Modern beauty

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.

Posted on August 14, 2020August 15, 2020 by Cole

Sad shower faucet

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.

Posted on August 9, 2020August 15, 2020 by Cole

Deck

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

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Cole

Nobody downtown

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.

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Cole

Excerpts from A Trip in Montana

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.

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Cole

Descent

“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.

Posted on August 2, 2020August 2, 2020 by Cole

I walked to the park today

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.

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Early summer sun

The sun comes up

Through the shade

So early

In the summer

That I wonder

If I even

Got to sleep

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Bed sheet blind

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

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Searching for my muse

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.

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Archetypes of color

Red Presidio roofs

Against the blue white

Ocean sky

And the red bridge

Green lawn and trees

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Birds

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

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Closet door

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

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Backstage

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.

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

A white dog called Winter

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!”

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

one side die

A square ceiling

With a circular light

In the center

Looks like

The one side

Of a die

Posted on April 19, 2020 by Cole

grass track

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

Posted on April 19, 2020 by Cole

in the park

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

Posted on April 19, 2020 by Cole

Thinking hole

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

Posted on February 29, 2020 by Cole

The split in the drapes

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.

Posted on February 15, 2020 by Cole

blue slug bug

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

Posted on January 6, 2020 by Cole

dome sky

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

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

fire detector

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

Posted on December 21, 2019 by Cole

symbiotic stretch

as i stand

in the doorway

and stretch

to the right

leaning over,

our plant reaches

for the light

kitchen window

to the left

Posted on December 21, 2019 by Cole

walking in the rain

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

Posted on December 21, 2019 by Cole

i wonder

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.

Posted on October 5, 2019 by Cole

the fog in the evening (09/04/19)

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

Posted on September 14, 2019 by Cole

known city

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

Posted on September 2, 2019 by Cole

power line frame

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

Posted on August 8, 2019 by Cole

stressed out leaves

green leaves

outside

the window

showing signs

of stress

blowing

on branches

flexing

in the wind

not

so calm

as it is

inside

watching

Posted on August 8, 2019 by Cole

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

Posted on August 8, 2019 by Cole

noisy night

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

Posted on August 8, 2019 by Cole

sitting in the cafe

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

Posted on August 3, 2019 by Cole

morning light in the cafe

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

Posted on August 3, 2019 by Cole

simple things, and other simple things

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

Posted on August 3, 2019 by Cole

mumbo jumbo

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

Posted on August 3, 2019 by Cole

a moment with a stranger

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

Posted on August 3, 2019 by Cole

blue sky canvas

a blue

sky canvas

makes things

simple

and clear

what we have

down here

compared to

the simple sky

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

beautiful city

a beautiful city

even more beautiful

after you’ve been

away for a while

like the cathedral

unassuming

among victorians

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

barely sun rise

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

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

feather fog

fog clouds

over the city

like a pillow

with all

the feathers

pulled out

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

moonlight

in a dark room

noting the moonlight

through the blinds

that is normally

drowned out

by the ceiling light

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

walked into a mirror almost

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

Posted on July 24, 2019July 24, 2019 by Cole

green mountainside vs. commercial roadside

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

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

built to be

lights wired

alongside

pipes with

water running

and rafters

barely sagging

a little more

each year

in a house

built to be

torn down

Posted on July 24, 2019July 24, 2019 by Cole

vacation with baby

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

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

eyes adjust

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

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

some more specifics

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

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

sf vs. la

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

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

beach colors

letting salt

frothy foam

rip a green tide

brown in between

white capped

blue waves

Posted on July 23, 2019July 23, 2019 by Cole

shallow waves

so shallow

so far out

where the waves

can’t decide

how tall

to stand

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

senses

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

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

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

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

blurred colors

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

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

morning bus

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

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

through the window

a tree branch

with leaves

through the grate

through the window

bobbing

in the wind

at night

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

shaky bus

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

Posted on July 23, 2019July 23, 2019 by Cole

the same hardwood

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

Posted on July 13, 2019 by Cole

reach up

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

Posted on July 13, 2019 by Cole

typing on my phone looking out the window of the lyft at 7:40 on july 8

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

Posted on July 13, 2019 by Cole

trying not to stub my toe

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

Posted on July 13, 2019 by Cole

morning light

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

Posted on July 13, 2019July 13, 2019 by Cole

unplugged

a cord hanging

from the shelf

unplugged

like a fishing line

looking to hook

an empty outlet

Posted on July 9, 2019 by Cole

open window

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

Posted on July 9, 2019 by Cole

around the corner

store windows

show through

and out of

store windows

on the other side

so you can see

who’s coming

around the corner

Posted on July 8, 2019 by Cole

domestic art

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

Posted on July 8, 2019 by Cole

city sights

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.

Posted on July 8, 2019 by Cole

blue bird window frame

birds fly
in the apartment
blue door
window frame
between buildings
like a picture

Posted on June 29, 2019 by Cole

stop light square

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

Posted on June 29, 2019June 29, 2019 by Cole

sun and shadow

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

Posted on June 23, 2019 by Cole

stream poetry

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

Posted on June 23, 2019 by Cole

quarter tab swim

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.

Posted on June 10, 2019 by Cole

four city high

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

Posted on June 10, 2019 by Cole

wide open road

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

Posted on June 10, 2019 by Cole

green street meats

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

Posted on June 10, 2019 by Cole

sidewalk

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

Posted on June 6, 2019 by Cole

listening to the city at 9:21pm

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

Posted on June 3, 2019 by Cole

cloud shadow

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.

Posted on June 3, 2019 by Cole

beach sand

two days after we laid on the beach, i was still finding sand in my ears.

Posted on June 3, 2019 by Cole

using speech-to-text walking home from work on tuesday at 6:08pm

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

Posted on May 20, 2019 by Cole

second street coffee shop

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.

Posted on May 20, 2019 by Cole

dryer

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.

Posted on April 13, 2019 by Cole

dim light

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.

Posted on April 13, 2019 by Cole

dark and light

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.

Posted on April 13, 2019April 14, 2019 by Cole

In between seasons

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.

Posted on March 23, 2019 by Cole

deleted from the book, leaving here

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.

Posted on March 23, 2019 by Cole

man-made man

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.

Posted on March 18, 2019 by Cole

light switch

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

Posted on February 28, 2019 by Cole

fridge talking

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

Posted on February 28, 2019 by Cole

Some people and not others

Standing in line at a coffee shop, I watch the barista take orders and talk to customers. Her hair is dyed electric yellow and she has her septum pierced. Her eyes are glossed over like she might be high. She is perfect to me, in this moment on a Saturday morning when everyone is still a little sleepy and waiting for their coffee. She is not really that attractive. In fact, she looks like a boy, round in the face, and dresses like one too, with a long-sleeve cotton button-up. Still, I wouldn’t take anyone else in the world in her place right now.

It makes me think about our standards for people. We require them to be sexually attractive or economically productive or otherwise useful to us in order to deem them worthy of our approval or admiration. I wonder what would happen without those standards. I wonder what would a human being turn out to be. If we could be whatever we wanted, err, not even “wanted,” because that want is subjected to those standards.

So what I really wonder is what a human would be if we could be whatever, whatever at all. For one generation, it would be a fantastic display of art. But then for the next, sexual selection would be all disordered and economic progress might stall and even violence might break out. So the price we pay for our safety, progress, and order is to select some people and not others. On the whole, everyone seems satisfied enough with this. As for me and a few others, I want to run around congratulating and complimenting and loving those others.

Posted on November 3, 2018 by Cole

World for you

If I create a world for you, could you pay the price of admission? Could you stand in it? Would there be enough room for you to dance around? Enough birds to sing with you? Enough space to pay you attention?

Once inside, would you try and leave on a cloudy day, and steal away with my favorite flower? If you stayed, would you miss what you left behind? Or would you swim in my creeks and climb my trees and smile at my sun? Happy with the world you have.

Posted on October 17, 2018October 22, 2018 by Cole

Good trip guys

Krys walks out the door after we’ve said goodbye, “Good trip, guys.”

We all laugh.

Krys walks out in the snow. His car is waiting, idling, blowing smoky exhaust into the cold air.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Fall leaves

Sitting on the porch swing in Denver looking out at the trees. Lake asks me, “Do the trees change color in California?”

I think about it. “I don’t know. Not the redwoods, I don’t think.”

“Well, what makes them change?” Krys asks.

“I think it’s them dying. The chlorophyl that gives them life goes away and the green color fades.”

I look at a tree across the street. It’s October and the leaves are shades of green, orange, and yellow. It’s like an aging population. One branch has green leaves that are all young—it’s a school of youths and no elders. Another branch on the outer edge has mostly orange members—these are middle-aged citizens that think back to their own youth in the spring months. And the yellow leaves, towards the end of their lives, looking at the ground beneath and preparing for their Fall.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Eyelid light show

The light show on the back of your closed eyelids is arguably better than the real light show with your eyes open.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Kansan identity

Growing up, it was all about where you were from. Your friends, your tastes for food, your sports teams, your religion. Everything was largely homogenous with the people you grew up with.

Now that I’m grown up and out into the world, people ask me questions about who I am and what I like and where I’m from and I’m less sure of how to answer. I try to talk to any of my experiences based on I’m with and what they’re most familiar with.

So much chaos inside my soul, had I not been born into the basic, safe life of the plains and homogeneity, I might have lost it too soon. With my Kansan base, I can lose it carefully, consistently, and still always return afterwards to a static set of rules and sense of identity, then set up to take off again.

Posted on October 15, 2018October 15, 2018 by Cole

Plane crash

Sometimes I sleep soundly on a plane ride, when I’m all too comfortable to die. Otherwise I worry about a crash, of course, as all people do. I can’t sleep and I can’t read, so I just sit there and wait for time to move slower than usual, jumping at any turbulence and watching nervously out the windows as the wings flex in the wind.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

High ceilings in churches

High ceilings in churches so our songs rise and the divine beings in the corners can hear them. I am stumped trying to write about religion now. I walked by a beautiful church on ninth street and saw the high ceilings through the beautiful windows. I thought to myself, “There is something about those high ceilings.” But I cannot separate my childhood ideas of churchgoing from the art I’m trying to write. They don’t seem to want to go together.

Posted on October 12, 2018 by Cole

Spending winter break at university

I do my breaks alone. I travel to universities in the Midwest and rent a dorm room in the empty halls and take my showers in the community bathroom. They both rushed to tell me that I could spend the holiday break with their families. So I had to politely decline and tell them about how I actually enjoyed it. Something from my old school days is still hidden there, something scholastic and nostalgic. I sit at an old mass-produced wooden desk on a worn-out desk chair with a red wool cushion. There’s nothing on top of the desk except a book and a notepad under yellow light. It gets spooky at night, something about a place where normally so many people are but then nobody is. It reminds me of the Thanksgiving I spent alone in my dorm room during college. I was scared to get out of my bed at night and walk down the long empty hallways alone.

Posted on October 4, 2018 by Cole

Talking to trees

I assume she has her reason for not wanting to look, just like the rest of the natural world has theirs. I imagine a tree with his branch arms crossed, emotional, with his back turned to the trail, refusing to acknowledge passersby like us, who hike the trail looking at our feet, like guests at a party who fail to find and greet the host and express their gratitude.

I imagine a world not unlike the fairytales where our dialogue is not only just among ourselves but also with the rest of lifeforms and even with inanimate objects like teapots and candlesticks. Otherwise we are closed off from the world that’s always trying to tell us something.

Posted on October 4, 2018 by Cole

Such steel

In a city full of people, such steel so straight up to support an industrial flow of life above on the streets and in the buildings where bodies come in contact all day and some stay supple and human while others become like the steel and a part of the foundation; even for these I am thankful. For in one way they have forfeited their humanity. In another, they have made a great sacrifice for those of us who choose to remain human. Without the steel, those of us truly human would work up our appetites until we eat each other. The economic Apollonian steel offers the skeleton and checks and balances for the all the emotion and passion of the overwhelming Dionysian human.

Posted on September 23, 2018 by Cole

Rainy sunday morning

When the window talks
and the raindrops knock
curled up under covers
wearing my brother’s socks
the sheets are made of silk
—not really; they’re cotton, I think—
but they might as well be silk
and everything else that’s perfect
because that’s how everything feels
on a rainy Sunday morning like this.

Posted on September 23, 2018 by Cole

Glass sand

Little did I know that the walk wouldn’t be so long if the glass hadn’t shattered all over the desert sand so that you couldn’t step anywhere barefoot without knowing what might cut you, so floating down the river was our only choice.

Posted on September 20, 2018 by Cole

My whole apartment

Sometimes it seems small. When I’ve gotten used to it and I know every square inch so well, it seems to fold in on itself. When I’ve come back home at the exact same time and cooked the same dinner and lighted the same candle and meditated on the same cushion, I get claustrophobic and push on the walls to let in some air.

Other times, right after I’ve gotten back from vacation or when I’m having a friend over and showing them around, I have to stand a little taller to touch the ceiling, my bookcase seems to have another shelf, and the artwork I have hanging up opens my walls out into the world. When I start to look closely enough, it’s really myself that starts to feel small, like I could run for miles and never traverse across my whole apartment.

Posted on September 12, 2018 by Cole

My Mother Was An Artist

My mother was an artist. In her hometown she got sick and went to see the medicine woman in the fields. The medicine woman was there and my mother’s mother was still alive and she knelt there in the fields among rows of other people that had passed on. They all knelt down in the dirt on a sunny day. Here they came to life again, in the medicine woman’s field.

My mom was sick. You only went to see the medicine woman when you were already sick. If you were healthy, the dead would make you sick anyway. When you were sick already, it didn’t matter. My mother held me in her arms. I was sick too. I was a baby too young to remember this story.

My mother knelt in the field next to her mother, my grandma. My grandma knelt there in the dirt looking very somber and worn down by being in the sun all day. My grandma held a baby boy also. He was my mother’s baby brother, John. He would have been my uncle had he not died before he was one year old.

My mother knelt next to my grandmother and communicated via the medicine woman. My grandma whispered to the medicine woman and the medicine woman turned and translated to my mother. My grandmother, via the medicine woman, told my mother that she was proud of her. She also said, holding dead baby John in her arms, that I looked to be very healthy. I was a little younger than one year old at the time, just like dead baby John.

The medicine woman said that it was time for us to go. This did not phase my grandmother. She knew that it was as things must be. She maintained her same somber disposition. Her golden cheeks eternally tanned by the sun of the dead. She whispered one last thing to the medicine woman and the medicine woman turned to my mother and told her, “She wants you to know that she loves you.” My mother cried a single tear in the soil of the dead. Then the medicine woman said that we really must go.

She led us away from my mother and through rows of other dead people kneeling in the soil. We came out of the rows and reached a road and departed from the dead. In the real world, the fields of the dead were a gift shop filled with pictures. There were many aisles of framed pictures of deceased loved ones. They hung on the artificial walls like books sorted in the shelves at a library.

The medicine woman told my mother, earlier this morning I sold the first one of your mother’s pictures. She only has four photos left now and then she will move on from the fields and rejoin the sun.

Thank you, my mom said to the medicine woman, putting her hand on the woman’s shoulder. I will come back and see her again once more before she passes on. I will have one more question to ask her. Well, why did you not ask her today? asked the medicine woman. Because I don’t know the question yet, replied my mom.

The medicine woman smiled and said that she understood. With me as a baby still in her arms my mother said goodbye to the medicine woman and left the fields of the dead, or in reality, a picture gift shop where souls waited in purgatory to pass on into the sun.

Posted on September 11, 2018 by Cole

Perfect moments

A few moments are perfect, like the movies. Everyone is beautiful. The conversation is clever. Laughs are haughty. Someone speaks another language to the foreign waiter. Everyone is in love. We think to ourselves, it can’t get better than this.

I think of Nietzsche’s idea of eternal recurrence. The idea that even just one perfect moment can make an entire life of less-than-perfect moments worth reliving.

Unsuccessful people give into short-term pleasures in normal everyday moments. Successful people spend the normal moments preparing to make the perfect ones possible.

Posted on September 6, 2018September 9, 2018 by Cole

The Little Ant: A Short Story

The little ant couldn’t remember how he had gotten lost. He was in the middle of an expanse with no sense of direction. The ground under his feet was hard. He had nothing with him other than the grain of rice that he held in his mandibles. He had no thoughts in his head other than delivering the grain of rice to the colony. It was so peculiar, the little ant thought to himself, that he could not remember anything from before. He could not remember the queen, not specifically at least. He could not remember what she looked like, only that he did in fact have a queen. He could not remember his brothers or the tunnels inside the ant hill, only that he did in fact have a home and the colony was waiting for him and depending on him to deliver the grain of rice.

The first few seconds, which are whole days in ant time, the ant spent in despair. “How did this happen to me?” he asked himself over and over again. He felt disconnected, alone, and purposeless. The colony is the reason to live for an ant. Without his queen and worker brothers, the ant felt no energy for life. But he still had the grain of rice in his mandibles. He had a duty to the colony, he remembered. Thus concluded his period of despair and reintroduced to the little ant the resolve that is customary for his kind.

He was hungry. He thought of taking a little bite from the grain of rice. No he could not, he told himself. It was for the colony. The colony needed it more than he did.

The little ant looked around to see in what direction he might start to search for the colony. He was in a foreign place, or at least a place that he did not remember. In all directions, it was only flat and there was nothing noticeable to be seen. The little ant realized there was nothing that would tell him which direction to choose. He picked up the grain of rice with his mandibles and started off in the direction that he was already facing.

It was many minutes that the little ant marched straight in the same direction. He was careful to pay attention to the movements of his legs. Because he had no information neither from his sight nor from the smell of the colony, he had to be careful this his steps on the left and right sides were equal, to guarantee that he moved forward in the same straight line. He was also counting the number of steps that he took to know exactly how far he had traveled.

If he did not find anything in this direction, he would turn around and walk back in the exact same direction from where he came. He reasoned to himself that he could not be far from the colony. He did not want to risk marching off in the wrong direction, away from the colony. He planned to set out on equidistant paths from the center where he started. This would allow him to cover the most ground, closest to where he began.

There were occasionally long ropes scattered on the hard floor. The little ant dared not leave his track to examine them until he came across one of the ropes in his path. It was not a rope, but a strand of hair. It was much longer than ant hair. He wondered to what kind of beast such a long hair could belong. He wondered if such a beast had anything to do with his separation from the colony. The little ant felt a sudden fear for the colony. He hoped they were safe from this great beast. He stepped over the hair and shuddered as he did. He continued on the same path, keeping his left and right steps equal.

The little ant had no way of keeping track of time other than the steps he had counted. He had taken twenty-five-thousand-six-hundred-and-twenty-eight steps. He had not stopped other than to briefly examine the strand of hair from the great beast. The little ant wondered to himself how many steps he would take before he would turn around and retrace his steps backwards. He cursed his predicament for he had no sense of how large was this vast expanse that he was in. If he only knew, then he could determine how far he needed to travel in each direction. The best he could do was to guess.

The ant was now more hungry than he was before. Time would become a factor unless he found something else to eat. He would dare not take even the smallest bite from the grain of rice. The rice was for the colony. There was no purpose in him even returning to the colony if he did not bring the grain of rice.

When the little ant reached fifty-thousand steps, he turned around. He was very careful when he turned. He composed himself and stood straight as an arrow in the direction that he was facing. He took note of the position of his body. He would do it in two movements, he decided. The first would be a quarter-turn to his right. He would then make a second quarter-turn to complete a one-hundred-and-eighty degree-turn so that he would be facing, hopefully, in the exact direction from which he came. He cursed himself for not marking the spot from which he had originally departed. He could have carved a large “X” in the floor with his mandible. Now he had no way of knowing if the measurements and count for his steps were accurate. He would have to trust them. He had no choice.

The ant started his fifty-thousand-step journey. He crossed the large strand of hair at roughly the same step, which was a good sign that he was on the right track. When the ant counted his fifty-thousandth step, he started the count over. He was now tracing new steps.

When the ant was a third of the way into his journey in the second direction, there was all of a sudden a great shadow cast over the whole of the expanse for as far as the little ant could see in any direction. Instinctually, the little ant dropped the grain of rice from his mandibles and did his best to crawl atop it and cover it with his body (the grain of rice was several times the size of the little ant). Just as quickly as it had come, the shadow passed and the light from an unknown source returned to the whole landscape. The little ant shuddered. What was that? He wondered to himself. Did it have anything to do with the giant strands of hair that were scattered all around? Did the shadow belong to the great beast?

The little ant stood immobilized for some time. What would he do if confronted with such a large beast? He did not know, he told himself. There was only one thing he could do. He picked up the grain of rice in his mandibles. Before he began again, he realized that he might have lost his direction slightly after having thrown his body on top of the grain of rice and losing his footing as a result. There was nothing he could do about it now. He reset his track as best he could and took a step to continue on.

Nothing occupied the little ant’s mind other than the count of his steps and the soft embrace with which he gripped the grain of rice in between his jaws. He started to feel a kinship with the rice. At first he scolded himself for giving into delirium. He longed for the companionship of his brother ants and his queen. It was not for an ant to be alone. Still, even as he admonished himself, he could not help but feel connected to the grain of rice. At times, he swore that he could feel a soft rhythm like a heartbeat against his mandibles. It was only the vibrations from his steps, he told himself. Grains of rice did not have heartbeats.

He had now gone more than forty-thousand steps in this second direction. He was twice as hungry as before. He started to feel a weakness in his legs and mandibles but dared not pay attention to this. He was still likely very far from the colony. He did not even know anything about where he was. The most frightening thought crept into his mind, the colony might be no more.

After all, he did not remember anything. How could he be so sure that he even had a colony? The little ant shook his head, trying to shake out these thoughts. He admonished himself two-fold: for having thoughts in the first place, and for not keeping his head straight and rigid in the interest of staying on the path.

There was no productive outcome of thoughts like these, he reminded himself. The only productive thoughts led to action in the service of the colony. Any thoughts that led to either inaction or action not in service of the colony were thoughts not to be had. The little ant marched on, recommitted to his steps and maintaining the posture of his mandibles, even though the joints of his jaw had started to ache severely—the ant didn’t think of this.

At precisely forty-four-thousand-five-hundred-and-eighty-six steps, there was another shadow. This shadow was different, however. It was static and non-moving, not like the beast’s. The little ant set down the grain of rice carefully to get a better look. In the distance there was a vague color not like the hazy blur of nothingness. It was a wall! He could not see the ceiling but he knew it was a wall. The little ant did not know how he knew this, or from where he had learned the concept of a “room.” But he knew it, as sure as he believed that he had come from a colony.

The wood inside of a wall would provide an ideal home for a colony. The little ant contained his excitement and reminded himself to focus on only two things: counting his steps and holding the grain of rice in his mandibles.

The little ant passed fifty-thousand steps in this second direction. According to the plan, he should have turned around. However, finding the wall justified an update to the plan—the little ant reasoned with himself.

At sixty-three-thousand-one-hundred-and-twenty-nine steps, the little ant stopped with the grain of rice against the wooden, painted-white floorboard of the wall. The little ant didn’t move. He surveyed to the left and the right, along the floorboard. To the right, the floorboard appeared to go on out of sight, undisturbed. To the left, there was a part where the head of a nail protruded from the floorboard and it looked as if the board was pulled slightly away from the wall. Maybe there was an opening where he could get in, the little ant said to himself.

The risk of exploring the possible opening was that the little ant would have to abandon the rigid structure of his exploration. He could not, however, pass up this opportunity to explore the opening. He resolved to measure, as best he could, the angle at which he now faced the floorboard. The little ant determined it was about sixty-degrees with respect to the floorboard to his right, and therefore one-hundred-and-twenty degrees with respect to the floorboard to his left.

It was becoming difficult for the little ant to remember all these numbers. He made it easier for himself by dispensing with all the other superfluous pieces of information in his mind which were not essential to bringing the grain of rice to the colony. He systematically disposed of any emotions and any ideas about where he had come from.

Then, returning his mind to the numbers, the little ant realized, if the room was rectangular (he seemed to recall that most rooms were), the line along which the little ant had explored thus far, which ran exactly one-hundred-and-thirteen-thousand-one-hundred-and-twenty-nine steps, was diagonal with respect to the walls of the room. This being the case, the little ant imagined he might amend his plan and, instead of returning back to the center where he would continue in a third direction, he would search along this floorboard until he found a corner of the room. The chances were greater, he reasoned, that he would find a corner if he followed the board to the left. If he found a corner, he could make estimates for the size and the shape of the room, given the measurements he already had. This was assuming, of course, that he would not find the colony behind the opening between the floorboard and the wall.

All this, the little ant thought of, while still standing motionless facing the floorboard with the grain of rice pinched gently in between his mandibles, careful not to adjust even slightly his exact position until he was sure that he had all the measurements he needed. He was sure now. He turned to his left and started to move carefully along the floorboard towards the protruding nail which the little ant assumed would mark an opening to the interior of the wall.

At only two-hundred-and-forty-seven steps from where he had first faced the floorboard, the little ant came to the protruding nail. There was indeed a small opening between the board and the wall where the paint was chipped away. It was roughly the width of three little ants. Peering into the opening, it was like a long dark cave. The little ant was afraid. He dispensed with this emotion as superfluous. The colony might be at the end of this cave, the little ant told himself. He adjusted the grain of rice in between his mandibles, made his way into the cave, and started leftward.

It was dark. There was a thin ray of light that seeped in between the top of the floorboard and the wall. This ray illumined only a small part of the little ant’s path inside the cave. He relied mostly on the sense of the board to his left and the wall to his right, as he occasionally bumped into either side with the grain of rice. The little ant was very sorry to the grain of rice each time that this happened. He tried with all his strength and concentration to avoid these bumps but he had become very hungry and weak as a result. He occasionally faltered to either side as his legs had begun to fail.

After seventy-four steps from the opening of the floorboard, faintly at first, then louder; the little ant could hear a bustle up ahead. At first he was excited. It’s the colony! He told himself. The end of his journey is near! The little ant marched forward with a newfound exuberance and strength. He craned his neck and hoisted the grain of rice high. He thought of seeing the queen and his brothers.

Then the little ant’s exuberant march slowed. He listened closer to the bustle and his stomach turned. He listened to the heavy steps and their rhythm. They were not like ant steps. They were heavy and spaced out. This was something bigger than an ant.

The little ant stopped and stared as deep into the cave as he could. Whatever it was was coming closer, straight towards the little ant, and fast. The little ant took a step backwards, and then another. By the time the hairy fangs became visible in the thin ray of light, the little ant was moving backwards as fast as his legs would carry him. He could have moved faster if he dropped the grain of rice, but he dared not. The spider was very fast and closing the distance between them.

In his mind the little ant displaced his fear and counted his steps backward. Twenty-five … fifteen … five … Just as the ant whipped his backside to the left where he knew he would find the opening, the spider lunged forward and snapped his fangs after the little ant.

Outside the cave, bathed in light, the little ant laid on his back inviting in air through his spiracles. For a brief moment the ant allowed horror at the spider to take the place of his concern for the grain of rice. When he realized the grain was no longer clenched between his mandibles, the ant jumped to his feet only to find that there was something very wrong with one of his front legs. As he tried to support himself, he fell forward onto his right mandible. The spider had severed his right front leg at the joint. A clear liquid seeped out from where the little ant’s leg was detached.

This injury, however, was secondary to his concern for the grain of rice. He looked around, ignoring the pain in his leg. Luckily, the grain was beyond the opening in the floorboard. The little ant limped over and picked up the grain with his mandibles.

The little ant felt his pain only insofar as he needed it to assess his ability to carry on. Combined with his hunger, the loss of blood was now weakening the little ant significantly. He would carry on. There was nothing else to do. With the grain of rice securely in his jaws, the little ant limped along the floorboard in the leftward direction (relative to where he had first faced the board). The little ant shuddered to think that the spider was just on the other side of the board. He could not get out, the little ant told himself. The opening was too small. Besides, he could not think of that. He had to continue on in this direction no matter what.

The little ant carried on. He continued to count his steps. It helped him to ignore the pain in his leg. This would be the last segment of his journey, the little ant knew. He would not be able to return to the center and continue his systematic exploration.

The little ant thought of nothing. He did not even process the information that came in through his eyes. He did not smell. He did not think of anything other than the count of his steps, and increasing the number by moving forward. All the while, clear liquid seeped from his leg.

He carried on like this, until step thirty-thousand-seven-hundred-and thirty-eight since the opening in the floorboard, the little ant ran headlong into another wall. He had reached the corner! Though the little ant could not spare any energy for excitement.

He craned his neck upward and started to climb. Normally, the little ant could have climbed the wall vertically. Impaired as he was without the full function of his right front leg, he was forced to crawl up the corner with his right shoulder relying on one of the walls for support. With his neck craned back as far as possible, he could just barely keep the grain of rice in his mandibles from scraping against the wall. Like this, the little ant climbed.

At several points, he stopped to rest, focusing all his strength on the grip of his claws that held him to the wall. He feared if he did not do this occasionally, he would fall backwards. How high the little ant climbed did not matter, he had no room left in his mind for the fear of his own death. He could not even remember the numbers anymore, not the angles nor the steps he had taken. That was all beside the point now.

The stops for rest grew more frequent until with every step the little ant feared he might let go. Then the wall that made up the left half of the corner, gave way to a countertop. The little ant scrambled onto this flat surface, thankful for the ground to rest his tired legs and the space to adjust his craned neck. The ant rested, with the grain of rice clenched in his mandibles. He would die with the grain of rice in his jaws, he told himself. He felt that death was near.

The little ant got up to his feet. The clear liquid had stopped seeping from his front leg. The little ant wondered if he had any blood left. He wondered if he had already died and he was now just hallucinating. The little ant looked around at what lay on the countertop. He did not recognize anything. The shampoo bottles and electric razors made no sense to him. They were all merely objects that were not his colony, and therefore meaningless.

It was towards the end for the ant. He knew this. His eyes were starting to dim. For the first time in his long journey, the little ant started to lose hope. He knew he only had the energy for a short distance. He crawled towards the row of hair product cans. He stumbled and fell every two or three steps. He made his way behind the cans and laid down on his back. How long he spent like this he did not know. There was almost no light left in the world.

The little ant had been unconscious for some time when he woke with a start. There was another ant leaning over him. The little ant thought that he was seeing himself. It was his spirit, the little ant told himself. His spirit spoke to him. It said, “Well done, brother.” The spirit ant touched his mandibles to the little ant’s. The little ant felt the mandibles. This was not a spirit ant, the little ant realized.

He heard other voices. He turned his head slowly with what little strength he had left. There were a dozen or so ants. The little ant breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned his head back. They were talking about a great beast. Many ants were lost. These were among the few survivors.

With what little strength he had, the little ant opened his eyes. There was another ant leaning over him, assessing him, clicking his mandibles in thought. He watched this ant look away at the others and shake his head. This ant too touched his mandibles to the little ant’s.

The brother ant came back; he seemed to be the leader of the survivors. “I brought the grain of rice,” the little ant said to him, “for the colony.” He took a shallow breath with great effort

The brother ant looked at the little ant, confused. “What do you mean?” asked the brother ant.

“The grain of rice,” whispered the little ant. “I brought it … food … for the colony.”

The brother ant laughed. “That is not a grain of rice, brother! That is an egg. And not just any egg, brother. It is a queen egg.”

The little ant was overcome with warm rapture. He asked himself, how had he not known? But then again, how could he have? He had never before seen a queen egg.

While the little ant was thinking to himself and remembering the encounter with the spider and the climb up the cliff face and how he could have lost the queen egg. He silently thanked the almighty for granting him the strength to deliver the queen egg back to the colony.

The brother ant continued, “We lost our queen in the battle with the great beast. Without her, we were all prepared to die soon. Without a reason to live, we had thought of throwing ourselves from the cliff here. You have delivered life and purpose to us, brother. We will rebuild a new colony for the new queen.”

The rest of the ants gathered around the little ant. An ant much larger and stronger than the little ant now carried the queen egg in his mandibles. The rest of the ants clicked their mandibles in honor of the little ant. “Sleep now, brother. You have done your duty to the colony.” The little ant relaxed his mandibles and leaned his head back and went to sleep.

Posted on September 3, 2018September 3, 2018 by Cole

The hours before

Remember when it was quiet. When you came over and I was cooking. You were sitting on the couch. I poured you a drink. It was simple and slow. I asked you about your day and you made a joke.

That hour or so, maybe less than that, when it was just you and me. It fills up with anticipation for the night. It fills up with anxiety about the silence. It fills up with things other than peace if you let it.

But now that we’re in bed in the morning, and we try to remember the night, it’s easy to overlook the subtle acceleration. When A came over and started to play his music and the volume got a little louder. Then K came over and we danced and moved a little faster. And then E and J came over and by then the night was really a big boulder tumbling down the hill.

To really savor it, I don’t know if it’s possible without slowing down. But at least to remember how it started so slow, makes the fast rush of the out of control night just that much sweeter.

Posted on August 25, 2018 by Cole

Glue

I go to this other world, I’m addicted to it. So that the real journey and true test of my life is making the journey back. The other world is toxic in the most sweet way. It is entropy and chaos. It is also creativity and love. I know it will kill me someday. The length of my lifetime will be determined by how many return journeys I can make.

When I return back to reality, the real reality that I have learned to stop calling “real,” or at least not any more “real” than my beloved other world. But this reality, of names and concepts, is what sustains my physical body. The principal commodity in this reality is a very certain kind of glue that keeps all my molecules together and maintains the cohesion of my sense of self. I huff on this glue, walking in straight lines on the sidewalk, learning and obeying the laws of nature, being careful and avoiding danger, eating and sleeping enough. I huff and huff until I’m strong and together enough to travel. At which point I step off the sidewalk and the earth tips upside down so I fall through gravity into outer space.

Out here, in my beloved other world, which I should stop calling “other” if I have stopped calling reality “real,” a new creative force pulls me in all directions. It is only the glue that keeps me together. I revel in being stretched, and right before my molecules are spread over the entire universe, right before I achieve omnipresence and thus make permanently impossible the return journey to the reality of sidewalks and safety. That is when, with all my strength, I pull myself together and return.

Posted on August 13, 2018 by Cole

Early morning hours

In the early morning hours when some of the night is left over and the day hasn’t quite worked up the courage to get over the horizon, there is this in-between world where everything is still and you can’t tell if it’s a human planet because nobody’s around.

Posted on August 7, 2018 by Cole

Long summer days

The morning light comes early through my window. The long summer days are here.

Posted on June 30, 2018 by Cole

Constructed

Everything I see in the city is constructed by man. Even the plants are placed there.

Posted on June 2, 2018 by Cole

Chocolates

I sat on the couch and held my drink with one hand and sketched with the other. She laid on the bed with her head hanging over the side and her hair almost touching the floor. The shades were open but the sun had almost entirely gone down behind the downtown skyline. Music played. It was barely lighted in the room. We were high from the chocolates we ate an hour before.

Posted on April 15, 2018 by Cole

The time is now

The time is now. Which has me simultaneously excited as ever and scared as hell. Our minds and bodies are fully developed. We have money, in a city with brilliant and beautiful people. We have the resources and time to go after it. This is the peak of life right now. I’m just so worried about not doing enough, and missing our chance.

Posted on April 7, 2018April 7, 2018 by Cole

Fool’s game

I am an ultimate nihilist about anything social when I realize that none of it is necessarily true; for example, I could write a great novel, but if it is not popular, it will not be read, let alone sell, and will be forgotten. Or anything that is human is merely so because humans are part of nature and nature is the way it is regardless if there is any reason or truth to it.

We act according to ourselves but we can’t answer thoroughly the question of what we are, and even less thoroughly the question of why we are, so that when a man is ever asked, “Why did you do that?” He can merely say that it seemed to be the thing to do, given what seems to be, but he cannot make any logical statements about whether his action was right or truthful—and that, makes me a nihilist.

For what are we acting? Except for a blind trust that what seems to be, according to which we act, is somehow intelligently designed. In most ways, this is the only bet we have. Like we are sat down at the gambling table with a stack of chips and the chips are no good for playing anywhere else; not to mention, we don’t know of any other tables. So we sit and gamble our best until our chips run out or we have all the chips at the table; the game ends either way. And if we happen to end with all the chips, we have only a fool’s hope that having all the chips was the way to win, when having no chips at all may have just as well been the object of the game.

So I toss my chips for amusement and watch them bounce and dance off the table and try to make pleasant conversation with my table mates in the meantime, maybe even have a cigarette and give a kiss to the woman that plays to my left.

The game seems to have a design—rules, players, a dealer, and an objective. But if I don’t know what the chips spend for, I’m just as interested in the leather and felt of the table, the dress of my table mates, and other things that seem to interest me for no reason other than they do. And if not for these amusements I might get bored with no option for another table or different game; only the option of no game at all, or to get up from my chair and walk over in the direction of the dark and out of the light from the one light bulb that hangs above the table, connected to a power source above that I cannot see.

Posted on April 3, 2018 by Cole

Sonoma

On a wooded deck by the pool, I hold a glass of chilled rosé and Uri rolls a spliff. I stand up and take my glass to walk around the pool and step off the deck down onto the grass that has overgrown the vineyard.

The grapes were infected by a germ the past year, but it is the middle of March in Sonoma and the other vineyards too are barren at this time of year, leaving behind short tree trunks with their top branches sawed off at the bases where they curl around the wires and would otherwise grow upward and bear grapes, but instead are cut short and look like gnarled menorahs—treacherous, if not for the beauty that surrounded the off-season trees on all sides. Nothing but shades of green on all sides, freckled with all colors of various flowers. The rows of another vineyard drawn into the hillside across the gravel road by which we had arrived.

My eyes taking in all this, with my fingers holding onto the same wires which the grape tree fingers would hold in season and had already held in seasons before. I thought to myself, ah, what a life of a grape tree in Sonoma.

And I kept holding onto the wire and looking upon the hillside across the road until some time had passed and I feared my toes might take root and my hairs grow into vines along the wires so I turned to step back onto the deck and resume conversation with Uri.

He had finished with the spliff. He handed it to me already burning. I pressed it in between my lips and inhaled deeply, looking back at where I stood in the vineyard. I held the smoke in my chest and wanted to choke; I was not usually keen to add tobacco into my joints, precisely to avoid the burn that I now felt in my lungs. But Uri preferred them this way and I liked Uri more than I didn’t like tobacco. I pursed my lips around the spliff and inhaled once more, then handed it back to Uri and exhaled deeply into the day and the hillside and closing my eyes to memorize it.

Posted on April 3, 2018 by Cole

Antelope Island

On Antelope Island, we park the car on the side of the road, get out, and run the plains like natives.

An island of plains, surrounded on all sides by water, and the water, surrounded by mountains. In the center of the island, the plains fold up into the hills, and the hills into snow-capped peaks.

At the foot of the peaks begins a much more vertical climb. Slipping on piles of broken and jagged black rocks, some of which get displaced and tumble down, and enlist some others in their fall.

At some parts, we must really hug tight to the mountain face, and dig our toes into the dirt and snow, and balance with our hands.

At the jagged top, we set into meditation to claim the peace we came for. I am first to settle in, laying on my back and starting to breathe. Brother stays standing for a little while longer to take in the glassy water and snowy mountains around us. Then, he too, lays down to settle in.

On our own in the beginning. I meditate on the scenery, opening my eyes to see the blue and cool landscape, then closing them to remember it.

Brother meditates on something else, until I start to make my breathing louder and vibrate in my deeper throat. Brother joins. We are not exactly in tandem; his breaths are longer than mine. We add to the volume, especially when our vibrations overlap.

We grow louder and louder and start to sings in a low and deep mountain tone. Brother instructs me to bring the white energy down through myself and into the earth. When we open our eyes, it has begun to snow.

Posted on March 25, 2018 by Cole

City

My favorite part of the city is that people actually want to be here.

Posted on March 11, 2018 by Cole

City

In a city, walking along, if your head is held high, you will see the beautiful building tops, sunshine shimmering off the windows, and pretty women waving from the patios; if your head is laid low, you will see the sewer gates, the trash, and the homeless men laying on cardboard. What you perceive depends on where you are looking.

Posted on March 3, 2018 by Cole

Vacillate

Schopenhauer says we vacillate between distress and boredom. I think of this when deciding whether to move to Monterrey Bay and live a quite life by the ocean, hiking occasionally and thinking and reading, but also risking boredom and lack of inspiration. Or, to stay in San Francisco among so many people and new ideas and work and energy, but risking distress and the occasional anxiety. Of course, it would seem there is a balance between the two, which is why we drive back and forth on the pacific coast highway.

Posted on February 19, 2018 by Cole

Om

We om together in Grace Cathedral. I move my pitch higher to match the mass. The high marble ceilings echo … oooooooooommmmm.

Posted on February 11, 2018 by Cole

Pacifica

I wake up and text Alex to see where we’re going. He texts back, “Pacifica.” I dress and pack a bag. We drive along the pacific coast highway. I play music on Alex’s stereo. The blues in the sky are beautiful.

I catch again the sense of moving forward without any effort and enjoying the passing scenery. The ocean and a concept of never-endingness to the right and mountains standing in wait to the left. Making progress toward an unattainable (and thankfully so) point in the distance where the road hugs into a singularity with the horizon.

During the climb we talk. Mostly I look at my feet and focus on my breathing. At the top, I hallucinate. The ocean and sky blues melt together. Sitting, holding my knees, with my eyes closed. My meditation is easier than usual—not for being at the top of the mountain but for having climbed it. My body is exhausted and so is happy not to be noticed by my mind which focuses instead on the blood orange backs of my eyelids.

The hike down is shorter, as usual. We drive the same beautiful highway route back home.

Posted on February 5, 2018 by Cole

City

To be in a modern American city, once it’s really gotten hold of you, is like being at the center of a wheel with all the spokes bringing the rest of the world directly to you. The loves, music, arts, money; late nights in the underground speakeasy, early mornings running on the coast from pier to pier. It’s all there to fill you up; you just have to get out, and open up to it. Then it will carry you along.

Posted on January 21, 2018January 21, 2018 by Cole

Hike

How many deaths have been caused by a surreal misunderstanding of reality? The mountains pinch away into one point as I hallucinate.

These woods give me energy to write. I feel my mind overwhelmed, begin to worry, then redirect my thoughts to writing. As my friends capture the moments in photos, I capture them in words.

The energy of nature fills me and I empty it back out. It fills me to the brim and I spill over. I give the energy back. After all, I am a vessel.

Let myself teem with it. My body is weak for the strength of my soul.

The mountains clearing up. Nah, just rolling in a new face. Like the mountains change cloud cover, I change my guise.

Posted on November 25, 2017 by Cole

Safety

Ever since 11th street, I’m more conscious of the vulnerability of the back of my head, and always want to be looking around to make sure somebody doesn’t come up with a shovel or a wrench.

Posted on November 4, 2017 by Cole

Glass door

I have a plant, that sets on my bookshelf, in my apartment. I believe, whether it is true or not, that it makes me healthier: to have some nature, inside my industrial apartment. Only that, some mornings, when I leave for work, I forget to open the blinds for my plant to get light. And some nights when I get home, I’m so tired, that I forget to water it. So that, the plant may be healthy for me, inside my apartment; but my apartment, is not healthy for the plant.

One day, I opened the glass door to my balcony, and set the plant outside, to get sun all day and water from the rain. I planned to bring it back inside the next morning, but have now left it outside on the balcony for several weeks. I can still see it through the glass door. And so receive any health benefits from “seeing” plant life, but cannot smell it, nor receive its oxygen from my carbon dioxide.

That glass door—between the inside of my industrial apartment and the outside of sun and rain—is a line in the sand, and the human species is drawing near to a point where we must decide which side we’re on.

Posted on November 4, 2017 by Cole

Bassi

All around the Christmas trees were pine cones the size of both my fists put together. We trekked on a trail that was grassed underneath and wooded on either side. We stepped out of the trail into an open clearing. It looked like a giant had stamped through here and crushed redwoods underneath his toes and picked up tall trees like twigs and thrown them aside. With all the debris the trail was less defined except where regular sized human toes had pressed down the giant crushed redwood splinters. Following this we found the trail. This trail was more eclectic underneath and not all the woods on either side were still standing. Some were fallen.

Posted on August 11, 2017 by Cole

Forest drive

We travel through forests more quickly, forty-four miles per hour to be exact, in Steven’s jeep on a neatly paved road that winds. Listening to a song by The Stray Birds called I Dream in Blue.

I like to ride along. Getting somewhere, and also watching at the windows like a film with only tree characters. The wind comes in and we blow it back out the open windows. Not the first little chipmunk runs across the road. I hope the road never ends.

Posted on August 7, 2017 by Cole

A dream about escaping

And then all of a sudden it became an urgent situation and my brother and I climbed the stairs to higher and higher floors to get away from a man who was trying to kill us until this man fell into a classroom of glass and when I went down to finish him off I saw his spine was severed at the neck and this is how I knew it was a recurring dream because there was a perfume vial capping the top of his exposed spine and I remembered and that’s when my brother and I crept and tiptoed down the building with so many floors where everyone was looking for us but the young kids were on our side so when they saw us creeping down they just shook their heads and smiled and acted like they hadn’t seen us so that the adults wouldn’t find out until we got to the basement and my brother had to pack his stuff to leave and that’s when she found us and really started to yell and we were in trouble and my brother handed me the shotgun and I ran ahead and now here I was sitting in the car with the gun’s neck resting on the open window and the two golden-butted shells behind two silver hammers and my heart beating like a tribal drum wondering what the hell was taking my brother so long.

Posted on July 30, 2017 by Cole

Double barrel shotgun

When you hold a gun for the first time with the intention to shoot it at someone, and your heart really starts to beat like a big tribal drum in your chest and your ears only work on the inside to reverberate the drum bangs echoing off the insides of your giant hot hollow torso, and I could simultaneously imagine what it would be like to be shot in the stomach and have that giant hot mess spill out; I was holding a double long barrel shotgun cracked in half at its waist looking at the gold pristine butts of two shells peeking out of the inside ends of each barrel. I snapped the gun straight hiding the golden butt shells in front of both silver hammers. I pulled back the hammers and put my finger on the double action trigger and waited for my brother to get out of there.

Posted on July 30, 2017 by Cole

The darkest night

Dark archers defend the dream while light cavalry gallop from underneath the door and through the curtains. From behind eyelash parapets, a sea of arrows blot out the sun. Even a battering ram cannot open the eyelid gates to the outside world. Until the wise light leader calls out, “O’ dark lord, from whence comes the substance of your dreams if not the light?” Alas, the gates open and the real world digests the dream.

Posted on April 20, 2017 by Cole

Writing reality

I am constantly writing in my head. The guy behind me talks to the barista and I am at once hearing them speak through my ears and simultaneously writing the dialogue in English in my mind’s eye. I see the words type out, even the quotation marks, and assign an adverb to how he said it—he “whispered” to the barista. Though it was not, in this reality, so sensual an encounter. If I were trying to write the reality, I would have wrote—he “talked with a patronizing tone” to the barista. And after all, the first is no more fiction than the second, in my opinion.

Posted on April 18, 2017June 25, 2017 by Cole

Squirrel

A brown leaf hopped up and became a squirrel.

Posted on April 5, 2017 by Cole

Boat and river

If there is no free will, then our loves are happenstance and life is just a sensory experience. Like a boat rolls down a river, the design of the boat and all the water of the river is set. But this does not mean you cannot enjoy the boat ride. Even if there is a waterfall at the end—in fact, a crashing end might make you enjoy it even more. I might enjoy less an infinite boat ride, as compared to the undulating moments of a finite boat ride. But then remains the question of those with a shoddy boat or tempestuous river—these are the arguments for charity and equality, and they seem to be true with or without free will, especially in the case without free will.

Posted on April 2, 2017April 2, 2017 by Cole

A hopeless game of telephone

On the way down from Mount Le Conte, we stopped to hug a sun-warmed trunk, on the most beautiful day, climbing waterfalls and tiptoeing across fallen trees. This one still stood. With our cheeks against its bark soft as cotton, four arms stretched round its belly, we smelled its sap.

“Can you feel that?” I asked.

He smiled. A man of energy: the spiritual, not religious type. He could feel it—not what I felt, but something of his own.

“And then it dawned on him,” writes Camus, “that he and the man with him weren’t talking about the same thing.”

Because my tree isn’t his tree. Because her love isn’t his love, be it that they may love each other. And your sadness isn’t her sadness, because the other sees a different shade of purple than the purple you see. Nobody knows what you mean when you say it’s beautiful.

First, our experience is different: only I feel my feels; only you think your thoughts. Then our language is different: the same words we all speak don’t mean the same thing to two of us.

“The image he had tried to impart,” Camus continues, “had been slowly shaped and proved in the fires of passion and regret—this meant nothing to the man to whom he was speaking, who pictured a conventional emotion, a grief that is traded on the market-place, mass-produced.”

The one-of-a-kind universe in your mind is only yours: to paint your complex world into one they could see, you might try to learn their color language and the connotations of their shapes, then make two translations, both impossible: first, from your own mind to the canvas, then from canvas to their mind. Like a hopeless game of telephone.

Posted on March 31, 2017 by Cole

Library 13th Floor

On the 13th floor of the library there are four corners, each with a desk. I set my bag and coat in the southeast corner and leave them there to walk the shelves. Until I become lost.

I gather my bearings and walk toward what I believe to be the southeast corner, only to find someone already sitting there. My first conclusion is not that I had by accident come upon the northwest corner, but that I, my physical self, had never actually left the southeast corner, and now I, the wandering soul, am happening upon myself from the outside.

But in fact, as I approached, this man’s body was heavier than mine and he wore glasses. So I said, that is not I. But then again, I considered it very well could be I, who instead of maintaining a thin frame and good eyesight had grown thick and come to need glasses, and I thought for a moment that my wandering soul might inhabit this body just as it might find the true southeast corner and re-inhabit the body from whence I came.

Posted on March 29, 2017 by Cole

a daydream journal