seven minutes probably three minutes ago for dinner is almost over and I feel bad because I told her I would help her cook but didn’t get on this mad rush talking to my phone through speech to text and wondering if this will be the same as the charger and also I’ve done before and where they feel to be so good in them. To have this all out almost too honest open and on edited and if people will like it and being self-conscious about it but this being the real art I believe to have it so naked and so honest and true the on edited for everything else is just like the rest of the world and not Erich because the rest of the world also starts as art as route human emotion and motivation to survive and love and fuck and succeed and gain power and hope and be together and all these things in the real world crystallized into economies and papers and edges and words and computers and bills so letting it really exist outside of that world and be on edited and non-commercial and not even Really meant for another to see so keeping it so honest
The messaging app in my phone is starting to malfunction I wonder if this is more taxed and more volume than it’s used to handling and hoping that the memory won’t run out or delete all the tax but still keeping going probably only two minutes left now since baby told me five minutes ago that it would be seven minutes before dinner is ready and so talking on to capture everything I can before a deadline closing my eyes now to see a frog on a Lillypad croaking slowly rolling over the water not green more of a concept I guess that is a Fagge but I can’t really see it and now thinking of an umbrella on the beach and reminding me of my trip to Cabo with other friends whose name starts with cheese and other friends whose name starts with you and being out on the beach and the man trying to sell us some drugs and the security man from the beach talking to him about it and keeping them out on the beach and not coming into the resort after us and being self-conscious now anything I might see a natural stream of thoughts that is not appropriate for public or should not be sad but wondering what conversations that would create if everyone really just read into speech to text the actual thought so that we came to the table to discuss and decide what is best all her thoughts were out there and sad and we could really have an open honest conversation about what should be done about it rather than only half the thoughts of even less than that being said that one actually feels and so having a conversation only about half the things that need to be talked about to really solve the issues at the root
Phoebe says it’s ready and I can tell her voice so be mad at me if I don’t find out so I better go leave this for now hopefully it’s enough
so much god and all my nothing explains or contains this what word have i really none at all to hold on to what passes staying long enough only to overwhelm me and fill its space with the same poetry that Schopenhauer claymores after with his philosophy for existence is beyond what physical lens we have that emotions break from another world that collides for the two lenses we’ve got goodness ethereal sublime words that contain every other word
walking away from dirt in the cracks sewer metal pole up into the sky squares of dirt for trees to sit in that don’t belong here for the shade trees cast on sidewalks walked all the leftover leaves scrambling to make it back out their trunks for flowers in pots that preferred domestic lives two gates open in neighborhoods safer than 10 miles to the west or the east I don’t know cars parked along every curb making curbs almost unnecessary
The accuracy of the noiselessness almost uncanny to have my words not buffered by assuming mistakes a helicopter overhead walking on the sidewalk so hearing so much the wind and the leaves that isn’t as loud as the motorcycle revving but light that paints houses not as colorful in the dark quiet now in a nicer neighborhood focusing without fear as my hair blows and my shirt sleeves blow
higher up closer to my subconscious mind uneven like the steps sideways on the side of the house the nearest to stay straight and 90° on incline sidewalks remaining normal according to gravity and all else that ties the physical world down into what it is staying the same for us to be able to predict and go on living without making dying mistakes
her waiting for me to walk away and talk to myself so as to avoid the self-consciousness that comes with the writing out loud in front of other people and hoping the spoken word stays natural as it comes to your heart when your hearts right and your mind did not do any of the writing except for getting in the way and trying to edit prematurely but really not helping the heart right after what it surely knows
struggling to get past this/old into that color list colorful non-physical dream religion God drug night other besides a world where things just flow and melts and go together and don’t choose sides or decide or define but just leave things to run as they would have without any help anyway such that the world would be without
pushing the limits now past having too much to even make sense of any part of it without seeing the trees for the forest or the clouds for the sky or any discretionary part of a modeled mass large enough to be itself and then goals everything else that would’ve been another but now only contributed a part not even recognized though not all together uneasy at least to belong
writing speech to text like this letting it go as it naturally would without having to take time to let my editing mind wonder about what is right but really just saying and being alone and letting her mind go as it always goes and goes and goes without stopping unless they hear about stopping in so I was still thinking in someway but give it an hour if I can only keep talking in writing maybe I’ll empty it all one day
So sleek similar to shampoo rinsing out of your hair like this on between your fingers and the rubber tire patched up against the cement curb trying so hard to be where it belongs as long as his car stay on the roads and people stay on the sidewalks and everything remains in its place and nothing unexpected or Turner to quickly then we can all get along with an order an expectation of things
Nonsense so consistently I wonder if it even begins to mean anything or remains just as it is everything outside of sens like to? Beyond the supposable outer pound of the ever expanding universe universe
Standing on the street corner she asked where do you want to go I stand there and think of all the possibilities and then say to her i want to stand right here thinking of all the possibilities
Leaving her to write is a theme that extends beyond just the practicality avoiding her presence to let my self consciousness dissolve but also stands between the conflict of letting everything go into my heart versus being with her and focusing and settling down
Sleepy somber sweet time notes leaving longer knee-high modes making mostly meager half times seeking timbre needle thick lines Needing no more they say her lies sending after chemical half lives
an invisible night light
in the apartment dark
shadow stretching
straight across
the floor rug run
with floorboards
and resting underneath
the living room table
an open window
in the dark
shining moonlight
into the apartment
like a rectangular
entrance into
another world
an escape
out of space
an accidental opening
of the day in the night
oddly geometrical
just the light
of the window
with all else
to the sides
and behind
black nothing
and the light itself
also nothing
except being
other than the dark
and therefore
the clear choice
i step through
some of her
freckles
fall off
and onto me
rub off
of her cheeks
and onto
my forearms
when walls close in
on art subjected
to a real world
sitting thinking
drumming up
something
or trying to
words a while
waiting for
wit to hit
yellow light
passing through
peachy eyelids
makes a pink
passed out
paradise
sitting alone
at a table for two
with my eyes closed
and hands folded
listening to
the noisy restaurant
looking like
an old man
fallen asleep
but truly a young man
listening intently
in a place meant
for seeing
and tasting especially
but so much noise
when you really listen
so slowly says
solemn west
for fast setting
eastern folly
no more north
than southern
shores stretch
so deep down
or high up
was all that
was left
there are three sources of my poetry: my surroundings and what my senses are telling me about them. myself and what my mind is telling me. or nonsense that comes from my subconscious or somewhere else.
in the night
light coming
out of the dark
is alright
shapes coming
out of the dark
are not okay
moving from
one place
to another
all your things
are neither
here nor there
people will always remember how you made them feel, long after they’ve forgotten the particular information you’ve told them (read this in a blog post, so true)
sitting outside for lunch
the cold motivates me
to stand up and get going
until the sun comes out
and i sit back down
to fold my hands and smile
enjoying the warmth
you are only taking from the universe lately; give back to the universe. give unconditionally without expecting anything in return
I only care about work because of the money. I only care about money to buy back my time.
haver havermore
having more
than most
already
wanting
more still
to have at least
more than three
times he who
has least
v2:
haver havermore
having already
more than most
having more still
until he has most
or at least much
more than three
times he who
has least
wondered if life
would split
down the middle
for two born one
thinking with mind’s
crossed eyes
between worlds
that see and
worlds that think
not knowing what
separates a dream
misremembered
from a reality
recently forgotten
so much goes
into the non-night never
knocking over naysayers
lying in the short run
letting out times
meant to be finite
moved past the black hole threshold
where light no longer escapes
somewhere left alone
to die spaceless
and sucking oxygen
find your joy in the little things that won’t go way: sleeping, breathing, working, all five senses, being grateful, giving love – these make happiness within your control
she is
constantly
running hot
like a furnace
taking in
and burning
everything
for fuel
wondering whether
which trail
will wind inland
and switch
back to the beach
where we started
low fog over
headless hills
hunkered
down and into
the valley
dirt trails
like scars
where
humanity
cut into
nature
natural stone
stair steps
in the trail
that refused
to grade
in some
pleasant
purgatory
between
dirt trail
blue sky
up high enough
into the fog
white nothing
lifted off away
from it all
wind in the thicket
green and gold hills
contrasted with white fog,
locking the world down
inside of itself,
making our steps matter
with attention,
normally drawn upward
had to beat
that bad habit
holding on to me
like a leach
leaking out all
my muster why
wherewithal
stepping
like a beat
downhill
quickened
to a natural
double time
skip
being myself
staying
more or less
the same
so pitted down
and normalized
so small steps
make pivotal sense
in place of
large leaps
up and
creative
higher
ascending
peaking
pushing
never more
than this
holding on
trying
to stay
though now
sliding
down going
losing
left over
let down
down down
let it go
too old
to be new
not old enough
to be classic
you get drilled down into who you are in the winter overcast cold dark fog and keep your head down to add to the world and build up with what stays together and the same so you can make sense and move forward though a structure can only stand still and so focused for so long before forced to change so might as well start to change it anyway by your own hot hand in the summer as a heat wave burns off the fog and lets out all that stayed locked down and into the sky letting go some that didn’t belong anyway and only spoiled by having stayed so long and pulling down other forces and stars from beyond the infinite sky and sun that mixes new moving pieces in the open blue cloudless warm until the clouds return and lock in what the summer has newly brought down and allows to focus like a pot of only certain ingredients from a whole grocery store and letting some identity and certainty be beautiful amidst a world of never-ending other interesting and beautiful moreness
fog clouds
cold dark
locks you
down
looking
inward
keeping
together
while
the sun
lets out
and melts
what would
otherwise
remain
the same
building up
and tearing down
are two
sides of life
to construct
an ego
or destroy
a construction
to build and build
or let it all go
what else
mr. moon
what else
is there
so soon
so night
you are
tonight
so far
bright night
soft light
so slow
moon’s glow
so say
to the day
where’s my
quiet time
poetry taught me about the music of a sentence, a word even, making my fiction better on the micro-level
thinking of the future is putting pieces of yourself in the future such that when you get to the future there is none of yourself left to experience it after having placed pieces in even farther futures
i feel defeated
when i’ve eaten
and know i’ll have
to eat again
going
even past
when you
should have
stopped
i’m spent right now
emptied and over
unable to push
no strength to create
head down
shoulders slumped
scowling
trudging
neither energy
not creativity
visit me
stranded
waiting
to start
again
only
a matter
of time
all i can do
is rest and wait
energy of
a summer
sun that
fills the
room with
light
making it
impossible
to stay
in bed
in the morning
sitting at my desk
in the office
after a long
weekend
out of town
is is difficult
to remember
who i am
and what i do
i pull fragments
of my travel self
left in chicago
to reconstitute
my working self
in san francisco
a banal
blue gray
foggy sky
lit by
your eyes
wild nights
wield signs
of slumber
saying
sleep
is for
the weak
hold on
half of being a poet for me was unlearning the rules from grade school language arts; knowing just enough about words to feel how others will feel but also knowing nothing at all so as to not be afraid of putting words together in new ways
looking down 13 stories, down to state street in chicago. they installed bars so you can’t jump out. it’s rainy today. the door also only opens about 6 inches. i think i could slide out though. the rain would help clean up the mess. enough people on the sidewalk i’d have to time it so i don’t hit anyone. scary, so close. nothing seeming to matter, far away from the sidewalking and stoplighting that keep me grounded below. up here, not quite skycraping, but high enough to feel between two worlds, not close enough to either, a body smashed on cement bounces a soul.
to wait to say i love you
until knowing what it means
balanced with the tragedy
of never having said it
on a quarter tab
laying on the beach
the ocean called me
taking off my jeans,
flannel, shirt, socks,
and shoes
there were other people
on the beach;
lots of people actually.
it was a nice day.
i took off my clothes
and walked toward the water.
tripping, not conscious
of other people
watching me.
in the water, freezing,
didn’t bother me.
out to waist high
a wave came
i dove in and
under the water
everything ceased to exist. the ego already disassociates on acid. the body can still remain lightly with a subdued awareness of the senses. under freezing water, however, that awareness is obliterated.
there is only the freezing all over. and the roar of water forever. waves crashing above like the world is falling apart.
forgetting to breathe because the art of being underwater takes precedence for my attention. even when my lungs shout, return to the surface, i cannot hear them.
the art of nature at large overwhelming my individual need to survive. it making no difference whether my body, a small part of all this, will rise to the surface and swim back to the beach, or drown here and sink and become one with the ocean that i am part of in one way alive or dead in another.
chicago skyline
scattered sprinkled
with shapes
stretching high
to reach cranes
that then stretch higher
a city stretches
like its habitants
higher longer
more here more
in a new place
seeing new
everyone old
doesn’t see new
not old
like wrinkles
old like
here for a while
having seen
again until
not seeing
new anymore
a tourist
like me
can see
everything
four men
three and me
walking nowhere
meatpacking
chicago brick
rusted steel
lazy walk
looking up
wonder walk
glossy eyes
deep sighs
feeling high
everything
is art
right now
a girl
wearing a white top
and pink pants
a gold watch
two inch heels
leaning back
with her coffee
on a bench
she smiles
at me
i hope
i smile back
she looks away
beautiful
banal i know
but god
so beautiful
sometimes i walk
behind a smoker
to catch the secondhand
and feel less guilty
walking across
a wide open road
feels less like
your pinched down
between buildings
like a narrow street
or a trash can alley
in a jungle concrete
brick and metal and wires
and chipping paint
feels like cuba or spain
cobblestone sidewalk and steps
rust on marble tabletop
in the meatpacking district
now made vintage and hip
voices in the distance
surrounded by restaurants
and light music
folded hands in conversation
heads back laughs
barely brisk enough for jackets
joy that needs cigar smoke
brick walls
stove pipes crawling up
weeds between cobble stones
old packing labels
newer graffiti
on warehouse doors
years of paint
painted over
steel bars on windows
i am what i am.
i am human.
of all things, ideas and intellect are highly human.
language is our tool for communicating ideas and intellect.
writing is the art of language.
i am a writer.
imagine that every soul starts as the same undifferentiated fragment of One or God. then they are introduced to a physically reality of time and place. like a perfectly spherical and colorless marble. there is an alley of nozzles spraying different colors in different patterns in both directions. the marble is loaded into a gun and shot through the alley and then caught at the other end. this process is repeated for millions of marbles. every marble will look different after being caught at the other end. some marbles will be mostly unmarked, having luckily (or unluckily) escaped most of the color blasts. some will be completely black, hit by almost all colors. and others will be shades of one color. and this is just colors, without mentioning the patterns. the point is: people are like these marbles. sometimes we have a tendency to look to a poor man or a criminal and say that they are lazy or evil. saying this, from the perspective of our own lives. consider, however, that every marble was the exact same before being shot through the alley of color. like a blank canvas, each person is introduced to a world of change, much more powerful than their own will. we are the same, if not for our different experiences. if the marble cannot change its course, why would we blame or praise each one for its color and patterns? why would we not gather all the marbles together and wonder at the beauty of color and pattern. from the human perspective, fragments of the universal will, subjected to the art of time and space, and the story of a human life.
writing is best done
when doing
whatever it is
that you’re writing about
only that
stopping to write
about the thing
would stop the thing
from being done
pastel painted houses
shoulder to shoulder
on up the hill
bordering 280
headed out of the city
an overpass
hills and trees
to the left and right
now the wide open
ocean on the left
and rolling foothills
on the right
white frothy specks
are all that keep
the dark blue black
stoney surface
from smoothness
now buildings
ugly, compared
280 turns inland
into hotels
and complexes
windy today
the trees blowing
even the car
blowing
dirt and construction
under a graffitied
overpass
power lines
connecting
metal frame
skeleton towers
a plane overhead
we must be
getting close
a billboard
for enterprise
something
the cars into
the city
more congested
than the cars
like mine
going out
to the airport
or further south
a missing wallet
sitting on the steps
where i eat lunch
like all the other
unsolved problems
in the world
in a pinch
i am nothing
in a spread
i am all
in a bed
i’ll sleep
in a desk
i’ll learn
in a field
i’ll run
for you
i love
for them
i fight
for ours
i sacrifice
for now
is enough
for when
it’s over
for this
i pray
part of having an identity is constantly choosing to forego other identities. the same goes for success; succeeding in one opportunity is largely dependent on committing and therefore passing up on other opportunities. successful people often say, just be yourself. it takes time to learn yourself and improve at being yourself. the same as any skill or profession. if you started with piano, then switched to flute after six months, and then picked up violin after a year of the flute, and so on—then you’ll never be the best at any instrument. you’ll just be mediocre at a few. the same goes for being yourself. if you are constantly seeing other la and saying, oh, i want to be like that. and starting to model that person until you see another person that you want to be like. then you’ll never be the best at being yourself. you’ll just be mediocre at being like other people.
the more i mature, the more i see the value of commitment. at its core, i think this is a deep issue. there is a competing duality between being ourselves and losing ourselves. we read self-help books and meditate to be ourselves and then get drunk or have an empathetic conversation to lose ourselves.
the clack clack
of the tin can man
transporting cans
from one black
trash bag
to the other white
mesh bag
poetry
is sensual
in the dark
and quiet
i am nothing
in the city
i have
something
to write
always
movement
and noise
from
life forms
both
organic
and
mechanical
all
crammed
together
bodies in
buildings
buildings
on streets
streets
with cars
cars with
bodies
apartments
with beds
bodies
in beds
and on
and on
in the city
walking home
i try to talk
with the sidewalk
and take a break
from myself
watching
my feet
orange paint
marking
electrical wires
underneath
so that
jackhammer man
won’t knock out
power
for the whole block
like last week
shadows
from the black
wire fence
that borders
the ball field
where young
players play
most days
not today
in june
weeds in the cracks
surviving
somehow
giving the city
some life
like the fallen leaves
half of
a ripped ticket
a pink slip
turned over
so i can’t see
what it says
old chewed
bubble gum
black now
stepped on
unchewable
or maybe
you could
black rocks
ran away from
the asphalt mass
covering
the hole
in the sidewalk
surrounded by
orange cones
other foot steps
in cement
that hadn’t dried
now dry forever
pink paint
and white paint
cigarette butts
feces
plastic bag
mayo packet
splattered
beige paint
that missed
the fire hydrant
gum wrappers
broken zip ties
water bottle cap
rustic metal
sewer gate
dirty napkin
crushed
water bottle
navy canvas belt
with metal buckle
looks to be
in good shape
crushed
cardboard
beer case
sidewalks
are alive
scarred
cracked
stepped on
supporting
without asking
for much
just to be
useful
is enough
there are many
unknowns
changing one
will offset the other
stepping carefully
trying to step right
holding one
to let the other go
balancing
like a teeter totter
still one fulcrum
but many beams
everything
in motion
always
moving
other things
that move
other things
and us being
part of it
trying to be the same
or at least
have a name
amidst change
allowing change
when it is right
or good
or perceived that way
so really not minding
the change
and new names
as long as they
are good and right
so floating
and touching lightly
pieces
that touch others
and make up
ourselves
looking into the dark discerning something out of nothing hearing the ahh of silence
standing on the balcony listening to the city at 9:21pm the security man saying something to someone indiscernible a small truck that sounds like a car if not for the tarp hanging, flapping from the back a dog’s nails on the sidewalk leashed to a late night walker the swinging of an ungreased hinge down at the lobby of my apartment building a scooter to weak to be a motorcycle maybe a moped a skateboard’s wheels that rap-rap on sidewalk cracks a semi, sirens farther off the clink of metal on a collar another dog walker swinging, a heavier exterior metal gate more well greased woosh, woosh more cars go by mostly cars cars and people vroom-vroom a rice burner farther off and the sirens still going and a motorcycle this time for sure stronger than the scooter the keys of the security man thrown and caught on a lanyard clink, clink, clink the squeak of his sneakers pacing back and forth a plane, like a propeller not like a car but maybe a car a big semi this one closer brakes squeaking it is early june and brisk my screen sliding shut as i step back inside
what bleeds from poetry when meaningless, rhymeless for what do you read other than newspaper, novel the same that is drunk and wordless yet brilliant a light show in the dark incomprehensibly telling how does a word read without pages how does a lyric sing without song in the night’s light knowing what you can’t see or touch in the dream’s dark hoping after such ethereal much it is all here saying what you swore was said before in wordless ways soft spoken like light knocks at your door
say it so softly says the nay gone night leave it for the day whose job it is by light leave what livened mind’s sparks forth flow from not here, tired eyes need know doldrum
i close my eyes and my mind goes to a cubicle office full of penguins
you must give and let it grow commit and stay put care enough to stick around even when what you planned has changed hold on double down breathe deeply lean forward a little longer not just for yourself commit and risk long term loss for short term gain trust after trust is broken work without longing for future gain commit and stay steady growing older is committing standing when you want to run work and love work and love give what you can all that you can while you still can work and love work and love
my ideas begin and don’t finish like this one
hardwood stretched on lawns like leapt floors for fed well hungry mouths still leave long lights on after hours slept in beds made for dreams return only after days lived enough to tire finally sleep here rest now
get off track get wayward for a second
go go while you are still young and driven beat after beat on hunger forward hope haughty lean into the never ending see past no near desire open after all of it my god the youth that we jeer on only after past that yoke of possibility burns on the inside driving on the outside with elders expecting inching forward after all of it enlivening suicidally overwhelming its newborn bounds god that youth sings and bangs and births god that youth sings
my friend zack is currently a couch-surfing musician. he said, “i go through moments of creativity then moments of reality.” he goes through moments of binge-drinking and then crazy sprints of health.
a cloud shadow came up to me today, wordless and dark, and covered me completely. it was bright out at midday and i welcomed the shade. i breathed deeply and we had our moment together and then the cloud shadow was gone.
in a night war knowing that the enemy defeats anything unlike itself
it is a light like this that keeps me lifted, lazy and floating, hoping after songs and young hearts, flying low below the dark sky
two days after we laid on the beach, i was still finding sand in my ears.
the only thing keeping you from being happy is the belief that you are alone. you are a part of everything.
i can feel the change at first but then i completely forget what my life was like before the change occurred
the human desires to explore and succeed
are at odds with the desires to be at home and belong
a bird may feel more grounded in a ground-like nest
a fish may be better able to breathe in aquatic air
a man may survive in a city constructed like nature
I asked the tree and he said he feels like he’s the one that’s really three—even though he has wind-broken branches and fallen leaves everywhere, and one day he’ll be a stump.
I see the same orange needle cap on my walk home from work every day resting against the curb the same bouncer standing outside the door wearing the same navy sportcoat I figured it was a little early for a Belcher to be standing outside a bar around six in the afternoon so what day after passing by and seeing him for weeks I asked if this is a bar and he said no it’s a start up past the gated construction area that makes me nervous because you have to cross out into the street and the only thing that separates you from traffic is a thin metal fence nobody walks the same pace so you’re always passing or getting pastPeople scala at each other here that used to smile where I’m from speech to text is a kind of art that messes up what you’re thinking in the most serendipitous Waze.
A great Dane sprinted right down the street at me it’s owner had already passed by and I hadn’t realized I fell for a second the fear of being chased down by stop in large animal and before I could react the big dog was passed me already if I were in the wild I would’ve died
Crossing the street talking to my phone like this if I were to be hit by a car I wonder if whoever would pick up the phone would laugh at the unfinished message
My flight from San Francisco to Kansas City is delayed.Tthey said our plan is delayed from Everett because the FAA regulates the amount of planes that can arrive at SFO when there is low cloud coverage. Looking out the windows, I can’t see a thing, except gray foggy mist—so I don’t really blame the FAA. It must be hard to be a pilot in this weather.
I don’t really mind the flight being delayed at all. It’s been a stressful week at work, and I’m headed home to see my family. It’s like a pocket in time has opened up. So I just have to sit here and write poetry and read and wait on the plane. There’s nothing I can do about it. My boss knows I’m taking off work tomorrow already anyway. And my sister’s graduation isn’t until the evening tomorrow night.
I love the parts of travel where there is nothing left to do. When you’re hurrying out of your building to catch a car, and you press the elevator button and watch the numbers going up and down—there’s nothing you can do. You’re in the queue. You’ve already fulfilled your responsibility of pressing the button and earned for yourself this small pocket of time. No matter how late you are, or how important the meeting is that you’re going to, you can’t do anything but wait and relax, and the burden of moving fast is lifted from your shoulders.
you don’t see old people here you don’t see beer bellies you don’t see kids you don’t see dogs you don’t see people walking slowly you see perfectly slicked hair you see people walking with their headphones in you see jaded, determined faces you see backpacks and handbags, probably containing laptops looking out the window of a coffee shop, watching people walk by on the sidewalk of second street at 8 a.m.
like laughing after barely avoiding death, some of our joy makes no sense at all
the day belongs to everyone the early mornings and late nights belong to a few
The weight of the world strikes me all at once. In fits of anxiety, I fear death the most, trying to hold onto what I have. Hungry and leaning forward, I try and wait to eat, to take advantage of my dissatisfaction. Food sickens me, even—as a threat to what I am right now, adding anything might change it. Like everything depends on this moment, and there will be nothing soon after. I become more serious and careful about my survival, thinking now that it is important to go on living, if there is to be more in the future of what I am experiencing right now. I think of going outside, but worry about what dangers lay in wait there.
They are subtle the things that make a poem good. So when you edit for something like grammar, you can take away the good thing by accident. Like when someone is healthy according to all physical standards, but their mind or soul aren’t in it—so they really aren’t healthy at all.
The rules of poetry cannot contain the idiosyncrasies of human taste for interplay between words and rhythm; this interplay, at its most subtle depths, can only be felt. You can hear it in the crowd at a poetry reading when everyone says “ah” or lets out a sigh at the same time. Words said differently—slower, choked, quietly—mean something different. This is why, when I try to edit a poem that has come to me in a dream, by applying rules of grammar, it loses the beauty that I don’t completely understand, which has come from my subconscious.
A poem is like a complex math problem—instead of two variables, an independent and a dependent (like all the two-dimensional graphs that we learned in grade school algebra)—there are hundreds of dependent variables: the complexity of a thought, the amount of syllables in a stanza, a natural pause denoted by a comma in the middle of a line, the formatting and how it looks on a page. All these, if independent, might be solvable. But they’re dependent, and changing one changes the other.
If you were a very smart mathematician, you could figure it out. Or you could take the musician’s approach and get blasted drunk and feel your way, stumbling to the solution. These are two separate ways to arrive at the same place. I believe the musician is doing the exact same thing as the mathematician by different means. I also believe that this is a duality which applies to more than just poetry.
GROWING UP Younger, I was less afraid to chase a tadpole downstream or throw rocks with my brothers. Since the sides have flipped, I eat my vegetables and take care of myself— finding adult ways of having fun. I think of having my own boy when he’ll invite me to play catch. I’ll do it partly because he’s my boy but also because I want to play too and it’s just been a long time since anyone’s asked me.
Return to the passions of sea that shape your soul / Drink from the plentiful water there and even drown and lose yourself if you need to / Leave some strength to swim back to shore where wild water passions find direction in river banks / Stand on land that holds strong and firm without moving in the short term unless you really dig your shovel in to separate the form it clings to
Where water takes only the small sleight of hand to empty a glass and have it all splash or spill out / Let the water hydrate your soil and birth your plans without drowning all life there / Passions of water that know no limits in nature, but in human form can only excite so much before we remember there is a code to survival
We can dance in the waves and swim out but only so far, not beyond a possible swim back to shore / And not so deep, longer than the rope that tethers us to the surface
We are amphibious creatures of both passionate waters and structured lands / Completely without one or the other, we would die
Passions of a dream, a dance, a night love in the dark—are beyond our defining / (illegible) that move and inspire action it has nothing to do with what we see cosmetically everyday—the buildings erected, cars driving, people going to work
—man living and doing what he needs to survive. None of this would exists without the dance in the dirt that we came from and the desires for more than just to go on surviving but to live in the moment in passions of ecstasy
—these are the short ephemeral moments that cause us to go on living and also to give our children the opportunity to do so; otherwise what would be the point?
I have an urge to write something bad just to prove that all language is good.
Look outward more, no more writing about yourself. Readers are bored of it quickly. Write about the world. What you see. What you sense. Not these derivative ideas that fill your mind only when you forget to meditate. Float up above your ego and take in what’s around you and put that into word.
I have K and my job now but I’m stuck on go-go-go and be excited about everything more and can’t just settle down and enjoy what I have; I want to throw it all away and go travel to find myself. But i’m not really finding anything, just throwing it all away to begin again. I need to learn to build consistently and commit to long term goals even when they stop being fun.
I feel good and want more of it, more and more until I’m fat and gluttonous and only looking for the next thing to satisfy me, so I start to slim down and focus and delete excess until I’m thin as a stick and hold a lamppost to not blow away in the wind, and hold there and look for something to weigh me down and add one thing and then catch again the fever for adding and forgetting why I ever wanted to take away anything and so again start adding.
Sometimes it’s not the words that matter; it’s how you say them.
Everything I touched turned to gold this morning. I was daring and the risks paid off.
Potok uses two events that could each be described in a half-page and magnifies them to the first 100 pages of the book—namely, the ball game and Reuven’s hospital visit. This allows the reader to quickly get up to speed with characters and setting in the context of two pseudo-short-stories that immediately grab your interest.
Do not build your self with glue from a world that does not hold together—ideas of who you are, how you look, what people think of you, how much money you make. All this will pass and often be beyond your control. Build yourself with a stable foundation like your breath and unconditional gratitude and love. For as long as you live you will have your breath. You can always be happy and grateful if you choose to. These are the stable tenants of the self.
So often I am jumping at the slightest desire, before letting myself achieve actual hunger.
“Oh no, I’m feeling impulsive again. I want a croissant,” K says.
I laugh and say, “I love how you happen upon your feelings like you’ve tripped over something and say, hey, who put that there?”
LIKE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Walking along in the city, talking with street signs that glow even when we don’t see, or sitting in the apartment and having a conversation with the dishwasher that runs even when we don’t listen. Otherwise we are closed off from the rest of the world that’s always trying to tell us something.
TALKING TO TREES I ask the tall redwood, What’s wrong grumpy tree? He turns his back to the trail and says, Don’t look at me. With his branch arms crossed and stump chin pointed to the sky, refusing to acknowledge us passersby who hike the trail looking at our feet.
APPLE WHITES Apple whites in starry nights that fickle fights do fumble. Up and all the leaves do fall that tear my heart asunder. So please do pray that all these days in the end have meaning. Otherwise my solemn eyes might find a reason not to.
THE GRASS IS HERE
White roofed in green tall trees I wonder about who lives there. So when wonder weighs what won’t be held it’s hard to keep it quiet. Why don’t you lead with what you see and please just let me follow. The grass is here the water too so nature's sights will wile.
A few things to remember when you feel sad and lost: you are part of everything; you can think of nothing; and be grateful always.
Cooking up
some good mind
like stirring a pot
full of thoughts.
~
Once you have seen the trick,
it is only by great effort
that you fool yourself again.
~
Doing what you’re told
can be useful practice
for when you start
to tell yourself.
~
I don’t remember
what changed about me,
but it’s been who I am
ever since.
~
The most depressed men
must have too much desire
and not enough ability.
~
The theoretical man
was never born.
~
The same question,
asked more accurately,
becomes the answer.
~
I was really enjoying
quite an ordinary day.
~
My fear of
death takes over
and I stop thinking
about the future.
~
I dream and die
and remember
life is precious.
~
On a beautiful morning like this,
I wonder how I could have been
so depressed last night.
~
I forget what I can’t do nothing with
until I catch myself in the double negative
and remember it’s good for something.
~
She has the strength
to weaken me,
and the weakness
to strengthen me.
~
He moves about
like a man in a home
built with his own hands.
~
I like to read
fiction characters
as possibilities for lives
I’m not yet living.
~
I like to be sick
and lay in bed all day
and escape the obligations
of a healthy person.
~
Any good writing
is an ode
to the language itself.
~
Puts words in some ways
and leave silences
where they’re due.
~
There are only
so many combinations
of common words.
~
There’s a little
of everyone
in anyone.
~
How a shadow
can hide
just the right
part of a body.
~
A piece that discovers
the meaning of meaning,
held together by itself
and nothing else.
~
The difficulty is not to decide.
You will decide no matter what.
To sit still, even, is a decision.
To do nothing is a decision.
~
I think of
just how easily
it could have been
any other way.
~
I think up absurd things
and wonder if they’ve ever
actually happened.
~
A lot of the time
I leave it out loose
and just let it be.
~
I’ve seldom time
to look deep down;
I’ve cared about
what I can.
~
Sure, you save some now,
but how much have you
wasted before?
~
Why worry about war
if not to rest
in the peace between?
~
Everything is out of sorts,
says my control;
everything is all right here,
says my peace.
~
When it wasn’t what was wanted
by the violent crowd
my knees began to tremble
and I wondered who I was.
~
In my eyes
in the mirror
are my selves.
~
So we get caught up
in chasing something new
until we chase that down too.
~
Some things to remember
when you feel sad and lost:
you are part of everything;
you can think about nothing;
and be grateful always.
IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DIFFERENT
Here is what we need and what we were meant to have, until the order that was supposed to give frame for the beauty, actually ended up corrupting what it was meant to protect, rounding its soft corners into edges for the advancement of a frontier that we thought was in line with our needs, but really just served to trade a lasting happiness for ephemeral pleasures.
LITTLE SPECK THAT STAYS Creep back coyly, cut past the pride with which you stepped out, shrink into what you were before your evolution hoped for all this, dash your tiny leaf on a wave of oppression that was always stronger than your Will, loose what little motivation you mustered— except for that speck, that little sliver, that all alone is no match for an adversary at any one time, but as time passes, as everything else that was so strong in the moment fades away, this little speck holds on, it stays, though small, it remains, so that when nothing is left, there is this speck, hanging on. This little speck is the last of you. It will carry you to the end.
COOKING UP SOME GOOD MIND
Cooking up some good mind
like stirring a pot full of thoughts
that mix and mingle
and make a whole thing
that’s different than any of its parts,
turning up the heat
and then turning it down,
melting to allow joining together,
cooling to solidify that joining,
waiting with the oven light on
watching a thought arise
and probably satisfaction
for you and your friends and many more
if it’s really good and big enough,
waiting to see what it will be,
like what you picked out of the cookbook
or something different with your secret sauce.
Here alone it hurts me Herald hairpin lies Hoping during the worst we Hold on for goodbye So it leaves me like this So it goes they say So and sew it lightly Duck darkness into grey Even the one world where you create your noose out of thin air doesn’t end up hanging. One of the hardest things about making art is forgetting what it’s like to be a consumer.
HOT AIR BALLOON
It’s only sometimes when I’m like a kid again, I get so silly high that I forget about everything and blow so much hot air into my own balloon, until there’s no breath left in my lungs, and I start to fall—
like I imagine it is to jump out of a plane that’s very high up. Terror in the beginning, yes. But then boredom. And after boredom, curiosity for the clouds and the air around you, for what you can see and what it is like to fall now that the fear is commonplace.
Having gotten used to the fear of falling, the trauma upon impacting earth is surprising, and brings with it a new pain upon the hard crash landing.
My impact drives me so deep that at first I know it is temporary but at some point so far beneath, I start to wonder whether I’ll ever rise again. So much time in the dark, and deeper, darker all the while,
I start to think I’ll never summit, I start to think that I’ll never return, I start to think I’ll never be the same—I can’t really help it, thinking like this. But boy, when I’m high up there, lighter and higher all the while, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
WHAT IS NOT
Now I know I always come back. Nothing seems so bad anymore, knowing there’s always a bounce instead of a crash at the end of these falls.
Like I imagine it is to jump out of a plane that’s very high up. Terror in the beginning, yes. But then boredom. And after boredom, interest in the air around you and what you can see and what it is like to fall now that the fear and pain are commonplace.
So I’m sick with dread and a split head but really just thinking what is it for a head to split while I wait for everything to put itself back together and redeliver me to the paradise I can only stand for some time until the same effect takes over. Nothing is anything really, at least to you, until you make of what it isn’t.
HARDWOOD FLOOR
Wallets I would have had if my bookshelf could have kept from toppling. Empty bottles full if they weren’t so full to begin with.
Laying on the hardwood floor hurts a little bit, neither of us will admit. We even roll around before confessing we’d rather be in bed.
Shoes and rolled jeans; I like her dressed up as much as not. Honestly don’t think it’ll last much longer, but at least it lasted this long.
Even just that it lasts right now is more than I can really ask for. God, I’m thankful. I forget too often.
WHETHER I REMEMBER OR NOT
So that in times like these, when I’m not really processing anything, both for being overwhelmed in this moment, and all the moments just before, with which I haven’t quite caught up, but the dirt picks up under my feet just the same, and supports a body that houses a mind in a universe, that moves regardless of whether I remember it or not.
IN BETWEEN COUCH CUSHIONS
Split down the center of a formerly indivisible line, these become two sides of your wonder wall. Not too far apart, as their magnetism still draws the two sides together, you nestle yourself deep inside like a child in between couch cushions. It’s not long until, something from the outside world catches your attention. You look up to see, a symphony, for you and the other split cushion dwellers. So you start to say, with less dismay, this really isn’t that bad, what with the music that echoes inside your comfy canyon walls, as the same magnetism that sucked you down and in, spits you back out, into the world that welcomes you home.
HEART’S CENTER
Let’s go through it, unsure of how we’ll come out, this is all we’ve got. One direction being no different than another, the only real difference is our speed, if we are to control how much ground we cover.
So that the only choice we ever really had was to hurtle headlong into the furnace. The sun mooning up at any distance we charge into. And the moon sunning from the source. Your heart’s center was really the only thing that ever beat for me. No matter how much sense school ever made to me as a boy, I was always bound to chase after your heart.
THE NEXT SCARE I don’t suppose there was anything really like that where we came from so when we saw it we were scared but not just two minutes later we were looking past it and not even noticing anything other than the next thing to scare us.
simple, straight-forward writing is more naked. it can’t hide behind misunderstandings and words unknown to most readers.
Without meditation, like a safe shore, my art, like a tumultuous storm, would destroy me. I put my good feels into my art and breathe my bad feels through my meditation.
put words in some ways and leave silences where they’re due
it’s a writer’s work to articulate the forces that move us implicitly and wordlessly in our daily lives. while our economy works to answer for everything that is worth something and our religions seek to answer for what means something and philosophy seeks to answer for what is true; art seeks to answer for whatever is left over—just what is.
it’s a writer’s work to name what hasn’t been and to sometimes challenge what has.
sleeping, doing drugs, dancing in a crowded room, looking deep into someone else’s eyes, meditating on nothing, meditating on one thing, dreaming a dream I don’t remember,Slipping and falling accidentally into a daydream, or otherwise not being myself, even if only for a short while.
that your opinion is the popular one is not an absolute defense.
the dryer stops running having done its job and lets go a click which is the door unlocking —this is my cue to get up and fold the dry clothes. i don’t, however, or at least, not right away. instead, i sit and enjoy the silence in the apartment now that the load has run. but then i hear, another click which is when, i look up confused; because there is only supposed to be one click and it is always the same after the load has run for thirty-six minutes on the “Mixed Loads” setting —I don’t separate darks and lights like I should— so that now, upon hearing the second click, i am perplexed. a dryer is a mechanical thing and can only click as it is made to, and just then, as i had this thought, there was a third click! as if the dryer not only had developed the ability to speak, but now also the ability to read minds, and could hear me degrading it as just a mechanical thing i listened closer and heard now not only the clicks but also the subtle rgg’s and prrt’s that are the same as an athlete saying ahhh after a race or a lawyer saying phew after a case. so i said alright alright and got up off the couch to open its lid smiling smugly and then see its happy belly lit by a dim yellow and displaying for me a perfectly dry mound of clothes. thank you, i said. and just then, two clicks in quick succession, i swear it.
in such sobriety everything is clear as it should be similar evening to the drug that distorts reality such that with the drug around you need edges but I’ve seen show shark sobriety sharpens the edges 13 so round allowing me to see wrinkles the hardwood floor in the end it screws noticing things I wouldn’t have before stopping on my walk home to start something I walked by $100 but not noticed is beautiful being myself as a human should be but losing touch with something more that being human prevents us from accessingAt least not consistently only allowing to see as recluses like a drug guy but in the case you’re going to give that up so Briody allows your godly version of being human.
I had a dream that I was sleeping coming in and out of dreaming and after each dream it would appear good to me like something that should be in writing and I would think of how to write it But I was so tired so I would fall back asleep before I could get up to write anything down and then wake up again having had another dream that seemed to me like it would be good in wiring – Only sometimes did i know, in my stupor, that i had forgotten the dreams before, while other times i would unconsciously descend into another bout of sleep while conjuring up the thought in words to be written and at the same time mustering the energy to get out of bed and grab my phone from the kitchen counter and having something to write it but not making it and falling back asleep.
all of this, happening and wondering – one, why could i not formulate the thought and get up to write it before falling asleep again, and starting to feel loss and disappointment that I could capture none of it while feeling that some of these dreams should have been captured; two, and this was a particularly peculiar part, upon the fifth or sixth or seventh or maybe 100th dream and really feeling A frustration at this point having forgotten so much and if it it had just been forgotten no worries fucking van combined with the fact that there had been something good that I had missed either because I could not write it and share it later on or because I could not even remember it myself and maybe relive it for even having seemed to have lived at once if only just by remembering it once; but now, I digress again, because what really happened is this.
I awoke this time differently still laying in my bed and trying to think of the words only to realize that this time I had awoken into my actual bed and a reality that is more real in each of the times and walking after the sixth or seventh or hundred dreams for you to realize that this time was the first time then I actually work in all the times before were dreams within a dream of me sleeping and going to sleep and dreaming and experiencing something that is very familiar to me which is living a dream wanting to write it and then forgetting it over and over again so now is the only time that I am in reality real enough where I can actually get out of bed and grab my phone off the kitchen counter and actually write it only now I can write nothing specific about all the changes and dreams and can only write generally – not specifically about any of the six or seven or 100 dreams that were each stories or ideas or things that needed to be put down into words that people have not found yet to formulate ideas that are you and everyone would explain are yes I have thought that before I just didn’t know how to say it this is what a writer really tries to get after after all. So explaining my disappointment for having lost all of it and feeling this to be not unlike living mini lives and dying and not remembering your former lives and not only having lost the memory to recall the life clinic 30 but sometimes not even having remembered it in the first place such that it is questionable whether you can even say what it was lived at all if you can’t remember it or another words if you never met entered your mind with any clarity at least once there is a tragedy here that is at the core of my motivation to write in the first place and that is the desire that things should be written down, recorded, preserved, allowed to live on, or in some cases allowed to live at all even just once.
Conversely the tragedy I feel as a writer is having lost. Having forgotten, having never gotten something in the first place having let something pass by or die or not otherwise made something live and be shared in touch first my own mind at least once but then many other moments and have lived in many other lives caring on it written word And creating imagination, fantasy idea, story, ideas the minds of others that are in someways each lives that are given the hour to need to live again again with each reader.
if you can detach from the pleasure, it’s easier to get through the pain, which is really just a lack of pleasure.
eighth of a dose of acid for late shows, put a little hum on it (moose came up with it)
Don’t think like that, like you can’t go on, or it won’t be much longer, or it’s not true, or the end is near, or nothing matters, or anything else that might be true, but doesn’t help you by its truth.
Because you can be illogically happy or illogically sad – those are the only options, humans are not smart enough for anything else. So push out of your mind any thought that might be true but isn’t useful.
The writer is much like a sculptor, gathering a mass of stuff to begin with, going out and living to get the mass. Then sculpting, removing excess, shaping, defining—all away on his own. Until a lesser more defined thing is revealed out of the mass. And he can show it back to the world from whence it was gathered.
Once you have seen the trick, it is only by great effort that you fool yourself again. trick yourself and get going, then forget the trick; that’s how to get on.
i feel like i’m being tickled from the inside
i could just as easily be a beat as i am a sellout
walking to lunch today I saw a dead bird on the sidewalk. It seemed gross and unusual to me. Certainly not something I’m used to, seeing dead things. where does everything go to die? I always see all this living all around me, things growing up and sprouting in learning and moving and getting stronger but where are all the things weakening and shriveling and shrinking and becoming less. I know that things die. I know that things living will pass on. It must be because I’m still young and surrounded by young things. As I get closer to dying, as my friends die, as I’m more sensitive to dying myself, then I suppose I will see more death.
I used to fear dying insignificant, without having achieved anything. i used to feel the weight of this fear like it was important and i was bearing it alone. as i grow and find myself in others, i talk and even laugh about this fear, realizing that it is shared by everyone. while it is still real, it is lighter and less serious, realizing that everyone shares in it.
i turn on a dim light; dim at first, then bright once my eyes have adjusted. so i look up at the bright light and say, “who are you?” and he says in reply, “i am the same. it is you who has changed.” i search for a dimmer light to achieve actual dimness. finding none, I settle with the bright light aforementioned.
i write poetry to make others feel how Hesse novels make me feel.
you don’t want to do too much of your editing at once; you need to space it out so you can become as many different versions of yourself, closer to the general reading public.
if there’s too much ego in writing it can be bad, just because it’s not inclusive enough for the general reading public.
some would say the good steak is what melts like butter in your mouth, but i like the tough stuff that you can chew like bubble gum and savor the fat; they say it’s for peasants, but bah, what good is a steak that melts and is gone? what other luxuries do we misinterpret?
they say the good cheese stinks and the good wine tastes like metal, but bah, i want a cheese i can eat and a wine i can drink.
they say the good life is sitting around doing nothing all day, but bah, i’d be bored in the first second. give me the yolk; let me work up an appetite.
they say the rich sit way up high, but bah, put me in the dirt where i came from.
I have no ability to edit my own work; it has everything to do with how I feel.
cooking up some good mind adding in quality ingredients shaking, mixing, stirring heating, cooling, letting sit tasting, testing, adding
cooking up some good mind like stirring a pot full of thoughts that mix and change each other and make a whole thing that’s different than any of its parts, turning up the heat and then turning it down, melting to allow joining together, cooling to solidify that joining, waiting with the oven light on watching a thought arise and probably satisfaction for you and your friends and many more if it’s really good and big enough. waiting to see what it will be, like what you picked out of the cookbook or something different with your secret sauce.
The dark closes me in and keeps me pointed, the light opens me up and lets me out.
It even makes sense at a molecular. When matter is hot all the molecules are bouncing around. When matter is cold everything is slowed down.
a lot of my art comes from the simultaneous facts that there is no reason for anything and also that i happen to be here.
I had my coming-of-age in the not so sexless ruins of a revolution.
I’d rather participate in an accessible art; there are more people to talk to.
The theoretical man was never born.
things lose their color as they tend to, all depending on your memory of what came before, specifics combining into unnoticed generalities.
the feeling of need for something new, the feeling of having been here too many times before, eyes narrowed and blocking out the periphery, focusing only on what is expected.
EMPATHY (unedited) Seeing from a door knob’s perspective, from the sun’s eyes looking down, feeling what it’s like to be a sound wave. Running like rain water doomed for the gutter. Sleeping like sacks of potatoes in a farm truck. Kissing with lover mouths outside of the café. Hanging like a handle waiting to be useful. Competing like cars on the freeway. Remembering like an epic told over and over. Hurting like alcohol in an open wound. Feeling with fir tree fingertips. Loose and flow like a river and crumple like a chip bag, Loving with the dying heart of a soldier, thinking with the desperate mind of an outlaw We fall apart and swallow up all the time anyway, losing ourselves and becoming something else.
COME IN EVERYONE
As I walk around the city, and people pass by. I like to catch their eyes and live their lives just for the moment that I look at them —people I don’t know or at least can’t remember. My ego opens up wider, while my physical body remains the same, and my soul, with its larger grasp opens to a broader swath, and lets everyone else in.
I made several mistakes today. I can’t stop thinking of them. I am trying to part ways with the anger and learn from them. Mistakes are relative, I suppose. The worst are when they seem, in hindsight, as if they could have been avoided so easily.
This afternoon I ate a cashew like I was a prisoner in a cell, pretending it was the only food I had —the things you notice with such focus! I turned a page in my journal that was full of reminders, little poems, to-do lists, and notes to myself. I turned to a blank page and felt a sense of freedom. Not only the page but everything is blank and brand new, like all I’ve written here is all I’ve got—which is nothing. My memory is terrible lately and I’m a little worried, but I’m really just a sieve. My only function is to have things flow through me. Even the page in my journal full of reminders and lists was starting to stress me out. When I’ve caught too many big rocks, I need to be turned over and dumped out.
The difficulty is not to decide. You will decide no matter what. To sit still, even, is a decision. To do nothing is a decision. The difficulty is deciding rightly. Especially because with every decision there are so many options, and if you have not studied, you will only know very few of them, a few which may not include the most right one.
I look up on a tall building and its wall of windows; I look at the lights that are on and the lights that are off; I wonder about who is awake and what they’re doing right now; a thing about cities is just how many people there are. I wonder about the neighbors on the twenty-seventh floor; to me, they are just shadows in adjacent windows. I see a couple dancing and a couple fighting; I see dark windows where I can’t see anything; All these different lives stacked on top of each other on the corner of Folsom and 3rd at about nine o’clock at night.
Openness tells me there is still more to be gotten from a week that's either over or just beginning. Wide stretches of road when city cars are still sleeping in their garages. Weekend-waiters wanting in between still hungover from Friday and already working for Monday
I wish we could have come and gone without the kite strings higher with the wind and higher until there wasn’t any turning back and we were closer to another planet than we were to the earth that we left from and so began a weird alien life where, as we got farther away from ten fingers and oxygen, we got closer to another life we didn’t recognize, but this was the risk we ran when we cut our kite strings and we knew that before so we swallowed our situation and put on alien suits to play along.
Sometimes I think I’ve done something, made it different than it otherwise would’ve been. Like I have some control over small things that aren’t quite set. Other times I think no matter what, it would’ve ended up here in the same spot.
On a sunny afternoon in March, on a bench in South Park between second and third street in downtown San Francisco, this occurs to me. That it is never in the middle of a season that I can discern its identity. In the middle of a season it seems to be just the way things are. But in between, when two seasons are still deciding whose turn it is to play, playing tug of war, winter and spring, so that the days before this were all rainy, dark, and dreary, and the weatherman said this morning that the days after today will go back to the same. In this back and forth it is clear to see what the seasons are like. On a sunny day like today, I am open. I can see more. Like shower water, hot opens up and cold closes in. In the open hot sun, the brightness shows to me finer features that are hidden in the dark, as parts of general dark masses or concealed in ambiguous shadows. In the light it all seems open. More to take in, overwhelming almost. Also more to keep your attention outside of yourself. Whereas in the dark, like at night with your eyes closed before bed, you think inward into yourself, with lack of senses outside to keep your attention selfless. Hibernating in the winter, adding to and bolstering your ego, to warm up in the spring and let it all go in the summer.
before the old man was ready to grow up, they started treating him like an old man, so he became one.
same for the happy man, unlikely to be grumpy, treated like a grump, becomes one.
and an outcast, treated as such, becomes even more so.
I walked by a beautiful church on ninth street and saw, through the stained-glass windows, the high ceilings. I stopped there on the sidewalk and thought about it to see if I could come up with something.
I thought to myself, “There is something about those high ceilings.” It is something similar to this that I think right before I write, usually.
“There is something about …” But I am stumped, sometimes, as I was when I stood on ninth street trying to write about the angels in the high ceilings or the music that echoed from the choir
—ideas from my childhood of churchgoing, which are like splotches of oil in artistic waters,
as if the divine words I was looking for were tucked into the missals (that I refused to open) in the pews (that I refused to kneel in).
I could not write about anything other than how I could not write—and so I wrote this.
in bed, i wonder why, my leg will not move. i try, in the dark, to pick it up, with my mind; it will not move. even though i can, feel it with my hands. i realize, it is hers.
in our love, we intersect, when we are both feeling the same. thinking the same thought, in the same way, laughing, saying, “i was just thinking that.”
other times, we empathize, to become the other. the same object as before, now subjected to the same eyes.
later on, as we become one, none of this is necessary anymore. to say that one is this or the other is that, and then devise how to get them together, is nonsense; they are one, and one is together with itself, always.
i know i shouldn’t but i do it anyway – what really goes into this thought? do we know that we shouldn’t? or do we do it because we’re not really sure? and some feeling in the moments tells us to do it. so we go ahead without really taking the time to flesh out whether we know that we should or shouldn’t. partly because we don’t always have enough time to think about it. and even if we did maybe we still couldn’t know.
you’re always playing the odds, i think at some point you have to release attachment to your survival, plane taking off, you’re playing the odds, but you’re better off just relaxing, if it’s time it’s time, and you’ll return to what you’re part of
how much do you get out for what you put in especially when homeward arrows beckon stronger bows for a target that exceeds in space the hunger of the archer's quiver
watching steam dance from the rim of my white tea cup swirls that hold form and then break and crash into each other
wide stretches of road and opportunity when city cars are still sleeping in their garages openness tells me there is still more to be gotten from a week that's either over or just beginning blue skies without building obstructions invite levity to the soles of my steps eyes that can see farther start to dilate and take in more all this stepping out of the car on north point all this on a sunday morning that seems new
i was lying in bed
at 12:45 at night
and my roommate had his TV playing just a little too loud
and i started to think about the type of people that have TVs in their rooms
and i said to myself i’m not that kind of person
but then i thought maybe i’d like it, to have a TV
so i started to imagine having a TV in my room
then i wondered what if i were to get sick of it, what would i do with it?
and i imagined throwing it off my four story balcony
but you would have to be careful not to hit someone bellow
and there might be a blast radius
so i thought about how wide that blast radius might be
and i thought about whether it mattered from how high up the TV was thrown
and then i thought no it doesn’t because of some physics lesson that everything falls at the same speed
but no i said that’s momentum’s that’s the same for everything (even though i was wrong)
and even though the momentum stays the same the speed increases because the momentum is adding to it
then i thought about the symbol for momentum from my high school physics class
meters per second squared, but why the squared
then i think about how it’s the meters per second of change in the meters per second of speed
and i thought of how the units cancel out to get the squared
and then i said woah
and that was the end of the rabbit hole
empathy is the key to seeing more of the world. not just seeing through human eyes, but seeing from a door knob’s perspective, from the sun’s eyes looking down, feeling what it’s like to be a sound wave. loving with the dying heart of a soldier, thinking with the desperate mind of a prisoner breaking out. hundreds and thousands and millions of viewpoints. why just live inside your one?
i look at others and say, wait, is that me? my empathy stretches that far. when my ego explodes. everyone, everything even, becomes myself, so that i want to flex with my tree branch arms and kiss with my lover mouths outside the cafe across the street. i loose and flow like a river and crumple like a chip bag, anthropomorphisg—without any need, i might mention. if i truly become “every” thing, i can drop the anthro- prefix.
think of how much in the city is man-made. surely at some point we were god’s creation. now, if we assume that our environment influences what we become, how is man affecting the creation of each subsequent generation. especially for those who grow up walking in paved cement, surround by steel buildings, and street lights and planes overhead. the city creates a whole other species.
what goes in these nights fighting age the malaise of youths eldered and all the seeing of light day consumed by nothing dark night fight these nights dark going elding youths no malaise not yet not while hope of the days light’s seen still beyond night’s appetite for nothing still beyond gnashing dark teeth like shadows inching elding into the day’s light at dawn these nights that fight the dread dark coming fight while youthful hope still lingers fight the night bring light here lighter hope the hope that brings near wishers dream a dream beyond night’s nothing young dear sweet bedmate keep beauty in these nights whence light once rushed hoped in hearts as youths tend to kept in sight of the day’s touch hold me hear dear sweet young beauty tell me what goes in these nights fighting
i'm into you i'm also partially not into you whereas if i was into you all the way i'd cease to be me and become you so that saving some to stay myself keeps our love alive
things change, why resist them so much, holding onto what they were, thinking that is the only way that they can be, when the new way has come about for a reason, give into the reason, let go of what was
i continue to have this sense that the way i am spending my time is not good enough, or maybe, rather, just that i have nothing to show for what i’ve spent my time doing, especially for enjoyable and ephemeral things that had no utility or productiveness.
thinking of this in terms of spending time for pleasure and then judging that time spent for output of some material or otherwise utilitarian gain, as opposed to being grateful and thankful for the pleasure you enjoyed.
sitting on the rooftop, so much around us, k says, all the cars on the road and all the people in the buildings; here it just sounds like space.
living in san francisco, there is a tension between: not wanting to leave the apartment because you’re paying so much for rent, and wanting to leave the apartment to go out and experience the city that is the reason you’re paying so much for rent
most of the time, we do the same thing as everyone else, completely unoriginal, if not our contemporaries, then someone’s done it before, but sometimes we break through, and really get into it, and hoot and holler and say, i’ve done it, and revel in the sense of pushing the frontier, all on our own, until we look around and realize that we’re all on our own
when i’m sober and anxious, things are more specific and less hazy and time slows down – i realize immediately that i made a promise to start writing “outside of myself” after this last book. i need to start looking outside of the feelings of my ego and into my experience of the world around. i think this will be therapeutic but also full of more material.
she says, you’re intense.
i look at her, intensely, i suppose; aware of it because she said so.
why yes, i say, because things are serious.
what do you mean by that? she asks.
well, for example, if we were in a war.
but we are not, she says.
hmph, no longer looking intense, she is right, i suppose.
a light switch in the dark after sleeping two light switches actually one on top of the other lighted barely in the dark not by themselves of course but also, not even by the light they control in the bedroom but from the light in the bathroom controlled by another switch that I now see when I wash my hands after sleeping which drives me to write about a light switch after some time unproductive
such silence after the noise of the refrigerator working to freeze water or whatever a refrigerator does whirring in the night making noise that you don’t realize is noise until the click that turns it off and then real silence at 3:25 a.m, no cars outside oh, there went one on California street outside but now silence again just the low hum of nothingness that makes me wonder if silence has a sound oh, there went a plane I think, something above it is gone now and the hum again no, her breathing against my chest always a noise to fill the silence if you really listen
pushing over boxes to sit with my back against the couch in the morning light that comes in through the window something changed last night i feel better now noticing things i didn’t before appreciative for small things for no reason this is what i forget when i feel sad and lost
funny how many times i’ve deleted a much edited poem and just supplanted the original messy as it was; after much editing you end up removing its idiosyncrasies that make it what it was
K: Do you see value in time spent for pleasure?
C: Yes, I didn’t use to.
K: When did that change?
C: When I realized that I was going to die no matter what, and nothing really matters.
I’m the opposite of you. There are times when I indulged more than I should have. Times when I did things in excess, e.g., spending too much time doing unhealthy things, investing emotionally too deep in someone.
As I get older I try to find balance and be present in doing non-pleasurable things. I don’t really enjoy it but if I’m present I can benefit from it both in the present and in the future, like washing my face—even if I don’t enjoy getting up out of bed in the present, I feel a lot better in the future if i do it.
I think about what I would remember right before I die. I think I’d remember times when I felt connected to something bigger than me, because that’s what I would be about to cross over into.
Allowing what will happen to happen, giving time that space, sacrificing it to change.