LAUNDRY LADY

A pair
Of worn, white socks

Encircled
By dark, dirty clothes

In a heap
Of laundry
On the floor

Look like
An old lady’s face
Wrapped in a shawl

MEATHEAD

Oh here he goes
With heft again
Heaving as he may

Huffing and puffing
His big chest for something
But still, he holds no sway

For strength aside
His muscles try
To make up for his mind

That door would budge
With just a nudge
If the knob were so inclined

ON THE CORNER

Pedestrians walk across the yellow rectangles
Two men drink their coffee under an awning
The tree branches bob gently

One of the men holding a coffee cup
Gestures vehemently with his other hand

A man with a dog on a leash
Stops to look inside a shop window
While his dog sniffs at a light pole

Blue and green trash cans stand by the curb
Cars continue to make their noise
And barely avoid crashing

One of the same pedestrians from before
Walks back across the yellow rectangles

IN SEARCH OF A BATHROOM

When any bin,
Bucket, basin,
Or brick wall
Would do

DEAD BUG

Cutting a green pepper
On a wooden board
I saw a little black speck
A piece of peppercorn
That I almost just tossed in
With the tacos

But I’m glad I didn’t
Because I slid the point of the knife
Underneath the speck
Brought it closer to my eyes

It had legs
A little creature, dead
With its legs curled up
Underneath it

But it must have had its fill
And thought itself lucky
To have made its way
Inside the pepper

Until it realized
It would be a coffin
Albeit, one fit
For a Pharaoh

So maybe, all in all
Life wasn’t so bad
For the little dead bug

HER HONEY

Some would say
That the beekeeper
Brings us honey

But, really, she
Is the artist

Like the bees
Bring the honey

And I am only
The collector

Like the keeper
Who stands idly by

Patient enough
To collect and deliver
Their sweet creation

LEFTOVER LOVE

I try to drink it in
Eat it
Consume
And digest

All of this moment
That taste, smells,
And feels like
I wish it always would

I want it so much
That I miss it already
Even though I still have it

I breathe in deeply
As if I could inhale some
Seal it in a container
And put it in the fridge
To save for later

THE SUN COMES UP

So early
In the summer
That I wonder
If I even
Got to sleep

OLD MAN #2

Another old man
With a gray mustache
And glasses

Eats a biscuit
And drinks a coffee
By the window

Picking up crumbs
Delicately, slowly
Between his fingers

DRINK CART

The attendant came down the aisle
Rolling the drink cart
With her gloved hands on either side
Looking down
To the left and to the right
Shouting, “Elbows! Elbows!”

PHOTOGRAPHER #2

Stood on the path
In everyone’s way

Looking up at the sky
At a trail of smoke
Left by a plane

Some of the passersby
Stood for a second

And tried to find
What the cameraman
Was seeing

He pointed and explained
But they couldn’t see
Or just didn’t understand

What the big deal was
About a trail of smoke
In the sky

NAKED IN THE TREES

I stand among the trees
Welcoming back the nature
That got poured over in the city
With cement streets
And concrete buildings

A few trees remain
In square-foot sections of sidewalk
But not enough to stand among
And be surrounded by
Like the forest out here—

The grass is overgrown, as it should be
Some trees lie knocked down, but not by man
Most trees still stand, as they should
And I stand with them, at peace

CROOKED EAGLE (this would be better as prose)

A desert eagle landed
On the roof across from our balcony
And James explained
How the falconer
Brought the eagle everyday
To chase away the smaller birds

We watched the eagle
Pick at its plumage
As one small bird
And then another
And another
Landed
On the roof next to it

The eagle must have
Been getting more
From the small bird mafia
Than from the falconer

MARCUS (this would be better as prose)

I got the chicken
With brussels sprouts and pumpkin purée
The chicken was perfect
But the brussels sprouts were undercooked

I wasn’t going to tell him
Because you don’t tell strangers
What’s wrong with
What they love

But he told me his story—

Made his way over to the U.S.
From Germany
And sold automation technology
To auto companies
Even though baking
Was always his passion

He would take the executives
Of these auto companies
Out to dinner
At the nicest restaurants
And that is when he promised himself
He would open his own someday

It started as a bakery
And then expanded to
A dinner menu

And I told him I believed in him
And I thought his restaurant would be big
And then we weren’t strangers anymore

So I told him
The brussel sprouts were undercooked
And he shook my hand
And said he would tell the chef

TELLING STORIES (this would be better as prose)

When you talk to someone
And listen for a while
You get restless at some point
And wonder when it will be over

But you get past that
And forget about yourself
And actually start to live in their story
And be interested in it

You ask them questions
Really wanting to know
What it was like
At the twists and turns

It’s their eyes
That always get me
When I am as close as I can get
To leaving my own life
And living theirs

Their eyes
Are the last door
I look
And then fall
Completely into them

>>>

When I listen to someone
Tell a story
It’s always their eyes
That finally get me
Out of myself
And my own worries
And into them
And their story
I leave my own life
And live theirs

AN OLD WHITE MAN (this would be better as prose)

With gray stubble on his face
Wearing a tattered cowboy hat,
An oversized button-up shirt,
And oversized khaki pants

Slouched
In a straight-backed
Wooden chair
His head leaning forward

He looked out from under
The lids of his half-closed,
Bloodshot eyes

Raised his veiny,
Hairy-knuckled hand

Pointed
One of his long skeleton fingers

At the flamenco dancer
In her festive
Red-and-black dress
Stomping on stage
Putting on a show for the gallery

And said something
To explain
Why he was pointing
But it was incoherent

Maybe because
Of the empty bottle of wine
Next to him on the table

But for a guy of his size
He would have needed
More than just one bottle
To get to that point

By his demeanor
I guessed that he was either

The proprietor
Of the gallery,

The artist who made
All the pieces,

Or otherwise the man
In charge of the moment
In some way
Or another

As we all watched
And waited for him
To take the lead

THE OLDEST GAME

The girl whom he
Was trying to get

Danced
While he pretended at it

And mostly
Just watched her

WHERE ART THOU, HANGOVER

I woke up confused
By not feeling worse

And confused also
About what to do

Other than whatever
Would make me feel better

Eventually
I went down to the pool

And so started
A day full
Of what wasn’t planned

But just happened
One carefree accident
After another

FORCE

I carry with me
Force

Walking
Through the hallway

I bump
The door frame
With my hip bone

And almost
Knock
The house down

>>>

Apparently
I don’t know
My own strength

When I bumped
The door frame
With my hip bone

The structure
Shook so

I thought I almost
Knocked
The house down

CONSTRUCTION NOISE

At the job across the street
The construction crew
Must have taken off today

I can hear the leaves
Blowing down the hill
Scratching on the cement

The soft wind
Whistling around the edges
Of our bay window

And even the light buzzing
Of complete silence
For brief moments

—Sounds that,
For as long
As the construction
Has gone on,

Have been drowned out
By hammering, sawing,
Nailing, shouting,

And other sounds
Of industry

Which usually
Make me feel guilty
For lying in bed

Today
I can take the day off too

A SPACE IN TIME

The hot sun
On the back porch

Bakes into
Bare legs
Crossed over

Eyes closed
Head leaning back
Lungs exhaling

Here is where
I’ve needed to come

Less of a place
More of a space
In time—

A moment
Like this

BIG DENTURE

Bright light
Breaks through
The mouth
Of the tunnel

Like the face
Of the mountain
Is missing
A tooth

MENTAL

I can never
Get my mind
Out of the way
Fast enough
To get
To the visceral

I’ve already
Abstracted
Clouds to heavens
Blood to war
Food to hunger

Described it
To death
Pondered every
Possibility
Made it
Mental

>>>

I’ve already sent
My mental assistant
Running down the hall
To pull the file
Of past memories

LAST BEER

Beer bubbles
At the bottom of the glass
Make me sad

Because this
Was the last one
In the fridge

And I’ll have to switch over
To white wine
After these last sips

RESORT NEIGHBOR

Drinks in hand
Forearms resting
On the railing

He said, you are young
And full of energy

What do you mean
By “energy,” I asked

He pointed out at the lights,
Boats, roofs, roads, water

And asked me
What do you see out there?

He waited patiently
Like a teacher
For the right answer

I said I saw lights,
Boats, roofs, roads, water

He said there are
Protons and electrons
It’s all energy

I could see in his eyes
When he said it

He meant more
Than the physics lesson
I learned in high school

I wasn’t sure
Exactly what
But still

When he looked at me
And asked if I understood
I said I did, sincerely

THE SOUND OF BEING UNDERWATER

Treading water
With my ears above the surface
I heard
Squeals of children
Music from the beach bars
Waves crashing
Vendors selling

Underwater
I heard
What I try to remember
How to describe
Back on the beach
It was
Not silent

I’ll have to
Swim out again
And fish
For words
So you can
Bring it back to shore
Inland
To wherever you are

Grill it, bake it
Or however you like your fish
To taste, hear
And be there
Underwater
And at peace

ORNERY FUTURE

I get into a moment
And think that this
Will be forever
And start to plan
Accordingly

Setting up expectations
And parameters
For the future to fit into
What I’m experiencing
Right now

But of course
The future
Is an ornery child
That never obeys
Its present parent

LOOSELY

I can close my eyes
And escape from where
My sight says I am

But my other senses
Still tether me
To what I can hear and feel

So I plug my ears
And lie down
On soft cushions

I still remain myself
Albeit
A little more loosely

DEEP BREATH

I was so worried
That I wasn’t breathing

I realize now
As I’ve gotten the news

That what I feared
Isn’t true

And I take my first deep breath
In a while

PARK POEMS

A baseball
In the grass

As the sun sets
On the skyline

I pick a poem
Like a leaf

Or a lyric
From a bird’s song

Then run home
To write it down

MOMENTS

If I could just keep in
To each for its own sake

Not always looking later
Longing for the next

They would come and come
Countless

Each for itself
As all things are

Eased into being
And then back to nothing

Without my meddling
To make moments
More than they are

BROKEN BLENDER

Melted the rubber
Wedged between

An engine that had
All the strength

And a blade that had
All the ambition

It was obvious
That the rubber

Was already
Worn out

But the engine-blade
Industrial complex

Didn’t really
Seem to care

LIKE THE HARE

For what do I wait
While wanting wanes
Though I may be
Strong and swift
At the start
Rejoicing
In the sprint
Stretching
Straight ahead
Until the end
Seems farther
And farther
And the wanting
Which at first
Burned bright
As a fire
Turns to ash
And cools

GRATITUDE

I close my eyes to remember sight is a gift
I sit in silence to remember sound is a gift
I fast to remember food is a gift
I catch a cold to remember health is a gift
I spend time alone to remember friendship is a gift
I stay in one place to remember travel is a gift
I go to sleep to remember life is a gift

SOOTHING SHEET

I laid my ear
On the sheet

And listened
To the silence

That softly
Said, “Shh

All else
Is outside

Far away
From here”

ONE BOAT

With my forehead pressed
Against the plane window

Leaving a greasy smudge
On the glass

I looked down at the ocean
And spotted a solitary boat

Reclined in my seat
To see all the ocean ahead

And then leaned forward
To search the blue behind

But there was not
A single
other
one

I am almost finished with “The Art of Sidewalking.” As of now, it is a book of about 110 poems.

Next, I want to work on a book of short prose (or flash fiction; I’m not sure of the correct term). Part of the reason I am drawn to poetry is because of its brevity. According to a study, the average human attention span decreased from 12 seconds to 8 seconds. I feel my own attention span decreasing. I don’t have the patience to read, or write, anything that is too long.

When I was in Cabo on vacation with Greg and Devin, I started to write short narratives about people—the lady shop owner in Todo Santos, the young pianist in San Jose. Originally, I wrote them in verse. I think they would be better written in poetic form. This tells me that my writing style is naturally stretching toward short prose.

I would like to take these narratives from Cabo and transition them from poetry to prose.

Once I finish “Sidewalking,” I will post all the last-minute deletes and additions to the collection. This will help me remember what was included in the collection.

Generally, I stopped adding to the collection after the end of my trips to Cabo and Big Sky. I got back from Big Sky on June 12, 2021.

The crow (or raven;
I can never tell
Which
Is which)

Walked across
The yellow rectangles
In the road
Like a pedestrian

As if the black bird
Had forgotten
Its wings
Which would take it

Up
And along
Aerial highways
Unregulated

The avian nation
Has yet
Resisted
The Fall

Originally written: July 4, 2021

The attendant came down the aisle
Rolling the drink cart
With her gloved hands on either side
Looking down
To the left and to the right
Shouting, “Elbows! Elbows!”

Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 10:35 AM

When my brother and I were younger, we used to play a game called “spaceship.” He would crawl out of his bed and get into mine, and we would lie next to each other and prepare our cockpits, which involved fluffing pillows and folding sheets and ultimately pulling the top blanket over our heads. Then we were locked in, with our fingers on top of a pillow, pretending it was a dashboard full of different buttons and levers and knobs all different colors and blinking and beeping. It then fell to me to create what we were seeing as we flew through space. Often this involved enemy ships that we battled or asteroids that we dodged or distant planets that we engaged hyperspeed to get to.

Last night, I played spaceship on my own. My brother was not there. He is in St. Louis. We are grown now, but I bet he would still play with me if I asked, even though we would probably need a bigger bed. Anyway, last night I played on my own. I set up the cockpit and started to imagine what I was seeing in space. I did not imagine any enemy ships, for whatever reason. I mostly imagined asteroids and small planets that I had to lean my shoulders left and right to dodge. Then I imagined nothing, and this is what struck me.

Without creating any other celestial objects in my mind’s eye, there was only black dark space. I imagined myself flying in a spaceship alone through the empty void. I cannot remember how long I stayed awake doing this.

What you’ve done passes into the past. Each peak summoned is at some point soon after followed by the sheer cliff face of another climb that promises another peak, unseeable through the clouds above. No matter how many times you get through, there is no final stage of gotten through, made it, finished. There is only more getting through. Which is where I suppose the eastern stuff comes in. About it not being about the end. It’s about the journey. The journey is the reward—my girlfriend’s friend has a tattoo of this. I’ve tasted this peace before. Not as deeply as a veteran yogi. But I’ve tasted enough to at least know it’s there. But it still seems inhuman. Like an escape more than a solution. Everything we are is designed for the striving. For the satisfying of hunger that only begins to pang again not long after satisfaction. This is how we keep moving forward. Otherwise we might be very sedentary creatures. Completely idle even. Or we might have nobler incentives. Ideals of a higher form than bare physical needs that would drive us on. For now, most of our nobler motives seem to be just the base physical needs dressed up in fancy packaging based on our cultural or societal situation of the time, which really just regresses back to our base needs of safety and belonging.

I close my eyes to remember sight is a gift.
I sit in silence to remember sound is a gift.
I fast to remember food is a gift.
I catch a cold to remember health is a gift.
I spend time alone to remember friendship is a gift.
I stay in one place to remember travel is a gift.
I go to sleep to remember life is a gift.

The apartment unit neighboring ours has a bathroom window that is about six feet away from our bathroom window. It is almost summer in San Francisco and we have no air conditioning in our studio apartment (most buildings in San Francisco don’t have air conditioning, due to the mild summers). So we keep our bathroom windows open all the time.

The window is built into the shower wall. It is high enough in the wall, that I can stand flat-footed in the tub, and the bottom of the window barely reaches my shoulders. Still, there is some lack of privacy from having an open window as part of your shower wall. The neighboring unit used to be vacant, so there was no problem with showering without a shade over the window.

About two months ago, our neighbors moved in. I believe it is another young couple. Lately, the young woman and I have gotten into a habit somehow of showering at the same time. I will get in and turn on the water and start to shower, and then I will hear the metal rings pulling across the shower rod from the open window across, and I know it is her getting in.

At first, I dared not look. I even arranged shampoo bottles on our window sill so as to create a barrier. One day, I caught a glance of her. As I reached to grab a bottle from the sill, I saw her brunette hair tied up on the top of her head. That is all I could see.

She is not tall enough to see above the sill over into our window, unless she were to stand on her tippy-toes or climb up onto the edge of the tub. But she must hear the water from our faucet and my occasional absent-minded shower singing. Still, we are complete strangers, for all intents and purposes. So we shower together, six feet apart.

She is not tall enough
To see above the sill
And we shower together
Six feet apart

My morning routine, as of late, has been to wake up with the sun at seven in the morning. I get out of bed and get dressed, then roll the rug away to make a space for my yoga mat on the hardwood floor. I set a cushion on top of the yoga mat and start by meditating for five minutes. After meditating, I go through about ten minutes of yoga flow. My back has been hurting me lately, so most of the postures are focused on my lower back.

This morning, I achieved a deeper focus in my meditation. When the alarm went off on my phone, I was surprised. That’s how I knew the meditation was deeper. I was enjoying my sense of peace, but I also wanted to begin my yoga practice. So I made a compromise with myself. I took away my cushion and put my hands and knees on the mat, but I kept my eyes closed. My eyes remained closed as I moved between my yoga postures.

By keeping my eyes closed, the focus I had achieved in my meditation transferred to my yoga practice. I felt that I was seeing my body from the inside out. When a vertebrae in my back would pop, it sounded very loud, and I could tell exactly where it was. When I extended my hands to change postures, I had to feel with my fingertips for the edge of the mat. Once I had found it, I was reluctant to move my hands, knowing they were in the right position, and fearing to move them without the aid of my sight.

My thoughts drifted during my yoga practice to what it must be like to be blind. I imagined a blind man with a deep spiritual practice. Maybe he would enter a monastery and live a simple life. In a small space, it would not be so difficult to find your way around without sight. Without the prejudices of society, he might find deep friendships with the other monks at the monastery. He might even achieve a deeper spiritual practice, owing to the very fact that he was without sight, and thus less distracted by worldly appearances.

I don’t like particulars. I aim to be non-specific. I would rather talk of the sky that is the same everywhere, rather than what is only of this specific place here. Is this an inherent contradiction? Because symbolic language is specific, and therefore inept to capture the universal.

Lake sits in a wooden rocking chair on the back porch. One leg is crossed over the other. The leg beneath bounces gently. A grey and white Mexican blanket is draped over his shoulders. His neck slightly craned over and eyes squinting at the book in his hands. Occasionally looking up at the Montana mountain scenery beyond the porch railing.

My girlfriend eats breakfast earlier than I do. She eats the same thing every morning. A bowl of granola and yogurt with fresh blueberries and a hard boiled egg. She knows I like to have a hard boiled egg too. So she leaves the cutting board and the salt and pepper out on the counter for me. I peel my egg and cut it in half. I don’t need to add any salt and pepper because I can just roll my egg in the salt and pepper that spilled on the board from my girlfriend’s egg earlier that morning.

A pleasant crunch

Cutting across

Four stalks

Of celery

A falling leaf

Looks like a butterfly

Flapping its wings

Moved about

More by

The whims of the wind

Than its own will

A spider web string

Sparkles in the sun

Like a thin diamond necklace

Turning over and twirling

Seeming to float

Above the branches

Where it can’t possibly be attached

Just floating

Like a kite string

For a kite somewhere unseen

And not so menacing

Bare

And without a bug trapped

Kite catchers

They call these trees

In the park

With more kites

Than leaves

A kite caught up

On the tallest branch

Of the tree

Beyond hope of rescue

Blowing in the wind

Like one of the leaves

Except for the neon

Sticking out like a sore thumb

Among the green

Doomed to flap there

Until a fierce gust of wind

Blows it down

Or the tree falls

I wake up

With a dry mouth

From sleeping

With the window open

I get out of bed

And walk to the kitchen

To fill a glass

With water

And take a drink

Then put down

The empty glass

On the counter

And get back in bed

And fall asleep

I made a bowl of granola this morning. When I tilted the milk jug, to pour some into the bowl, but too much came out. And I thought of how to get some back in the jug. Then I realized the meaning of the expression, “There’s no sense in crying over spilled milk.”

How can you be so sure
A wrong turn won’t be right

How come you grip
The steering wheel so tight

Watching lines on maps
And planning where to go

It helps to know
That the road will have its way

A detour
Might save a crash

And a pit stop
Might change your life

So step on the gas surely
For going is the only way

But don’t worry so much
About where to

Bright light
Breaks through
The mouth of the tunnel

Like the face
Of the mountain
Is missing a tooth

Our shower drain
Has been clogged
For as long
As we’ve lived here
So the shower
Makes three noises

First is the water
On the floor
Of the tub

Second is the water
On the surface
Of the pool
In the tub
Like rain
On a lake

Third is the drain
Drinking the pool
Slowly
Making gurgle noises

I wait for a morning

Where I can see

What’s already done

And what needs doing

So I can settle

On what to do

With my day

It takes a turn

Tight as can be

Up on two wheels

Leaning to the side

When you thought for sure

You were going one direction

And even started to think

You might only ever

Keep going in just

That one direction

And then it turns

And everything you thought you knew

Turns to memory

While what you can see

Is replaced

With this new way

That you’re suddenly going

Out on a walk

I have the urge

To return home

Even though

I haven’t gotten very far

I wonder why

Am I hungry?

No

I just ate a couple of dates

Am I tired?

No

I just woke up

Then why?

Laziness

Is all I can think of

After you have taken

It to mean

Something other

Than what I intended

It means

What you have taken

And nothing else

A diversity of experience

Deemed to be

Different enough

From a normal day

To keep boredom at bay

Back at the beach

Left behind

And sailed away

Sought after stories

Of one’s own

To match the sailor’s

In the barroom

Boisterous

And spilling his beer

Is as close

To drowning

As he’s ever been

Like buried treasure
We found them
At a fourth the cost
Of the grocery store

In one big box
Lined with a plastic sack
Piled to the top

We carried home
A heaping quart
And gorged ourselves

On fresh blueberries
From the farmers’ market

I run the flats

And huff and puff

I run the hills

And huff and puff

I run the flats

And need

Huff and puff

No more

We rolled the rug

Away

More toward

The window

To have space

To play

On the hard

Wood floor

Today I feel good

Yesterday was bad

I don’t know

What I’ll feel like

Tomorrow

I have to learn

A hundred times

The hard way

Before I get it

Good and down

I’ve seen more

Hopscotch

Chalked

On the sidewalk

As of late

A pitted date

Left out too long

Overnight

In a bowl

Tastes

Like a carpet rug

I can remember

From childhood

The horns honk

So loud

On the street outside

It seems

As if the walls

Of the apartment

Weren’t even there

A bunch

Of bananas

Ripen

All at once

So I’m eating

Only one

Perfectly ripe

While the few

Eaten early

Too green

And the others

Eaten late

Too yellow

With brown spots

Grips me

Grabs me

Out of thin air

As I was

Going gladly

Now I’m

Forced to care

Chimes whine

In the wind

Blowing softly

Singing

The pin wheel

Patters

Leaves of trees

Rustle

Birds chirp

Neighbors

On the other side

Of the fence

Can be heard

Through screen doors

A sunny day

Spent lounging

On the back patio

At night

I lay up

And read

Later than usual

Turning pages

At the pace

Of her breathing

In bed

Next to me

The city

Still sounding

In the night

Outside

This metal-backed

Bistro chair

Makes no good

For sitting

Any longer

Than’s required

For a cup of tea

Between drapes

And cracked window

Peeks a nose

For a breath

Of fresh

Outside air

After hours

Indoors

Cooped up

A picture in frame

I notice how hangs

Lower with time

Not on the nail

Where the frame

Stays sturdy same

But the paper inside

Pasted

Or however fastened

Loosely

Or seeming so

As it slides

Lower in frame

Disobeying

Its hanger’s wish

To hang in the middle

Of its father frame

That hangs steadfast

Car wheels

Whistle and spit

While wet in the rain

Sounds slush and puddle

Whrrrrrrr

From off in the distance

Past our open window

And off again

Whrrrrrr’ing

As if the r’s

Grew smaller size

Softer, more quiet

Until silent

Farther off

Consider the many multitude

Of things which

You would rather not

Have happen

And at least for this

At any time

You might be thankful

I take the backpack

Off of my shoulders

And feel relief

Immediately;

So much

That I think

Of leaving it there

On the sidewalk

Laptop and all

And continuing

On my walk home

Without it

You can’t think of nothing

Looking ‘round all the time

Restless and ready

To chase any rabbit

Down its respective hole

Stop and stay for a second

In the patch of grass

Where you are standing

Close your eyes and look up

The orange awning

Outside the window

Blows in the wind

As I realize

Writing this

That “wind”

And “window”

Are similar words

The mood light

In the bathroom

Changes shades

Of mango

Cherry lime

While the shadow

Of the shower faucet

On the far wall

Remains black

I’ve noticed that old men always walk with their hands behind their back. Usually one hand is grabbing the wrist of the other. They’re slightly  hunched over, watching the ground in front of their steps. This posture has always struck me as pensive.

I watch the wi-fi

Tower lights flicker

Next to the bookshelf

In our apartment

And wonder if

Those waves go

All the time

And if they might be

Unhealthy

The wind today

Is so powerful

Silent

For the most part

Blowing as usual

Until a big gust

Musters up

All at once

Even the buildings

Lose their footing

And creak

As they lean over

Lazy

Like the dewfall

Doing nothing

In the morning

Except for laying

On leafy sheets

Realize that Time is the currency you should really care about.

I love that moment

Where I can just forget

And not focus

On anything

For a short while

this white building

dressed pink this morning

from the red stop light

and the rising sun

a knife

is less scary

if it’s cutting

fruit

i often had

to settle down

and listen

to what i was

being told

or else

i would let loose

into a mess

faltering forward

from one fear

to the next

for lack

of some

satisfaction

short-lived

between fears

the sun reflects

hot off the wing

through the window

onto my cheek

i love to have a thing to do

an action

a direction for my forward leaning

which would lean anyway

listless

without a list

bullet points

that must be purposed

or else any direction

i would surely go

i got my jacket

back today;

the one i left

yesterday;

leaving home

cold

this morning;

returning

jacketed

once more

digging into the front

right pocket of my jeans

and then the left

and the coat pocket breast

trying to find

what i thought i had taken

but must have not

what once

looked right

looked twice

takes double

distorting

distrusting

what appears

the first time

from now on

it is a ponderance

which i repeat

for you to mull

over, unwritten

just sitting there

and listening

letting go

of the worry

to remember;

for like i said,

i will repeat

as many times

as need be

i feel equipped

with my pockets full

of something,

anything

the fight

of white

blood cells

battling

bacteria

seems

epic to me

on such

a small scale

when opening a door that is stuck, there is usually the first attempt that employs the usual amount of force. then, realizing the door is stuck, there is a second attempt that quickly follows the first; this time with more force. after that, depending on the person, there are sometimes third and fourth attempts with an increasing amount of force. or, there is a step taken back, to discover why the door is stuck. and the attempt that follows, then addresses the root problem.

in order

for a rule

to matter

it must

also matter

when

it is broken

I am loose with my money in the early morning or late at night when the day seems like it may not come and my savings will be useless

if you are sure

of what you say

you will say it

loud and clear

the first time

and not repeat

nothing added to The Girl on California Street or The Speech-To-Text Experiment from this point on from September 28

My heart has now started to create a reproductive life of its own as I can read what I wrote before and it inspired me to write something related

for me

it is like this

i know

for you

it may not be

i see

and for he

who knows

whether to be

or not

let’s find him

and ask him

hey mister

why not

when i went home to kansas for a short while in june, i put on a st. christopher necklace that i found in a ceramic box in the kitchen counter. i wore it for the time i was home and it made my mom happy to see her soon wearing a symbol of his catholic upbringing. when i got back to san francisco the st. christopher pendant fell of the second day i was back, and i thought that was ironic. now i just wear the silver necklace. i suppose my mom still thinks i am wearing it with the pendant attached, and i surely won’t be telling her otherwise.

i have stand up dinners

when i’m alone

because i have nobody

to sit with me

often all it takes

is to slow down for a second

and wait for what comes

when everything else stops

trying to do

what i did before

to get the same effect

but it’s different now

imagine if cars crossed

into the intersection

at once

from both sides

but didn’t crash

imagine being

thrust back

into your body

all people

have this energy

and it goes

somewhere

into self-destruction

sometimes

or outward

looking at others

always

or inward

but the point

is that

the energy

is there

being spent

always

like a train

that cannot

be stopped

by standing

in front of it

but can be

steered

by curving

the rail

so

wanting not

more

than your share

but wanting

at least

what

you came for

standing

on a ledge

just

six inches

feeling different

than life

six inches

below

a dirty

chewed up

tennis ball

rolls in

the cafe door

and i’m wondering

where’s the dog

talking too particular

leaving less space

for words to mean more

hanging head

upside down

off the edge

of the bed

we bought a bookshelf today

i built it with the manual

following every step

so all the books

(over a hundred of them)

that were stacked

in not so short towers

on the living room table

and beside the table

and underneath the table

are now all leaned up

against each other proper

in four compartments of

the newly built bookshelf

the human desires to explore and succeed

are at odds with the desires to be at home and belong

GROWING UP

Younger, I was less afraid
to chase a tadpole downstream
or throw rocks with my brothers.

Since the sides have flipped,
I eat my vegetables
and take care of myself—
finding adult ways of having fun.

I think of having my own boy
when he’ll invite me to play catch.

I’ll do it partly because he’s my boy
but also because I want to play too

and it’s just been a long time
since anyone’s asked me.

• Think less of yourself
• Express gratitude even when you don’t want to
• Live for others
• Meditate, mediate, meditate (on just your breath)

Potok uses two events that could each be described in a half-page and magnifies them to the first 100 pages of the book—namely, the ball game and Reuven’s hospital visit. This allows the reader to quickly get up to speed with characters and setting in the context of two pseudo-short-stories that immediately grab your interest.

LIKE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

Walking along in the city,
talking with street signs that glow
even when we don’t see,

or sitting in the apartment
and having a conversation
with the dishwasher that runs
even when we don’t listen.

Otherwise we are closed off
from the rest of the world
that’s always trying
to tell us something.

TALKING TO TREES

I ask the tall redwood,
What’s wrong grumpy tree?

He turns his back to the trail
and says, Don’t look at me.

With his branch arms crossed
and stump chin pointed to the sky,

refusing to acknowledge us passersby
who hike the trail looking at our feet.

APPLE WHITES

Apple whites
in starry nights
that fickle fights
do fumble.

Up and all
the leaves do fall
that tear my heart
asunder.

So please do pray
that all these days
in the end
have meaning.

Otherwise
my solemn eyes
might find a reason
not to.

THE GRASS IS HERE

White roofed
in green tall trees
I wonder about
who lives there.

So when wonder weighs
what won’t be held
it’s hard to keep it quiet.

Why don’t you lead
with what you see
and please just let me follow.

The grass is here
the water too
so nature's sights will wile.

Cooking up
some good mind
like stirring a pot
full of thoughts.

~

Once you have seen the trick,
it is only by great effort
that you fool yourself again.

~

Doing what you’re told
can be useful practice
for when you start
to tell yourself.

~

I don’t remember
what changed about me,
but it’s been who I am
ever since.

~

The most depressed men
must have too much desire
and not enough ability.

~

The theoretical man
was never born.

~

The same question,
asked more accurately,
becomes the answer.

~

I was really enjoying
quite an ordinary day.

~

My fear of
death takes over
and I stop thinking
about the future.

~

I dream and die
and remember
life is precious.

~

On a beautiful morning like this,
I wonder how I could have been
so depressed last night.

~

I forget what I can’t do nothing with
until I catch myself in the double negative
and remember it’s good for something.

~

She has the strength
to weaken me,
and the weakness
to strengthen me.

~

He moves about
like a man in a home
built with his own hands.

~

I like to read
fiction characters
as possibilities for lives
I’m not yet living.

~

I like to be sick
and lay in bed all day
and escape the obligations
of a healthy person.

~

Any good writing
is an ode
to the language itself.

~

Puts words in some ways
and leave silences
where they’re due.

~

There are only
so many combinations
of common words.

~

There’s a little
of everyone
in anyone.

~

How a shadow
can hide
just the right
part of a body.

~

A piece that discovers
the meaning of meaning,
held together by itself
and nothing else.

~

The difficulty is not to decide.
You will decide no matter what.
To sit still, even, is a decision.
To do nothing is a decision.

~

I think of
just how easily
it could have been
any other way.

~

I think up absurd things
and wonder if they’ve ever
actually happened.

~

A lot of the time
I leave it out loose
and just let it be.

~

I’ve seldom time
to look deep down;
I’ve cared about
what I can.

~

Sure, you save some now,
but how much have you
wasted before?

~

Why worry about war
if not to rest
in the peace between?

~

Everything is out of sorts,
says my control;
everything is all right here,
says my peace.

~

When it wasn’t what was wanted
by the violent crowd
my knees began to tremble
and I wondered who I was.

~

In my eyes
in the mirror
are my selves.

~

So we get caught up
in chasing something new
until we chase that down too.

~

Some things to remember
when you feel sad and lost:
you are part of everything;
you can think about nothing;
and be grateful always.

IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DIFFERENT

Here is what we need and what we were meant to have, until the order that was supposed to give frame for the beauty, actually ended up corrupting what it was meant to protect, rounding its soft corners into edges for the advancement of a frontier that we thought was in line with our needs, but really just served to trade a lasting happiness for ephemeral pleasures.

LITTLE SPECK THAT STAYS

Creep back coyly, cut past the pride
with which you stepped out,
shrink into what you were
before your evolution hoped for all this,

dash your tiny leaf on a wave of oppression
that was always stronger than your Will,
loose what little motivation you mustered—

except for that speck, that little sliver,
that all alone is no match
for an adversary at any one time,
but as time passes, as everything else
that was so strong in the moment fades away,
this little speck holds on,
it stays, though small, it remains,
so that when nothing is left,
there is this speck, hanging on.

This little speck is the last of you.
It will carry you to the end.

COOKING UP SOME GOOD MIND

Cooking up some good mind
like stirring a pot full of thoughts

that mix and mingle
and make a whole thing
that’s different than any of its parts,

turning up the heat
and then turning it down,

melting to allow joining together,
cooling to solidify that joining,

waiting with the oven light on
watching a thought arise
and probably satisfaction

for you and your friends and many more
if it’s really good and big enough,

waiting to see what it will be,
like what you picked out of the cookbook
or something different with your secret sauce.

Here alone it hurts me
Herald hairpin lies
Hoping during the worst we
Hold on for goodbye

So it leaves me like this
So it goes they say
So and sew it lightly
Duck darkness into grey

Even the one world
where you create your
noose out of thin air
doesn’t end up hanging.

One of the hardest
things about making art
is forgetting what it’s like
to be a consumer.

WHAT IS NOT

Now I know I always come back. Nothing seems so bad anymore, knowing there’s always a bounce instead of a crash at the end of these falls.

Like I imagine it is to jump out of a plane that’s very high up. Terror in the beginning, yes. But then boredom. And after boredom, interest in the air around you and what you can see and what it is like to fall now that the fear and pain are commonplace.

So I’m sick with dread and a split head but really just thinking what is it for a head to split while I wait for everything to put itself back together and redeliver me to the paradise I can only stand for some time until the same effect takes over. Nothing is anything really, at least to you, until you make of what it isn’t.

HARDWOOD FLOOR

Wallets I would have had if my bookshelf could have kept from toppling. Empty bottles full if they weren’t so full to begin with.

Laying on the hardwood floor hurts a little bit, neither of us will admit. We even roll around before confessing we’d rather be in bed.

Shoes and rolled jeans; I like her dressed up as much as not. Honestly don’t think it’ll last much longer, but at least it lasted this long.

Even just that it lasts right now is more than I can really ask for. God, I’m thankful. I forget too often.

WHETHER I REMEMBER OR NOT

So that in times like these, when I’m not really processing anything, both for being overwhelmed in this moment, and all the moments just before, with which I haven’t quite caught up, but the dirt picks up under my feet just the same, and supports a body that houses a mind in a universe, that moves regardless of whether I remember it or not.

IN BETWEEN COUCH CUSHIONS

Split down the center of a formerly indivisible line, these become two sides of your wonder wall. Not too far apart, as their magnetism still draws the two sides together, you nestle yourself deep inside like a child in between couch cushions. It’s not long until, something from the outside world catches your attention. You look up to see, a symphony, for you and the other split cushion dwellers. So you start to say, with less dismay, this really isn’t that bad, what with the music that echoes inside your comfy canyon walls, as the same magnetism that sucked you down and in, spits you back out, into the world that welcomes you home.

HEART’S CENTER

Let’s go through it, unsure of how we’ll come out, this is all we’ve got. One direction being no different than another, the only real difference is our speed, if we are to control how much ground we cover.

So that the only choice we ever really had was to hurtle headlong into the furnace. The sun mooning up at any distance we charge into. And the moon sunning from the source. Your heart’s center was really the only thing that ever beat for me. No matter how much sense school ever made to me as a boy, I was always bound to chase after your heart.

The writer is much like a sculptor, gathering a mass of stuff to begin with, going out and living to get the mass. Then sculpting, removing excess, shaping, defining—all away on his own. Until a lesser more defined thing is revealed out of the mass. And he can show it back to the world from whence it was gathered.

 i feel like i’m being tickled from the inside

The theoretical man was never born.

EMPATHY (unedited)

Seeing from a door knob’s perspective,
from the sun’s eyes looking down,
feeling what it’s like to be a sound wave.

Running like rain water doomed for the gutter.
Sleeping like sacks of potatoes in a farm truck.
Kissing with lover mouths outside of the café.
Hanging like a handle waiting to be useful.
Competing like cars on the freeway.
Remembering like an epic told over and over.
Hurting like alcohol in an open wound.

Feeling with fir tree fingertips.
Loose and flow like a river
and crumple like a chip bag,

Loving with the dying heart of a soldier,
thinking with the desperate mind of an outlaw

We fall apart and swallow up all the time anyway, 
losing ourselves and becoming something else.

COME IN EVERYONE

As I walk around the city,
and people pass by.

I like to catch their eyes
and live their lives
just for the moment
that I look at them

—people I don’t know
or at least can’t remember.

My ego opens up wider,
while my physical body
remains the same,

and my soul,
with its larger grasp
opens to a broader swath,
and lets everyone else in.

I made several mistakes today. I can’t stop thinking of them. I am trying to part ways with the anger and learn from them. Mistakes are relative, I suppose. The worst are when they seem, in hindsight, as if they could have been avoided so easily.

This afternoon I ate a cashew
like I was a prisoner in a cell,
pretending it was the only food I had
—the things you notice with such focus!

I turned a page in my journal
that was full of reminders, little poems,
to-do lists, and notes to myself.
I turned to a blank page and
felt a sense of freedom.

Not only the page but everything is blank
and brand new, like all I’ve written here
is all I’ve got—which is nothing.

My memory is terrible lately
and I’m a little worried,
but I’m really just a sieve.

My only function is
to have things flow through me.

Even the page in my journal
full of reminders and lists
was starting to stress me out.

When I’ve caught too many big rocks,
I need to be turned over and dumped out.

The difficulty is not to decide.
You will decide no matter what.
To sit still, even, is a decision.
To do nothing is a decision.
The difficulty is deciding rightly.

Especially because with every decision
there are so many options,
and if you have not studied,
you will only know very few of them,
a few which may not include
the most right one.

I look up on a tall building
and its wall of windows;

I look at the lights that are on
and the lights that are off;

I wonder about who is awake
and what they’re doing right now;

a thing about cities is just
how many people there are.

I wonder about the neighbors
on the twenty-seventh floor;
to me, they are just shadows
in adjacent windows.

I see a couple dancing
and a couple fighting;

I see dark windows
where I can’t see anything;

All these different lives
stacked on top of each other
on the corner of Folsom and 3rd
at about nine o’clock at night.

Openness tells me there
is still more to be gotten
from a week that's either
over or just beginning.

Wide stretches of road
when city cars are still
sleeping in their garages.

Weekend-waiters wanting
in between still hungover from Friday
and already working for Monday

before the old man was ready to grow up, they started treating him like an old man, so he became one.

same for the happy man, unlikely to be grumpy, treated like a grump, becomes one.

and an outcast, treated as such, becomes even more so.

wide stretches of road and opportunity
when city cars are still sleeping in their garages
openness tells me there is still more to be gotten
from a week that's either over or just beginning
blue skies without building obstructions
invite levity to the soles of my steps
eyes that can see farther 
start to dilate and take in more

all this stepping out of the car on north point
all this on a sunday morning that seems new

Watching the water boil I realize I am usually doing something else like cutting the onion when the first bubbles rise to the top. Now that I actually take time to watch this event, when bubbles cover the pot’s floor, before the first few crawl up the sides, I feel a little fear, like an explosion is imminent. Silently and drawing you in until the surface explodes and then comes the noise that usually draws my attention away from cutting the onion and so then I start to see what I’ve seen so many times before. How many other small explosions do I miss? Simply because I am not paying attention.

only so much can be said specifically, but much can be said generally, because it can become much—different things, to each of many who hear it. specifically, it is the same to all.

who can compliment a man as well as himself? not only for what he knows but also for what he would like to hear you say. if he could whisper to you and erase his memory before hearing you say it, then he would be the happiest.

saturdays are for art, you don’t have to maintain your self, this is the day to let yourself go and see what you discover, you can worry about everything else during the work week, on saturday just be happy and marvel at everything no matter what it is

Whether it’s enough or not, it’s all of me … or at least, I think; hold on one second …

Concerning lists, don’t feel the need to make it three, if the marginal add of the third, is less than the net loss distracting from the first two.

A king doth slain on wincely waves
A prince quath born on bright sunny day
A battle will waged between son and father
If only a fight for quaffle and potter

“it what’s i’m complex … when on drugs.”

She became a very narrow head and a branched body. She talked like a dilettante.

Something was chasing after us and making us push forward. What we really wanted to do was stop and stay in one place and just explore what was going on. I think we could have stopped and stayed in one moment forever. But deep down I knew we couldn’t, even if we wanted to.

I watched a video at the modern art museum where kids answered questions. The off-screen narrator asked the child, “Will we be smarter in the future?” The young Asian boy took the time to think in a very adult-manner, rubbing his chin and looking down. He looked up and said, “Probably smarter, because we learn more as time goes.”

I am a wise man, yes. But can you tell me why that is, why I am wise? If not, do not call me a wise man. For you do not know.

I got caught up in the world and decided not to fight it for once. I let my unconscious body take over.

The world is laid open in brief moments of clarity. An ordinary shower faucet says to me, “How interesting?” I look at its ordinariness and respond silently, “Very.”

Mark told me that Muay Thai fighters are always relaxed until they strike. They conserve energy this way, only releasing with each punch and kick. Dave taught me how to punch correctly, keeping my shoulders down and relaxed until I’m ready to draw energy up from twisting my foot, through my rotating hip and then through my throwing shoulder. Stay relaxed with your shoulders down until you’re ready, he said.

Doesn’t it smell good to be free?

Cute coffee girl, drawing
Everyone else, talking
Me, working up the courage
To write her this poem

It’s the changes in direction that are hard. To go off unfettered in one direction is easy. To wake up after a night of heavy drinking and read and return to health and sobriety is hard.

Dreams are conceptualized in the same language with which we name our waking hours: seen, heard, felt, just barely remembered upon waking. My dreams are written, so that I wake up in the middle of the night with a full poem that arranged itself with all the words from my waking hours.

We walk on sidewalks and don’t step out on the street to avoid getting hit by a car; everywhere, we walk on little sidewalks to safely get where we’re going. But I wonder about the alternate routes and the walks on the other sides.

A result of our having higher desires, but also higher abilities to satisfy them. A positive feedback loop, where our desires motivate forming new abilities, which in turn allow us to satisfy higher desires, and so on.

You could’ve taken me anywhere, and you took me to reality. Why?

It would seem 
in the morning 
that all has begun, 
fresh and anew. 

If not for 
the scenes and 
objects and body 
that you remember. 

So you go about 
doing what you’ve always done 
or what you planned 
the night before.

I am convinced that for the most part people just bump around and move along until they get slotted into a channel in which they are satisfied and comfortable enough to keep on going just barely not wanting more.

This continues until the subtle beginning of old age, when nothing can be done anymore. But luckily by then, the desires too, have gone with the abilities. And that scares the hell out of me. Even the slightest possibility of looking back and asking, “What if?”

I live in an American empire when I can read so many great works translated into English.

I think about those who are just getting along, and I wonder who lives more in the present: those who have secured a future, or those who haven’t?

Each shave,
I notice,
my beard,
gets fuller;
this excites me,
and scares me.

Once you’ve put it into motion
then you just have to keep up
and let it carry you along.

The tough part is
when you want to change directions
after you’ve built up some momentum.

So that you have to
stop the whole system
and spend some time
away from the world
to rebuild the whole machine.

Until you've set it 
into motion once more
and breathe a sigh of relief
as it begins again 
to carry you along.

I like to think of it as using the sounds (words) that we’re already used to hearing (reading) a certain way, and rearranging them in a way that still barely makes sense, so as not to be too disruptive; and then, from its newness, there opens up new parts of our thoughts and emotions.

and she says no no no I don’t stop before that goes where it goes but I know it does because with those lights of hot sky soft black too but I’m going going going to take off then rise up and out of it all into the top where it all fits together and also which of the three made it be such a peculiar way like this.

What do you find interesting to learn about?

Why is rap only ever about the struggle, the come up, and success—the same story over and over, then they run out of things to say.

I dreamt that we as humans were fighting wolves. The wolves were winning and the humans moved to a gated community in the middle of a big field.

When traveling, money is a currency for “how many more days can I travel?”

I feel like a little kid again who doesn’t want to go to bed and wakes up early in the morning with so much energy.

What makes sense
only does
in contrast
to what doesn't.

If I see it
I have no choice
but to be scared.

It could have
just as easily
been any other way.

On Saturday, usually; sometimes on Sunday—my exhaustion catches up to me, so that after I make my breakfast, but before I’ve had my coffee, when I’ve read a few pages, I’ll lay down to rest, and then not wake up until it’s dark out. I think about, if I didn’t let it catch up, and just cumulated exhaustion until I died a long nap.

Close your eyes and stay awake long enough to see the lightshow on the back of your own eyelids.

People become who they are because of how they look.

A photo of a photo of a photo of a photo of someone taking a selfie.

I run around and see and shout and hear myself and find people and smile at them and breathe in to fill up with it all.

Everything is so serious and vital in my dreams from the war stories I read at night, and then I wake up to my safe slow 9-5 sales job. Someone once told me that of all animals, humans are the best at adapting to a wide range of circumstances.

There is a little bit of turbulence as I land from a high flying artistic weekend, sometimes on a Monday morning I crash land into the office. There is the animal that needs to eat, there is the modern American working class man that does his job and behaves himself unless he is drinking, and then there is this young creative god who stretches his arms on the weekends.

I feel there is a right way to live but I think there’s not; it’s hard to live if there isn’t, so this is one of those cases where I trick myself into thinking what I feel.

I once heard a modern American say as we passed a restaurant: I wish I were hungry.

I do not create well when I am thinking too much; because it is then that I make so mental what is also physical and spiritual.

Sometimes I feel emotion and feel a tear but then I think it is just my conditioning and chemicals and then my mind blankets my heart and drys my eyes—I don’t know which is better, to be awash in it or to think past it, but of course “better” is the wrong word.

Human art is pseudo creation. I, as a writer, did not invent language. And you, as a painter, did not invent color. The humanist will say, look, we invented these words and assigned sounds to concept; language is ours. And look, we made these paints and designed shapes; color is ours.

But no human is responsible for the material world nor for his own ability to mold and craft it. We do not create so much as we rearrange what has already been created.

And how fortunate are we in a position of capability and power in such a time and place to be able to make art. I do not mean to belittle art, I still think it is the most important thing we have. I mean only to say: let it flow through you, rather than try and grasp and wield all of it at once, all by yourself.

Not all advice is good advice; true advice is good advice; true advice is based upon principles that recur and are proven by historical data.

Recfome darkens.

There is no escape possible from the physical. Rather, use nature itself to transcend.

What appears is not what is, what they say of you is not what you are. The greats, classics—those who win over and over—they are great themselves alone, naked in nature. Their powers and talents don’t go away when they lose their clothing, money, status.

Writing all the multitudes into singularities that are themselves just one of a multitude: this is the paradox of individuation.

Can you imagine homiomorphism? It’s not a word but should be. Wait, in fact, upon waking up and googling it, it is a word. Apparently, two objects are homeomorphic if they can be deformed into each other by a continuous, invertible mapping. Whatever that means. Not what I imagined it to mean in my dream that’s for sure.

I am a finger scratching a head—a head that I may or may not be. Then I start to think and I am surely the head.

We’re not the same I’m afraid. But then again, I might be more afraid if we were. See, I’m alone. And so are you.

We are, all of us, as far as we know, in unchartered waters. That is, this has never happened before. And for that matter, this will never happen again. What a marvelous moment; it is ours!

What if “why” had no purpose other than argumentation with those who still believe in it? What if Dionysus is the true God? But no, surely there is order, and therefore there is “why.” And even without order, there may still be “why.”

I feel now as if I’m living for the first time: as if I’m really just starting to listen, actually, and see, actually, and the whole world flows through me.

I feel something crawling on the back of my neck, I think it is a bug. I reach back to pull it off but it is attached to myself, I pull and pull and unravel.

People say, that sounds like Whitman. But I have never read that Whitman. So who sounds like who?

You have the same type of clothes in your closet, the same work on your desk, the same friends. You live one life; you have one mask. That you have one history is not the warrant for this, for your one history is filled with multitudes. You chose a singularity because they told you to.

It is social, I think, that we each choose one identity. So that we might belong. Birds of a feather flock together. In the queue, thankful for comrades, ahead and behind, in order, buffering, letting him know he is in his place. A cog, on the correct gear, in the correct machine, in the correct factory. Because a cog that fits everywhere fits nowhere.

For the same reason I thought to write my books under pseudonyms, I give each idea its own point of view, its one whole identity. An eclectic personality makes people uncomfortable. Because it makes readers uncomfortable that such disparate styles might exist in one mind. At least because they do not know which of their own masks to feign, or for those who have only one, whether or not to smile.

My childhood I spent finding myself. My youth, losing myself. Now, noone, I will spend the rest of my life finding everyone else.

Fight the fleetingness, but what persists? Even the most principled man, do his habits fade? And the smartest; he eventually forgets. And the strongest; he eventually grows weak.

In the shower, like a waterfall, with peppermint soap stinging and smelling like sharp air. In the shower, in the bathroom, in the apartment, on the floor, twenty two floors above the ground—what delivered me here? What delivered us here? So high above the ground.

I dreamed like you last night. It was raining, like every drop was a shape or color that gave space and light to the world, like a whole garage sale full of high school band instruments bouncing on the earth’s surface, bleeding rainbow into a topograph.

For the first time I could not tell dream from reality, but I was aware both were equally possible. Then I took the elevator to a floor that I had entirely created with my mind, and I created a vase of flowers. And I thought then surely this is a dream, but then I thought maybe it is reality. But no, because I remembered I was not an architect or a vase-maker or a flower-grower. Then I created another. And I thought again, surely this is a dream, because I’m not God. Though now thinner is the veil.

Oatmeal is bang on after a long vacation. Like separation makes the heart grow fonder. Travel makes for new worlds, and brings a freshness to the old one. Travel makes new worlds; it makes the old one new too.

I discover myself in others: find my heart in love, my mind in conversation. I discover myself in nature: my eyes in rainbows, my fingers on tree branches, my ears in morning birds. I discover myself in myself: my thinking mind and my observing mind.

Surely I could, hurdle myself headlong in the direction of fact and exactitude. And for what? To stand on the shoulders of giants, and not stand my full height on my own. And what’s more, at the cost of the time I might spent with the humanities. Leave the understanding to the gods.

Sometimes ideas don’t fit clean together. Order preceded by order just is. White preceded by white just is. Order preceded by chaos is peace. White preceded by black is light. When even opposites have meaning together, what doesn’t?

She says, “I want to feel permanently how jazz sounds.” She understands jazz more than me; I understand her more than anyone else. But of course ‘more’ is a funny word to say about these things.

I am keen to be going somewhere, spatially—traveling. Even when I sit, I travel, temporally—this going forward, I enjoy less, but am glad for the motivation it affords me.

We are born animal, live as humans, and die godlike. If another species rises to the top of the food chain and learns to think, I wish their kind all the humanity we enjoyed ourselves, before they too ascend to the gods with us.

Thinking in those terms endemic to my own experience. When I explain, it is best to use the descriptors of the world where I live and the language through which I experience reality.

To contemplate solitude amid company, and death amid life, for how quickly after satiation does all the hunger go?

In the depths of exercise, music, readings, mediation, nature—this is where I found my joy. When you are alone, do not be so quick to fly to the shallow sociality, drugs, food, sleep and the easy pleasures; instead, hold out for the greater pleasures. Sweeter sun is just beyond the visible horizon.

Obsession as rebirth from a lifeless life. What does it mean that a ‘beauty’ is qualified by the adjective ‘American.’ At once it was a free beauty, now it is a commercial beauty. Like a beautiful restaurant dinner. Knife and fork parallel on either side of a perfect circle underneath a perfect meal paid for with papers that have killed some and reborn others, let alone the pant leg groping that goes on underneath the table cloth. The greatest chaos under the tablecloth of structure, the greatest pleasure under asceticism.

The history of histories: in each macro segment of history there are micro segments vying for power, each with models and weights for each other.

In the world of exactitude and borders and corners, my energy flows less but more swells, welling up as if my power came from inside.

It is when I explain, and my conversater replies, “That is exactly how I feel,” that I feel betrayed. That word ‘exactly’ should not be used to describe feeling, and especially not in comparing the feelings of two different people. Even logically, when I explain my maths, that is not ‘exactly’ why you understand it.

I tried to be one way, and the universe pushed me to be a different way. I wanted to sleep; the universe filled my head with dreams.

Humans created God. He was fiction, but now He is real. Fiction becomes non-fiction once it is written; it and its effects on its readers become real history. God has caused war and peace, love and suffering. God, as an idea, is even more real to man than His omni-form.

When you step into my body.

There are those things that you wish to know and experience, only that in doing so you can never be the same. It’s the paradox of learning in reverse: it might be bad or good for you, but how can you know until you’ve done it, and once you’ve found out, it’s already happened, and you can’t go back to the way things were.

There are two kinds … The dichotomy is rarely exhaustive, but the paradigm is helpful.

Love as a prisoner’s dilemma: each caught by the other, each asking the other to confess the feeling crime. Held in the same interrogation room. Promiscuity is the Nash equilibrium.

The hungry man wants on.

A bigger masculine and a smaller feminine—must that be it? But, of course, that is not the right question. Unless your only paradigm is physical, spatial, real—which it is not.

Optimal social behavior learned from socialite peers, leftover predatory teeth-showing.

It’s a backwards thing, but why? Is there no feeling of missing what is still to happen? Like there is for what already has. But maybe that’s why. Because it will.

It’s yours but it’s not. Like a thought you can’t remember. It’s there, but not really—memory isn’t the real thing.

It’s so far close. Like an apple in a glass box. To see, not taste; remember not live.

Like her hair and his smile, the wet smell of cider and sound of warmth—and all else that made that day what it was. All else, except of course, that it was, and therefore will not again be.

He claims to be one but really there are many in him. His is the small one, part of a whole. To be One is to be all, the One. The order goes like this: lower one, many, higher One.

For every argument there is a counterargument; an antagonist for every protagonist. We often assign good and bad to each side, but really they are two sides of a coin, and there is no way of telling whether it is heads or tails. The flipped coin lays locked in a closed fist.

I don’t like the idea of a period as punctuation. Is a sentence not a small paragraph, and a paragraph a small section, and a small section a book, so is not a sentence a book?

Solemn, sulking, looking down, frowning, feeling, oops, now sleeping, but still feeling, dreaming, flying, feeling, falling, falling: you wake with a start and grasp the chair arms.

Oopsy toolip, whoopsy flour, pocket full of poses. Ashes, smashes, we all stand straight.

This isn’t poetry, sounds or meaning, but it certainly is, all of that, or none of it. So what, if not, by the normal means. The original Socratic thought wisdom the means of purifying our virtue. But whose wisdom? Surely not his which says there is none. Nor hers which said art.

Then whose? While God is away. You there! Yes, your wisdom. Be my arbiter brother. Surely you think these words, even feel them. By wisdom? What say you? No surely not. Then how is it that this nonsense work. Random seems a more noble life, than by our conditioning. Art then, at least us. But is this random nonsense not also from my conditioning?

Merry is the go around.

Isn’t the best nighttime avant-garde artist a capitalist salesman by day? Who first follows the rules in order to later break them. Like an enemy is killed on the battlefield, but a traitor is guillotined in the public circle.

My fridge is bulimic.

Imagine a single seesaw: a narrow beam resting on a pivot at its midpoint; as one end goes up, the other goes down.

Now add another seesaw perpendicular to the first. And keep adding saws the same way you would halve slices of pie, cutting in straight diametric lines from crust to crust.

It should now look as if you drew several dozen straight lines through the center of a circle connecting opposite sides and then erased the outer circle.

Now you have the static image; let’s make it dynamic and set the seesaws in motion. Every saw can rotate 90 degrees on its pivot in one plane to one side or the other. If all the seesaws teeter really fast in both directions you can see a blurred sphere.

Instead of children-sized seats at either end of each beam, imagine opposing ideas: religion and atheism, government and anarchy, wealthy and poor, solitude and community, home and travel, pride and humility, specialization and diversification, order and chaos.

Everyone has their own web of seesaws. Each saw indicates where they stand on an issue, tilted to one side or the other: as one end goes up, the other goes down. No saw is zero-sum; the tilt is continuous.

A person’s web is a snapshot of their beliefs at the time. Some have seesaw webs like flat snowflakes (balance). And others have a bundle of sticks pointing in all directions (imbalance). And still others have snowflakes with just a few tilted sticks.

But our webs are not static. In flux, each saw tips as we learn about the issue. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.”