Drunken Philosopher Fables

The Master's Plan

2011-03-04T19:59:00.000-08:00

Complain, complain, complain is all we ever seem to do! We bitch and moan and weep and cry, and never even think to try. To try to please our master’s plan. To try to strike out each demand. We bend and moan and swing and shake. “I’ve had 'bout all that I can take!” Our master sneers and we all cower. I push myself through every hour. Complain, complain, and to what end? I could cry until my eyes will rend! And someone's always asking “could you” and “will you,” and so I pick up my socks and boots again. The master’s plan is ripe with stink. It’s fat and loud and doesn’t think.

International Falls

2011-02-10T15:39:00.000-08:00

I almost died going to International Falls. It was about a decade ago and I was driving a convertible. This slow semi affronted me and I tried to pass. As I was coming up to his cab, the semi approaching in the oncoming lane was going too fast. Before my eyes my life flashed. My eyes laughed before my fish. My mind bent. I swallowed my mint. I was driving fast while being yanked into the anti-realms of northern Minnesota. Pulled into the portals of slow-motion horror. The trip was tedious at first, but shit got all abstract in a flash. Things got really bent out of shape and deadly. It was me and heat and speed. It was the “incubator years” of my next great self. I was shrugging off useless features and wincing for a faint direction. I stepped on the gas and dashed passed the cab, in front of his grill, fractions from death. My eyes wouldn't blink through the rippling chill. I went to the border whole and secure; In pieces from International Falls I returned.

Rattle and Fuzz

2011-02-09T15:49:00.000-08:00

I got what I wanted while losing what I cherished. And thank goodness. Thank the goodness of our drifting planet. Thank the gratitude producing events that make me sing. But, despite my gratitude, I am sick of writing meaningless things. It is so mathematical. A type of slavery that is no longer charming. My perspective has become foggy. My attitude gets choppy. I need a new voice. Maybe a dusty voice that strains. Right now I'm too quick to approve of every clever technological device. I’m shaking hands with pseudo-dignitaries, as they look past me to more important things. “I need a new voice,” I tell them. “Thanks for your support,” they say, above the rattle and fuzz of the great event.

This Boat Will Sail!

2011-02-08T14:58:00.000-08:00

I’m alot less sure about important things as I used to be. Everybody is specialized and pontificated. I’m designing the newest Noah’s Ark just to sneak away with my zoo society. I’m varnishing wood planks and brilliant pontificators are wooing me with their impressive brain tricks. Contests are being lost all around me as I hurry along the mast with my hammer. Nails are tapped and shutters are attached. "This boat will sail!" Yet, I’m alot less competent than I used to be. I read. I steal. I cheat. Reason is a storm cloud hovering around the sundown. The woman is knitting. The dog is chewing an imitation bone. I pound my hammer on the mast. I lean out over the side. It is rising to consume me, and I am dashing for the tool box. I’m up to my ears in it and far less secure than I used to be.

Hijacked and Diminished

2010-02-23T17:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes things get hijacked and diminished to the point where you have to just scratch your head and weep. You blow your horn, but the vessels don’t respond! You ring the bell, but all you get are a flock of birds blocking out the sun. This, then that?Prude penny-pinchers smirk as they collect their little coupons into a pile. All I want to do is color and draw pictures of silly things and write poetry and stories that make people smile in their brains. But all this gets hi-jacked and smoted and instead I’m dodging traffic and holding my breath every minute of every day. People are sending me “Get Well” cards and I ain’t even sick. People are writing eulogies, but I ain’t dying! I’m just hijacked and a little diminished. I’ll be alright.

Less Pleasing Law's (Haiti Edition)

2010-02-22T11:35:00.000-08:00

There are victors and there are victims and there are fancy-pants celebrities hovering in cloud-cities waiting to exploit us all with their calculated flash and provocative affectations. We are running through the rubble. We are dashing through the destruction carcasses. We are assessing all the evidence of the less pleasing laws of science. With a jolt of the earth and the congregation of masses the tragedy is set. Queue the heartbreak. Queue the non-profit forces and their cameras, and all of their other "horror-capture" technologies. We are running from death and stench. We are running for safety and security. We are dreaming of profit and peace. But the earth jolts every time the people congregate, and every survivor sees the scenes with shock and perspective. Each survivor has incentive. And it is so hard to trust the help of others. It is so hard to believe the intentions of safe and powerful people.

Inconsequential Poet

2010-02-20T22:13:00.000-08:00

Inconsequential poet, tapping upon her keypad. Her little "expression computer." She lusts for affirmation. But what she really, really, really wants is confession. What she really wants is to reveal who she really is. She wants real revelation with genuine acceptance. She is a sad, sad, sad lady. She sips upon her comfort beverage. She cozies up inside her insecurity jacket. She is a modern day "abstraction technician." A "plot pilot." A "meaning mechanic." She looks over her shoulder. She is needed. No she isn’t. Nevermind. She is the inconsequential poet. She is ambiguously incendiary. She looks at the time-clock. She looks at the calendar. She has nothing to say. She starts writing about herself in the 3rd person: “Inconsequential poet, tapping upon her keypad.....”

This is Worth a Dollar

2010-02-15T22:50:00.000-08:00

I’ve been too human for my own good.

With a tendency to squander and destroy.

I was going “that way,”

Now it’s “this way or die.”

Oh, this thing in my eye?

That’s a railroad tie.

I’ve been trying to get it out.

(I haven’t slept well in months).

It doesn’t matter where the elevator takes us.

It doesn’t matter if the election is rigged.

(Money is only valuable because of guns.

Weapons sustain the value of money.

Export - Import

Extrovert - Introvert

It’s not an astrological situation of any kind.

It’s organized violence - the threat of pain.

“What is this worth! Maggot!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! Please!”

“We didn’t hear you! What is this worth!”

“A dollar! Oh God, a dollar! Please,

that is worth a dollar!”)

Boarding a Plane

2010-01-26T00:37:00.000-08:00

My attention was being prostituted to several creditors who were snooping around my house-bush searching for a check. There’s no check here. My adrenaline was elevated, my complexion was worse than ever. Now it is the holidays and people are looking at me for a gift. I shrug my shoulders. I board the plane. “I’ve taken all that I can take.” A lovely woman baffles me with her persistence. I save a seat for her on the plane. Randy tells me to maintain focus. Keep the plow oiled. He tells me I am spread too thin. The cloth tears. I am hiding my checkbook in the kitchen, under the sink somewhere. I am washing my face and increasing my water intake. The months are blowing off the page. Creditors are sneaking into my window sills and giving me prudence advice. Risk-less mentors share their safety strategies. Fearful advisors tell me 7 great ways to hide. I’m boarding a plane, with Barbara by my side.

Auditory Joy (2/8/01)

2010-01-18T17:26:00.000-08:00

He was afraid of speaking in front of crowds. Worse yet, he was afraid of singing. Hell, he would not even sing in the shower or in his car in the middle of the desert in the off chance that angels exists and they might just happen to overhear his song. But there he stood in front of 30,000 people waiting for him to sing. He did not remember how he ended up in this situation, but, for some reason, he promised that he would sing them a song. The crowd grew silent and his chest tightened in fear. His lips jittered and sweat profusely. He could not feel his tongue! But the crowd was beginning to get angry at his silence. He knew he had to at least utter a noise. He inhaled as much as his packed, heavy chest would allow and let out a quick melody: Aauuita. He opened his eyes expecting a booing, angry crowd. But the people were quite taken. There was an escalating uproar of applause. He let out a longer noise: Aauuuuuiaaatatatataaaaaa.... People roared with applause, cameras flashed, lips were whistling. Then he REALLY let out a melody:

Yeahahall-Lowammmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaaa-Aauuuiatataaaaaaa....

People fainted, others had seizures from the rapid snapping of pictures, wrists were snapping from violent clapping, and some even keeled over dead from the weight of their auditory joy.

Interpretations and Floggings

2009-12-17T15:39:00.000-08:00

Your gospel interpretation is syncopathetic. It vibrates through the atmospheric chamber-barrier and compels the nuns to seek. Popes surround me with disapproving hand gestures. Erotic priests are peering from the bushes at all our current innocence vessels, who prance through the grass with tattered pants. Your proverbs are translucent and your sermons challenge the masses to ever higher levels of low self-worth. Hilarious anti-preachers are flogging the airwaves with strategic sarcasm and there is no way to stop it. Your scripture interpretation is idio-empathic. It bends your guilt-mechanisms and instills an urge to smoke cigarettes. Prudish smilers own the streets and determine the nature of television advertisements. Mutated anger floods all of your exchanges with the lower classes.

He was in Good Form

2009-12-11T11:52:00.000-08:00

At about that time he began to slowly regain a sense of himself. A woman with a dog said “you’re centering yourself and that is good.” But he shrugged that off as silliness. He liked how things were going and he was in good form. True, swindlers and chaos advocates were damaging his assets, but he had faith in his depth of character. Second-hand associates were reading lame books about “Attitude Adjustments for Success,” and silliness like that. But he shrugged it off and continued moving how he thought best. Spiritual guides stroked his mystery lobes, but he retaliated with articulation and explanation. Pessimists accused him of being optimistic, but he shrugged it off as silliness and retaliated with a cold splash of cold reality. He was in good form and he was well positioned for growth. His assets were character based and growing.

Mortal Master, Mortal Plan

2009-12-10T23:46:00.000-08:00

Sleepy, fatigued pencil boy, chubby in the lover’s guild. Selfish with the magic pants. Winter moods contort the music of mindless men wrapped tight with fluids. Intensify the hype and story. Discourage truth and feign your glory. But never speak to build the other. Because they are mice, not men or brother. Inflated man, Expanding torso. Strike the blow-torch sweet revival. You can never match the master’s powers. So tuck those plans for later hours. The master is a mortal man. The master is a mortal man. His plan is strong, but it won’t stand. The master is the portal fan. He stokes the pathways through the levels. He barks out orders, prepares the gavels.

Trickle-Down Cosmology

2009-12-07T22:47:00.000-08:00

I was drowning in mediocre beverages and writing substandard prose. The world rotated around a dollar sign. Gravity was controlled by trickle-down cosmology tied intimately to certain cost-effectiveness ratios. The music was good, though. It connected with us and exacerbated our surliness. Wisdom was deconstructed into short statements. The cost of truth was so high, all we could afford were aphorisms. And when I swallowed the last drop of my mediocre beverage, I walked out into the smog-filtered sunlight. Each step was a flitter as my euphoric ambling brought me to my next destination. The world rotates when the dollar sign tells it to. But nothing controls my thoughts but me. I am the thought keeper of the highest degree. The key is inside me. The key is inside me.

I Was There Staring

2009-12-01T09:37:00.000-08:00

It was the tail end of a global recession and I was overeating. It was at the bottom of hitting bottom and I was having trouble sleeping. The weather sucked worse that TV sitcoms and I was sick of the gray and the rain. I see people crossing paths and I question their love for each other. I see couples dwelling in their houses and I wonder how their love dynamics work. It was the beginning of the recovery and I was increasing my water intake. I was crossing things off of my to-do list and thinking about my future. It was the start of something special and strangers were walking around me unbuttoning their coats. There was a star ascending the stairs, and I was there staring at the stars.

The Protocal Has Been Initiated

2009-11-28T02:02:00.000-08:00

Spark popping creativity thrower reaching back for another brilliance-flash. Reaching into the deepest caverns of his resource factory. Throwing creativity splashes into the forlorn faces of the GDP carriers. Each skyscraper is an anthill and each cubicle dweller is an ant carrying their crumb to the king. Each crumb carrying cubicle dweller is a GDP facilitator. Lean back and watch the fractured castles crumble in unison. Wounded rebels descend the anthill. Hordes of civilians congregate around the book burning bonfire binge of the crumbling civilization. Religion fades. Meaning dissipates. The masses are kept dumb enough to be ignorant of their futility. The nation activates the "learning shields" and initiates the “stupify the masses” protocal. I reach back for a brilliance-flash. I scream out the anthill cap: "Leave the ants alone!"

You Stay There

2009-11-26T00:54:00.000-08:00

Some pencil pusher dashing out the door. Some misery addict dangling the cigerette. Some wisdom patent guarding the master’s wealth. Here I am with my observation hobby. Here I am with my dream straightener. I am by myself. I lean into my project. Here I am ignoring the dog. Bad Dog! “You stay right over there.” I am the canine’s judge. I hand down the sentence. But I am a merciful judge. He’ll be out soon on cute behavior. I can promise you that. I type words, but I’m no forlorn loner hero. I’m no angst pusher. I try my best to just tell it like it is. This wall is gray. That wall is orange. My eyes are tender from too many late nights and unconquered projects. Some pencil pusher is intruding my solitude. SOme misery addict is blowing smoke in my general direction. “You stay right over there!”

It was an Age of Poofy Hats

2009-11-20T17:48:00.000-08:00

It was an age of poofy hats and telescopic innovations. Disenchanted priests were pondering the cosmos. Disillusioned missionaries were constructing mechanical workforces. It was an age of wonder and a wonderful age. There were powerful punks who bemoaned the coming change. There were Enlightenment Salesmen who were peach with glee. There were innovators and instigators and exposed magicians looking for a home. There were magic movers and "humanity inflators." We were empowered and moving forward. We crossed the ocean to a promised land. We conquered the natives and comforted the pilgrims. The church was scattered. Authority decomposed. Structures crumbled. And men wore poofy hats and fancy pants.

Upward Notes

2009-10-28T06:39:00.000-07:00

Some songs end on upwards notes. Some lives never start on course. Some songs push the envelope. Some lives produce zero quotes. I’ve share some quotes that I never wrote down. I’ve displayed acts of love. I’ve reached my hand out to great antagonists and still stand here in my hole, sore arm and nowhere to go. Love is ethereal. Love is empirical. How do I get on? I don’t write letters I don’t intend to send. No love songs I write. No affectation verse. Crinkled paper lines the varnished hallway. Fractured memories fluttering among the snowflakes. Phantom urges surface in the frittered hours; To fill the void. To fill the hours. I feed the productivity god and bow before my ancient idols. So rake the frightened boyhood fears into the decomposing therapy pile. Light the fire. Light the fire. Heat-less flames protrude the darkness. Combat the legions. Walking and thinking with vapor in the minded regions. Some folks, in the end, break down, while others end on upward notes.

When Should One Define?

2009-10-21T03:16:00.000-07:00

With no time on the clock you have to act. You can’t get all caught up in the moment and what it could mean. You have to define it later. Do first, then define. SO many wise-crackers define first, then do. It’s all that “imagination” and “vision-casting” crap that long-term losers use to feel counter intuitive. I don’t know. Maybe that is not true. I like vision-casting, i guess. I’ve been a daydreamer since I was born. But I’ve been a “doer” since I’ve been born-again. Faithlessness fueled my attention-seeking, self-destructive ego forces. Faith has fueled disciplined action and honesty attenuators. Faith is a freethinker’s gutter cushion. Faith is a genius-amplifier. Faith is an irrelevancy identifier, that helps us act even when the clock runs out.

I March to a Different Drummer

2009-10-13T00:56:00.000-07:00

I march to a different drummer. An invisible drummer who taunts me and teases me out of my isolation chamber. When the master says “Dance!” I dance. But I march. On and on. I’m surrounded by people with lists and receipts. Each to-do item gets converted into receipts and placed in storage devices for later reference. There is a subtle thumping coming from the street. I rush to the door, shoes on feet. Blasted. Fractured. Smelling stale breezes. Whizzing bumble bees on fragile dandelions. I’m out on the street. Each step is an intentional, measured motion. Whizzing police cars flash past me. They are looking for my drummer. My drummer taunts them and teases them. They shoot their pistol-gadgets and swing bruise-sticks. But my drummer is invisible, and I march right past them all.

The Slanted Tree

2009-10-11T14:40:00.000-07:00

When I was a boy I used to stay out late to play. I would be the last boy out. If I were to become sick, I’d still go out to play. I’d throw stones at the sewage pond. I’d gather broken glass into imaginary jewel-treasures. I’d climb the slanted tree and think about elevated things. If I were to become sad, I'd ride my bike in dangerous ways. I’d hang around with oppositional children. I’d climb the slanted tree and hope for brighter days. When I was the last boy outside, I’d reflect on my imaginary episodes from my play-filled day. I’d assess my pretend life and offer intangible judgments. If I were the only boy outside, I’d climb the slanted tree and peer into the neighborhood for other playful boys.

Twitching Thinkers

2009-10-08T21:11:00.000-07:00

I need to stop feeling obligated to impress dead philosophers. Like they care that I am defending their silly proposition-things. I need to go outside for a good, long inhale. I want contrary things to be reconciled, to be cohesive on a supper plate. I want my questions to be meaningful and my answers to be simple. I want to juggle profound beliefs in persuasive patterns right in front of your face. You'd come in with your "Peace Police" and I'd come in with my "Resolution Troops." Dead philosophers speak to our mystics through glowing orbs. And the mystics take those comments and place them on scraps of paper to be brought to the most brightest and vocal of our local colleges. The twitching thinkers scour the scraps of paper, decoding cryptic messages, and read: "Go think for yourselves. Leave us alone."

Finney

2009-10-08T20:52:00.000-07:00

Finney was a chubby Man-Boy. You might think he was 12, you might think he was 24 - depending on the angle you looked at him. Most of the time you half expected him to pull a lollipop out of his damn trousers. When he walked across the yard he tried to disturb no leaf. He smiled at inanimate objects. He came into the room where you stood and wanted to be the nicest person you'd ever met. The nicest boy in the world. "kill them with kindness," he thought. He was hesitant to shake your hand, but when he did he always wiped his palm before extending. His wife was about as interesting as melting butter. She spent her time staring; thinking, maybe, about the best way to clean an iron.

Citrus

2009-02-04T16:33:00.000-08:00

We found citrus in the tap-rooms. We saw spirits in the dark-rooms. Wasbboards and the base-bins rattle in the truck box. The tall, cool cowboy grasped the cold, steel pistol handle. The tall, overtaxed cowboy fondled the fragile trigger sliver. Horses running in the horizon zone. Sunsets capturing all our hero-woes. Metaphors for the closing doors. Flirtatious metaphors too erotic for children. Erroneous wordplays tumbling out our genius flow. Citrus in the thought-sauce. Dark spirits in the back rooms. Disbelievers scoffing at all our profundity prophets. Citrus in the doubt sauce. Spirits behind the error-shields. Skeptics stir the citrus-sauce.

Hero Figure

2009-02-04T16:18:00.000-08:00

I’m no haunted hero-figure. I got switchblade visions shimmering in my pictures. Folded blankets bury wicked sisters. I’m your enchanted teacher, with chalk-dust clouding out my abstract lectures. Rolling desk chairs move the thinker. I got wicked sisters asking questions. “I’m no perfect hero figure.” I'm all broken, dreaming, plotless, boring. The cards I hold predict great failures. Limping women approach my counter. Broken dreaming, abstract lectures. I got switchblades poking out my pictures. “I’m no fearless fighter figure.”

Preparation and Perspiration

2008-11-17T11:32:00.000-08:00

We are approaching the grand culmination of many things. To be honest, I’m not prepared. But I was born unprepared. I grew up without preparation. I’m always activating my "spontaneous response" protocol as I slowly crouch behind my insecurity shields. I’m always “winging it” in the middle of the ice storm. In the middle of the confetti wars. Here I am sinking in quicksand and not even thinking about getting out until I’m up to my neck. Prudent people meditate and plan their day. Prepared people anticipate and perspire. They write down their strategy 6 days before their event. I’m up to my neck in it and trying to dodge debris. I’m initiating last-minute evasion tactics. I’m scribbling down my last words to loved ones as I bargain feverishly with my creator.

I'm Doing All I Can

2008-10-31T16:52:00.000-07:00

I’m starting new programs for the activity-impared. I'm scheduling field trips for the Fellowship of Unsafe Mothers. As of Friday, we will be gathering contact information for the formation of a brand new support group for people who wish they could dream. I’ll provide bagels. Jenny will bring the Ambian. I’m having internal struggles and must call my 12 step sponsor. I’m raising awareness for the victims of unanticipated laughter. I’m redeeming fast walkers. I’m waving to lonely people in the subway terminal. I’m cheering up total strangers. Damn it! I’m doing all I can. I’m standing up for men. I’m confronting oppressive dictators who drive dangerously slow and never share a joke. I'm really doing all I can.

Where Do I Register?

2008-10-09T13:22:00.000-07:00

All the courses are filled with students. All the desks are taken. All the seats are held down by ambitious survival-seekers.

Competition victims.

Free-market secondary casualties.

We all passed into this world through a vagina. Now we are learning math and computer programs. Now we are proposing profit systems. Now we are registering for classes, trying to stay alive. Give me coffee. Give me nicotine. Give me GPS systems to get me to my class on time. My hands are busy. My mind is tied up in thoughts. My heart is at the bottom of my junk drawer. I haven’t felt it in years. We all emerged into this world with a tit to suck. Now we register for classes. We all grow to a certain height, as ordained by invisible instruction sets in our internal systems. We all speak with a certain pitch. But our instructions systems need classes. So where do I register?

Most of the time.

2008-10-08T03:34:00.000-07:00

Most of the time I am in the gray. I’m jagged on the bound. I'm hitching a ride to the dark side of town. Most of the sunsets make me sleepy and I want to curl up under an oak tree. I’m the gift-giver without a ride. I’m the tail-wagger. The business man kisses the dirty doggy. The Service worker nods to the businessman. The floor driller stops his noise-machine to assess his progress. The security guard looks busier than he is – on purpose. The drink vendor is out of samples. Most of the time I’m in the gray, without one damn clever thing to say. Most of the time I’m doing nothing but dwelling on my activities. Nobody buys a product. Nobody seeks. Everyone dwells in the gray. The euphoric ones are distrusted. The ambitious ones are hated. I’m trying eagerly to hitch a ride. I have a dream and a plan, but I don’t have a coin. Most of the time I find something to laugh about.

Laughter is Good for the Heart

2008-09-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

I am negotiating altered scales while every unstable thing is disconnecting from the ground and floating upside down. I am scraping bottom while the ancient dragon blasts his fiery breath behind me. I do the only thing I’ve ever mastered: I run. Omnipotent dictators are planted in strategic places to pervert the holy. The merchants of self-pity are slashing their prices and I am gathering my coins for a purchase. "Pull yourself together!" Everything I do is done in honor of several women who exist in unreachable dimensions. My laughter is strategic. Laughter is good for the heart. Laughter is good for the heart. Laughter is good for the heart. “Pull yourself together yourself!” I am a pseudo-ghost. I am a reconstructed specter. A redemption spectator. I keep shattering against the floor and reconstructing myself. Trying to resurrect my favorite pieces. Trying to discard the tainted chunks. Trying to become.

The Social Animal

2008-09-14T02:24:00.000-07:00

It’s just that my journey is always bogged down by “the others.” I’m surrounded by other people who get in my way. Look at them all! They are “sign-readers.” Vote-casters. They are the anti-vagabonds. They scrape and ponder and go below the speed limit and I can’t seem to get around them. I signal and blink, I cuss and shake my head. I need people. I am a social animal. I was designed for community. “These signs were made by people!” I am built to love. I am incomplete without a friend. These people are made in the image of God. “These lights are here to serve us! We are not their servants!” But I am surrounded by sign readers and people who conceal their cheats. My car is a turbo charged sedan, but there is never enough room to really let that turbo blow. I am a social animal. Leave me alone.

Every Secondary Thing

2008-09-06T10:54:00.000-07:00

When I walk down the street I attend to many things. I attend to the scraping of my feet. I am aware of the passerby eyes. Their shifting eyes. Their swollen charms. I am aware. I attend. When I walk down the street I think. I ponder the losses of our enemies. I consider the secondary costs of my convenience mechanisms. “They should write those costs on the package,” I say as I halt at an intersection (attending to the pedestrian signage). When I cross the street I look both ways, but only briefly. Safety precautions have a diminishing return and I have better things to think about. If something is coming at me, I attend to it then move on. I consider its proposition and act accordingly. There are too many secondary risks to living and you can’t put them all on your attention package. You just have to use your life products and move on. You have to attend, but you don’t have to submit. You don’t have to worship every secondary thing.

Hammock Buzz

2008-09-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

Marge is in her hammock sipping tea, slowly drifting into sleep. Fe'tid the spider is slowly descending to the street. G-pa the Raccoon is shuffling through the alley, sniffing for some meat. He’s been shot with pellets, clipped by a Chevy Malibu, and struck by lightning, so don’t even begin to bitch and complain about the toils of your daily burden. Marge is sound asleep now, unaware of the buzzing bees around the garden post. She is lightly snoring, dreaming about being on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean. She has no paddles and is worried about how she is going to get her mortgage paid if nobody finds her. In her dream she has no imperfections. Her skin is silky smooth, like corporate fabric. She awakens to the sound of children laughing.

Kerosene

2008-08-20T01:55:00.000-07:00

Our actions reciprocate. Every outward thing we do flutters back like a boomerang and conks us in the head. Watch as I stumble around dizzy. I’ll be alright. And as I regain my balance I wonder: Are there any honest, freewheelers out there anymore? Are there any righteous firefighters? My heart is on fire and I’m descending into the kerosene. I’m one inch from sin, 2 feet from doom. My faith is on the verge of compromise, but watch me as I will never curse the Lord. The way I see it: I planted the trees, I must rake the leaves. Authorities surround me like chess pieces. Watch me. I’ll succumb to them eventually. We all do.

In My Midst

2008-08-19T22:02:00.000-07:00

Walking through the park with criminals in our midst. Strolling along the path with our memories still intact. I am a post-liberal scholar, trying on different thoughts. There are liars in my midst. I have all this knowledge but with nothing to dump it on. My power-tools are well designed but I have nothing to contort. My heart is broke. There are lovers in my midst. I rest my legs on a bench. My shoulders are tired from building walls. I’m looking for a power-outlet but all I find are covered receptacles. There are electricians in my midst. There are people passing to and fro. I wave at a friendly dog. My legs feel better so I resume my walk. I merge into the pathway traffic and disappear among the crowds. I am somewhere in my midst.

The Domineering Ones

2008-08-02T16:52:00.001-07:00

He is domineering. She is domineering. They are in complete control. They survey the digital read-out meters and adjust the pressure wheels. Life is a chaos multiplier and they are dividing by zero. Life is a randomization portal and it deeply frustrates them. His eyes are always wide open. She is always turning her head and holding her breath. They are shouting orders to the blowing leaves. They are organizing all their 5 year plans and constructing better budgets. Life is a dripping faucet that can’t be fixed. Evil lurks behind every billboard. Yet they are adjusting their 401ks and attending a “Getting Things Done” seminar. They are in control. They are NOT falling apart. They are NOT misinformed.

The People Are Getting Nervous

2008-08-01T23:13:00.000-07:00

The people are getting nervous, aren’t they? They are biting their nails and stumbling out of their sleeping quarters at all hours of the night. We can’t put blame on their plates, though. There are crop circles in their corn fields. There are butt-fucking viruses mocking our pesticides. There are toe-tapping atheists clapping their hands at our crumbling churches. The people are worried. They rest their hand on their stomach and pass squeaky gas out their overweight asses. But we can’t jump on their blame button. There are governments passing drastic taxes. There are mind-doctors prescribing laughless capsules. We wash our medicines down with lactose-free milk. Yes, even our cows are transformed from their inner-most neurons to their outermost cow-ness. If you want real milk these days, then get down on your knees and pray that NASA will find cows on mars and that you can somehow get to that organic cow-tit before corporate America does. Hurry.

The Current State of Art In God's Creation

2008-07-27T21:58:00.000-07:00

Everything is too clever right now, Monfried. It’s like if you want to be artistic you have to distort and twist-up. And I’m sick of all the cute-ness. I’m sick of all the perverted innocence, Tricksy. It’s always some sort of violent innocence in our art. It’s sick innocence in our lame-ass paintings. I’m over here trying to grow spiritually and I’ve got all these dumb-ass distractions. Here I am trying to solve the great "suduko of my soul," and lazy thinkers are trying to SHOCK me with hedonistic paintings that are vain and hopelessly uninteresting. I’m sick of all these uninteresting people, Spingler. I’m sick of them all and I just want to stare at a blank canvas for a while. I’m sick of it, and I’m gonna have to start painting my own pictures if things don’t change soon.

Categorical Stepping Stones

2008-07-22T18:26:00.000-07:00

She struts through the room making ontological claims with her hips. Good men feel strange and imperfect as she ambles past them. There are neurological equations being perpetually undone in their cortexes. Meanwhile, disappointed people are being comforted in our ambulances. There are hedonistic people buried under pleasure avalanches. And all of our conclusions come from meticulous “thought rules” designed within our academic disciplines. And those various thought disciplines drip forth from the minds of contingent people. “These thought disciplines don’t mean much, ultimately…. There’s just a bunch of stuff in God’s universe. We just try to make sense of it for a little while. We just want to know God, and our academic categories are merely stepping stones to his exalted throne.” So noble scholars build their categorical stepping stones Godward while every lovely woman distracts them with their ontological propositions.

The Bible is Not a Dead Frog

2008-07-19T19:13:00.001-07:00

We’re reading revelations like robots! We’re dividing the masterpieces of the apostles like frogs in a school-lab! What kind of inerrancy is this? Where is the Exit? Where is the broom? If you want to get higher, quit doing the same old propositional thing. If you want to get stronger, seek out resistance. If you want to get rounder, chisel off the sharp edges. We get so entrenched in our mental expectations and assumptions that we forget this truth: A good mind is an open mind. We get so inertia-driven that we forget this direction: Actions speak louder than words. We are not robots. The Bible is not a dead frog. We are eternity-creatures and the Bible is a quantum portal into our destiny-scenes. God acts in the in-between places of the physical world to enact transformation in the unarticulate-able places of the human soul.

The Urge

2008-07-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

Street vendors in the brickway peddling their art-products. Art-products designed to inspire purchase. Street vendor dreaming of the perfect product. Street vendor dreaming. Honking taxis swerve through mountain bike racers. Pedestrians amble onward and forward, fighting the inspiration to purchase art-products. Bi-directional pedestrian traffic, interwoven through economic forces that blow around like spirits, inspiring purchase. Inspiring innovation. Inspiring friendliness. Prompting crime. Stimulating the government to act. Bright labeled police-people strut back and forth with justice-sticks inspiring obedience. They strut back and forth with their obedience-products, dreaming of valiant apprehensions and fighting the urge to purchase wonderful art-products.

Solstices & Sandwiches

2008-07-02T16:38:00.000-07:00

Solstice swing. Actors on the scene. Pre-packaged sandwiches are being consumed all around me. Sandwiches pieced together AHEAD of time to free up our schedules for more important things. Prepackaged belief structures are being challenged all around me. People believe in God for no good reason, and they are now being consumed by capable skeptics. Skeptical actors riding on the solstice-swing. I’m sitting here waiting for the next song, Planning for a trip (a prepackaged trip to an unopened destination). All my packages have unraveled. All my beliefs are customized. All my sandwiches are made at the moment of consumption. In fact, I often put them together in my mouth.

Well Adjusted

2008-06-19T12:23:00.000-07:00

She is a regal one. She drips down the decision trees. She is free and rational. Her platform is solid. She is a hiker in the wild. Her backpack is well-adjusted. She approaches the crevice and looks down into the eternal decay. She believes she can jump across, and she does it without blinking. She is on the other side approaching the waterfall. She thinks, therefore she is. She sees the owl. She sees the bumble bee. She sees causation and uncertainty in the mystical metaphysical gaps that are immune to microscopes. Her eyes are straight. Her backpack is well adjusted. She keeps her ideas in her mind. She manipulates the data of her senses. She is coming to her mind. She is changing her senses. Starting her paragraphs. Ending her sentences.

Cobblestone Coins

2008-06-17T20:28:00.000-07:00

That old manager was on the path. He was hunched and hurried, chasing the coin. And the coin rolled along the cobblestone, and into creases of the cobblestone seams. That old bank manager, with the beard and the dripping tears… He hurried along the path. The coin was too fast. Mick, the manager, had eaten too many taste-y treats. Now he hurries, but is never fast enough to catch his coins. Now it takes him too long to capture his rolling quarter. He has no time to rub up against his family. He once had questions that danced in his mind, but they eluded him and now there are no dazzling questions. There is no family to rub up against. There are only coins rolling along the path and… hunger. Yes, chasing these coins works up an appetite, and now Mick is going to reward himself with a good, hot meal.

The Rattlesnake and the Squirrel

2008-06-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

Siren on wheels dashing to the scene. People eating meals, mingling under the screen. Woman on her phone stoking her friendship network. Disenchanted chemist reading ancient poems. I am listening to a folk singer with the sun obscuring my screen. I am dressed in blue. I am near a wall with Christmas lights. I am a rattlesnake tail. I am jittery on the inside, ugly on the outside. I am a squirrel in rush-hour traffic. I am dashing this way, and then I’m dashing that way. I am a sore loser, but hopelessly perseverant. I am scraping for my coin. I am pleading for redemption. Important people walk away from me. I’m tap-dancing near the punch bowl. Important people are looking slowly away. I am getting the message loud and clear. I am a rattlesnake tale. I am a squirrel, lost in racing traffic, looking for a hole.

Father's Day (2004)

2008-06-08T10:23:00.000-07:00

Father’s Day comes and goes and I don’t even know it.
I am the trampled feather,
Left for dead, a wreck, a limpen chump.
You’re some kinda’ King-Killer. "Assassin wanna-be."
Dragon breath.
But I am the Ash-Master,
Standing on the spot you destroyed me.
Disoriented, but re-attaining my purview.
Focusing; clearing scrambled visuals,
Aligning my resurrected senses.
Soon I will come to your sinister draw-bridge –
With a wrecking ball and a black flag.
I don’t care about Earned Value or Productivity Gains
And I suffer the consequences.
I am the lousy lemming – The wall-starer forever,
I don’t even lift my feet when I walk.
But I am coming to your telescope with ink and powder
And you will not be invited to the party. You.
Poison-pusher. Fire-Starter. Devil-seller.
Collect your pamphlets, gather your promotional items.
Nobody’s buying it anymore.

Transcending His Debris

2008-06-05T19:39:00.000-07:00

That old bastard’s softened up a bit. He has humbled up. Stepped up to the plate. He negotiates. He filters his opinions. He pours salt into his geyser gushes. He still drinks his wine and he won’t back down from a fight. Be he no longer ignites. He wants you to stay around. He wants to go boating. He wants to be a smile bringer to children. He wants to troll for sun fish. His golf game is getting better. He sits with his legs crossed and tries his hardest to get along with people who are different than him. His children are tainted by the manner of man he used to be, but he is rising above his debris and seeing the wisdom of his prodigal daughter. With his eyes and his time, he is affirming the different one and she is being redeemed.

Abilene

2008-05-30T00:17:00.000-07:00

Abilene, I need you. I'm living in a paper cup. I’m sharing a smoke with a rat and a goof. I need to hear your voice. I need to be near your idiosyncrasies. My hand aches and I have pains in my side. I’m concerned about my future. I need you to rest your head on my shoulder. We are in a country that embarrasses me. We are provoking monsters and injecting them with steroids, then blaming the monsters for their actions. Abilene, I need you near my seats. I want you walking in my hallway. I want you using all my plates and butter knives. I want you to make a sandwich in your pajamas. I want you to smoke a cigarette on my front steps. Abilene, I need you to laugh at my jokes. (Nobody else will!) I need you to ask me questions about abstract things. Everybody here wants to gossip about other people. They all wanna know “what’s going on.” But NOTHING is going on with them! They do nothing interesting! Abilene, I need you to come and provoke them to do interesting things.

Chasing Water Trucks

2008-05-24T12:12:00.000-07:00

Yeah... probably due to radiation, or some sort of atmospheric imbalance. Some sort of candy addiction in my mind. Some sort of "free-time phobia." Whatever it is, I always feel like I need to be moving. I need to be doing. I need to be engaged in some sort of project. I need to be on fire, chasing after a water truck. Some sort of invisible fire that keeps me from enjoying my moments. Some sort of "Freetime Bail-Out" program that I never voted for. But for now I am sucking sweet sweet tea and pondering my endless tasks. And telling my self “I need to figure out why I always add tasks. Yes, I need to get to that soon.” But the tea is good. And the movement of the fingers on the keyboard settles my trembling heart. Strangers want me to sit at their table. Driven people want my opinion. Some sort of internal atmospheric imbalance, probably.

Detachment Protocol

2008-05-18T03:37:00.000-07:00

Yeah, there are strange creatures creeping through the woodpiles. Yeah, there are important things to be discovered with our eye cameras. Opportunity grows faster than weeds and poverty. But I want to sit down now, Carmone. I need to rest these invisible gravity forces inside me. My inner atmosphere is too unpredicatable right now, and I need to still myself. I take my chances with the forces that are chasing us. I’m too downtrodden, Carmone. If you want to go on without me, that is fine. I understand. You have much to live for. You have many reasons to embrace these opportunity sparkles that perpetually barrage my vision tablet. I’m losing the will to go on. People jump to horrible conclusions that are only partially true. They activate their detachment protocol because of the stupidest flaws in my spontaneity mission. That’s fine, Carmone. Go on, now. Go on.

Stumbling Through the Resistance Field

2008-04-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

When I stumbled through the resistance field I was looking for a place to sleep. I was holding my wounds together with my jacket. I was walking with a limp. When I slept I dreamt of tapioca pudding and chardonnay on a picnic table on a breezy hill. And you were there with your perspective on everything. You were adjusting your position. You were wearing your perfume. When I woke up I was in a prison cell, my wounds were mended with gauze and ointment-goo. (There was no site of you). There were guards in the prison-ways. There were light beams in the alleyway. I was in a prison cell with no cheese or chardonnay. I grabbed my jacket and dashed straight towards the resistance field. And with sparks and jolts I stumbled through.

On the Brink of the Apocolypse

2008-03-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

Nobody was listening when the tale began, but all ears were on the sharp-tongued stranger when he mentioned the apocalypse. Everyone set their drinks down when he mention the rising tide of powerlessness that was rushing through their little leisure-suit worlds. And how he pointed out that it is “all connected.” From the rising price of oil, to the falling value of the dollar, to the growing stupidity of children. It was a profound and wonderfully complex force that we kept feeding and feeding with our unmitigated selfishness. It was a beast with jagged teeth, and we crammed its mouth with heaping spoonfuls of self-centeredness. And now we were as selfish as a people could get. And now we had no more selfishness to feed. And now the beast has a taste for blood. And now our time is almost done. “What do we do?” asked a person on the brink.

Hannah is Not Drunk (1 Samuel 1:13)

2008-03-11T20:56:00.000-07:00

Hannah prays in her heart, that’s why you can’t see her lips moving. Hannah keeps herself apart. She guards her heart from the darkness shards. Hannah finds a way. She shuffles through the crowds. She goes through places she is not allowed. Hannah shuffles through the storm without an umbrella or a coat to keep her warm. She is constructing a song. She is formulating a prayer. She prays her prayers. Hannah shuffles up the stairs to higher places. Jacob saw a stairway to heaven and there was Hannah coming down. She did not see him wave as she shuffled through the crowds, set apart in private thoughts, shuffling through the town. Her lips only move when she chews, or when she is bringing happy news. She does her work and rarely frowns. Hannah goes through places she is not allowed. Hannah dodges the shards of darkness and rejects the proposals of the city’s clowns. Hannah is on guard.

What is so Funny?

2008-03-05T16:46:00.000-08:00

What could I do? I was surrounded by troubled artists and house-poor scholars. I was sinking in melting tar on the collapsing streets. I was running from ill-tempered tax men. I was hiding from the parents of the youth I corrupted. I don’t want to be a troubled artist. I don’t want to be a prudish father. I don’t want to be the sold-out dolt who says, “that’s just the way this fallen world works.” Some people think the funniest things are important, while the really important things are funny! What can I do to change them? Their prudish fathers endorse their senseless logic. Their calculators are tapping loudly. They have evidence for all their self-ish ideologies. What could I do? I can’t save them all. It makes me dizzy when I try to answer all their phonecalls. I’m not technologically up-to-date. I lack the networks to accomplish the task.

The Come-Back Kid

2008-03-02T00:49:00.000-08:00

It was half-time. It was the dwindle-hour. I was a fool infused with sin. I was a fallen creature reaching for the stars. It was half-time and I was depraved. Monkey-people played with my earlobes while noble mechanics dropped their crescent wrenches to splash me with cold water. Now there is clarity. Now there is precision. Now there is good grammar with comfort and energy. It was half-time and I was gathering my resources for a surge.

"I am the comeback-kid, Chester, and I have an objective to accomplish. I have a mountain to surmount."

“I’m the comeback-kid, Lesley Chester, tell the Goon-Doctors to pack up their chisel-kits and leave me alone. Tell the bridge-burners to pack up their blow-torches and return to their self-indulgent homes."

“I’m the come-back kid, Lesley Chesterton, and I am late for an appointment.”

Perhaps This Was a Prophecy

2008-02-27T19:41:00.000-08:00

Then there were swirling clouds that coughed out lightning. And the jagged path and the one-legged turtle with the massive shell, dragging himself up a preposterous hill with an aching headache and a dry mouth. Then there was the band of women dancing and shaking iron tambourines. They were smiling and singing and showing off their rotted teeth to stoned lumberjacks and burned-out janitors who were resting their bad backs. Then there were horses; the last 4 horses in all the earth. The horses were running non-stop, faster than the wind. They knew a moment's pause would be their doom. And the horse hunters from their helicopters spit tobacco out the windows, where it was pulled up into the propellers and scattered over the earth like seed. Perhaps this was all a prophecy, perhaps it's just a real bad dream.

The Outskirts of Her Creation

2008-02-22T10:57:00.000-08:00

He was holding his breath for as long as he could, just to impress his peers at the cocktail bar. He was red in the face. He was damaging his brain. He was acting like he was having more fun that he really was. Then she walked in. She was the prophetic painter. She splashed some paint on a canvas and moved it around and said, “This speaks to someone, I don’t know who.” She threw salt on the outskirts of her creation to create a texture. “This is striking someone. I don’t know who. It is striking someone and they don’t know why.” She turned the canvas to the side, painted something that looked like a rotating eye. She said, “I don’t know who, but someone here wants to confess how they are really feeling. Someone here wants to share, but they can’t find the words.” She took her fist and strategically smudged the paint in certain places. “This speaks to someone,” she said.

The Truth About Making Millions

2008-02-19T13:07:00.000-08:00

Enriching as it may be, I don’t want to continue with your program. You can keep your course fee. You’ve earned it. But I do not fit into your personality-type quadrants and I am not motivated by the same human forces you suppose. You can keep the fee, though. After all, I had a donut and juice and the donut was good. But I do not want to stick around for your program’s conclusion. I do not want to learn the secret of successful people. I do not want to learn the "truth about making millions." I don’t necessarily want millions and I am not sure success is all that important. After all, in some sense, Jesus was a failure. Bonhoffer was a failure. Pelagius was a failure. All of them. Failures. None of them followed your 7 Steps to Perpetual Profits. None of them applied your Power-Packed Principles of Performance and Productivity. None of them signed over a check to your “Better Living Institute." Yet they are all my heroes. Thanks for the donuts and juice, though.

You Can Count On Me

2008-02-16T00:41:00.001-08:00

If I just let things come to me as they happen, if I let things just be what they are, then what is the point of me even being here? Am I really needed? If I exist, shouldn’t the world know it? You can count on me to do stuff, to move, to interact, to agitate. You can count on me to speak out of turn, to say what I think, to heal all my hurts. I exist thanks to a mother. I exist, thanks to God. And for their sake I will not let things come as they happen. I interject. I raise objections. My hand is to the sky, my eyes are to the ground, and my heart is on my mind. Every accomplishment sheds a tear. Why? It has something to do with the strain of opposition. It has something to do with not letting things happen as they come. Because things, as they come, always belittle and dethrone. They come with deep, dark motives. They seep up from the steamy glow of evil caverns. But I exist, and you can count on me for certain things.

Hayley is Going to Tokyo

2008-02-10T11:38:00.000-08:00

She reflects the sunlight like a diamond. She is a complicated prism that warps the light. She is a controversy of the highest order. We gather the evidence but it leads us into incompatible alleyways, and we wind up on unkown streets. She is a fancy pendulum. She widdles away our days as we watch her swing. She is a diamond controversy. We are on a strange street asking the vendors for clues. She is down an alleyway, we are running out of time. We are in the dark, she is refracting light in dazzling angles and projections as she floats through the void.

On My Way to Judah (Nehemiah 2:7)

2008-02-09T00:59:00.000-08:00

If it pleases the king, I am on my way to Judah to get my business done. There is a woman in the market who coerces me with her eyes, and there are many relatives who encircle me with expectations. I don’t care about any of them. I’m going to Judah, if it pleases the king, and I am going to get my business done. May there be safe passage. But if there is not, I am prepared. I am traveling to Judah and that is all there is to it. Nothing else matters. Every sparkle of hope amounts to nothing. Every perfect sparkle is lie. Every lie is fuel for decay. Every answer begs a question. So if it pleases the king, I may as well just go to Judah to get my business done. If I make it back in one piece, then we’ll see about all that other stuff.

The Farmer and the Balance-Beam

2008-02-08T09:21:00.000-08:00

Every farmer has some weeds to hack. The young men fumble and stumble in their meaningless folly. The women negotiate their wombs and walk their narrow balance-beam with one side drawing them into prudent, responsible motherhood and the other side beckoning their reckless and carefree spirits. Each woman is one small inch from being a gypsy and another small inch from being the nurturer of children. And the farming father plows the field and hacks the weeds. The old men walk, trying to deny their decay. The old women are satisfied to just sit in the wake of whichever side of the balance-beam they fell into.

The Smoke Detectors Need New Batteries

2008-01-25T05:02:00.000-08:00

I’m shredding piles of papers.
I’m shredding piles of letters.
I’m shredding box of poems.
Bright burn flaming.
"Sold out" bright.
I’m shredding piles of letters.
Love statements burning bright.
Love letters stripped of light.
No love letter.
No lover take care of me tonight.
I’m shredding piles of pictures.
I’m shredding box of photos.
No lover look after me tonight.
Outter space, shredding pictures.
I walk straight into light.
"Souled Out" bright.
I’m shredding memories tonight.
I’m shredding the bridges of my life.
That's me -
I’m nothing -
Flame fading out of sight.
That's me -
I’m nothing -
Life shredder hollower than light.

God's Jazz

2008-01-23T11:33:00.000-08:00

Electricity builds up in us as we walk around our ambiance. It builds up and blasts us when we touch the doorknob, or brush the phone pole. With a jolt and a spark, electricity moves. It jumps and accumulates, then jumps again with a jolt and a spark. It might hurt. It might startle. It might alert. It moves from host to host, and noone knows where it goes. It is nature’s spirit. It is God’s jazz. It is small reminders of our mortality. It re-orients us if we get lost in our dreaming. It grounds us if we become too elated. It jumps from host to host, and accumulates in our sheets. It lays awaiting in the carpet under your shoes. It will get you too.

The Melody Tractor

2008-01-20T11:58:00.000-08:00

We are all one melody away from an epiphany. We are all one question away from a breakthrough. When I was a child, my grandfather let me steer the tractor (he held his hands over my hands, but I was convinced I was the one steering). When I was an adolescent, my teachers let me turn in my homework late. I guess there are many mercies and graces overflowing from the seems – seeping into the streams. And even now, when I look back on it all (with Chopin playing softly in my earphones), I see that I am lucky. I am lucky not to be an orphan. I am lucky not to be deformed. I am lucky not to be a lost alien on some doomed exploratory mission. When I look back on it all now, I regret my character flaws and the sins they inspired. But there is mercy and grace from the tip of our tongues down to the inner workings of our molecular systems. And I am steering the melody tractor and I am breaking through.

Sculptures and Airplanes

2008-01-15T18:31:00.000-08:00

Now I’m seeing sculptures. Now I’m hearing airplanes. Now I’m scratching itches I can reach. The summer seems too far away. The winter will not leave. Stress adds to the fray. Stress widdles away the day. Stress sews a net and it flutters around your neck. It tangles up your steps. It destroys all hope of sex. It gaurantees an audience of boring people. It eliminates opportunity. It eradicates creativity. It hampers objectivity and punctures your credulity. It is pining for relief. It is hoping for freedom. Now I’m hearing airplanes. Now I’m seeing sculptures. Now I’m breathing deeply. One Breath, two breath, three….

Phineas

2008-01-10T23:42:00.000-08:00

Phineas came from a gambling town -
Wiped his brow and looked around.
Phineas stepped into the street
Prompting shouts and scoffs and "BEEP"s.
Phineas flinched and ducked and cowered.
His mood had changed, his outlook soured.
Phineas stepped into a store.
He had 5 bucks - they wanted more.
Phineas went back to the street,
Hitched a ride and headed East.

Perhaps I Was Thinking Too Deep

2007-12-31T15:20:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I was thinking too deep (Or my mind was too shallow), but now they're wheeling me through the hall on a squeeking gurney. I was following the premises all the way down to the conclusion. Now their dragging me across broken glass and rose petals. I was trying to create a new thought. I was remembering my youth. I was pondering my future. Now their reading me my rights and garnishing my wages. All our systems collapsed down on me at once. Now their poking me with IVs. I’m on a slow potassium drip and my fluid levels are unstable. I’m on an oxygen machine, and my thoughts are shaking free. I’m behind the second curtain, toying with the bed controls. I’m ringing the nurse’s bell and waiting for assistance.

When She Walked Into My Life

2007-12-30T15:24:00.000-08:00

When she walked into my life, I was adding up all my bad habits. All my belongings were pushed into a pile. By the time she walked out of my life, I had thoroughly defiled myself and sank to new levels of failure. When she walked back into my life, I was searching for a new way to fail. She hung on just long enough to watch me scrape the bottom. When She walked back into my life yet again, I was casting out the line and reeling in the fish. I was playing with my beard. I was making my final wish. When She walked into my life yet again, I was sweeping away the debris and planning my redemption. And when she walked in for the final time, I was banging my head against the wall. I was drowning my feelings with strategic beverages. I was dancing with a tree. I was tapping on the glass. I was asking her to leave.

Businessman on the Boulevard

2007-12-21T00:40:00.000-08:00

The business man is sticking his hand into the coffee can, swimming it around through the cash and pulling out a stash. He puts back the can into the cupboard behind the couch with the afghan. He marches through the front door and into the sunshine. Into the sunshine, that shines on every woman and man, and he steps into his auto-car and drives it down the boulevard. Gliding on its axels on the boulevard, which is funded by the taxes off the backs of every working man. The businessman cruises down the boulevard. He does not pay his taxes. He breaks no sweat while sending faxes. He is the beneficiary of a system - a wave on which he surfs to independence. He gleans small change from large groups of nice people. He empties the overflow of profit into his metaphorical pocket. He dreamed up the scheme, and now he is driving down the streets tax free, with a wink and a gleam.

Cartwheels

2007-12-17T14:59:00.000-08:00

We were all pursuing different projects and goals, as if it was the most natural thing to do. It was work, but it was also slavery. We each acted as if we were free. Objects moved rapidly and unpredictably. Beauty came and went, and there was no way to keep it. Each of us wanted. Each of us desired. Each of us were preoccupied with ourselves, totally ignorant that we were each one inch from doom. We were prancing on the ice. We were doing cartwheels across the freeways. We were sticking our heads between the gears. We reached, and strained and pleaded for sleep. We ate, we screamed, we pined for relief. Our prayers rose up through the fireworks. Our prayers rose up from our junkdrawer-lives.

Surrounded By Blenders

2007-12-01T13:12:00.000-08:00

It was the first snowfall of the year, and everything visible and invisible was passing through a process of transformation. I ran around the corner. I dashed across the street. I looked over my shoulder. I was trapped. Surrounded by blenders of circumstance, each one determined to send me swirling and clambering for stability and consistency. I was surrounded by blenders and had no weapons. I didn’t scream when they started whirling my scenes. I didn’t weep when I was yanked from my feet. I didn’t snicker when I was thrown across the cold, cold snow. When the blenders were gone I got back to my feet. One minute at a time I began to understand the newness of my life. They say first impressions are everything, and I was impressed. I was impressed with the first impressions of my new self and my new circumstance. It was different. It was well blended. But it was also good. And I looked forward to what was going to happen next.

Microscope Salesman and Lab-coat Politicians

2007-11-24T18:54:00.000-08:00

It was a learning experience, all right. I spent 20 thousand dollars on an ego stroking set of pointless lectures. I dropped a couple hundred hours on reading a hundred books on mental health written by rogue scholars from their impossible, materialistic perspective. And my fellow students drooled with desperation. They came in drunk. They came in aching to be loved. But all that their atheist counselors could offer them was empathy. And I could see the slow shrivel and decay of the minds around me, so I pushed my desk over and ran. I ran and ran and ran until I came to the word of the Lord and the promise of his deep eternal love. And I shrugged off the microscope salesman and the lab-coat politicians and searched your word for the truth of your love. And I could feel my mind and spirit slowly coming together and pushing me forward towards your promises.

The Grin-Bringer

2007-11-15T15:47:00.000-08:00

This is the thing that grinds me: I waste so much time awaiting pointless affirmations. My heart is always in a mud puddle. My thoughts are stuck. And sometimes even music doesn’t free me. But these things pass. They really do. They pass away. And I will thump and stomp again with a grin. With a mug of fun and a chin of cheer... Open the windows, someone is coming to me. Open the garage door, someone is coming. The great affirmer. The mud puller. The grin bringer. Come to me and tell me where my hope lies. Pull me from the mud and lead me to a home. I won’t resist your gentle knowledge. Just know that I am damaged product. A bruised reed. A tainted soul who hungers for wicked things and longs for pointless affirmations.

People are Approachable

2007-11-07T10:18:00.000-08:00

People are approachable, but you have to approach them in the right way. You can’t just jump at them from behind the flag pole, or spring up at them from out of their hose-box. You have to move smoothly and casually, like “it ain’t nothing.” You can’t bring up sad stories or spew forth the drama of your past, and they just do not care about your idiotic fathers and your unsatisfiable mothers. All they care about is their own wish lists and their own to-do lists. Approach them with a helping hand, and they will invite you to dinner. Approach them with a task and they will darken the tone of their voice. Approach them with intoxicated slur and they will awkwardly back away. Sober up, then. Wash yourself and prepare for your approach. Come in smoothly and offer a helping hand.

Outer Adults

2007-10-29T16:25:00.000-07:00

We were sipping on the vine and there were famished soldiers strumming their chords and letting them ring like gentle sirens. I’m counting to three. Tombstones block my view, I’m trying to see the horizon. Apple trees block my view. I’m trying to hide from search planes. Streaking comets guard my view, I’m trying to see my home planet. I’m sipping on the vine, it’s scrambling my mind. I'm counting to three, then I’m setting the glass on the table. It’s dripping on the dirty floor. I’m swinging in my hammock, trying to find my inner child. I was listening to the soldiers play their guitars and sing their protest songs. They were guarding my view. I was trying to find my inner child, who was trying to hide from his outer-adult. Everything I tried failed. But I tried.

Shots

2007-10-17T20:18:00.000-07:00

So I was wiping the sweat off my face reflecting on our victory. Once you get the lead, once you get ahead, then you can REALLY take some chances. You can really lay it out there and take your shots. As it happened, things started off tough. I was the perpetual-second-place guy. Nothing happened as planned. Nothing happened the way it was supposed to. Expectations were meaningless. All I had was nothing to lose, and I used it. There was nobody to let down. The bridge collapsed at the worst time, but it was the right time. Vulnerabilities grow and merge and flow from the earth to the brain to the soul, until the inertia of instability is too great to stop, then BOOM! Broken bridges. Take your shots while you are ahead, because you can fall behind for a long, long time. So people adjust and adapt, though. And once I get ahead, I’m really going to take some shots.

In the midst of all of this...

2007-10-15T05:23:00.000-07:00

There are icons. There are anti-icons. There are snowboards in the hallways of the halfway houses. There are screaming singers bellowing the consequences of their actions and actors… tumbling through the lines of their dramatic movie scripts. There are scriptures burning in the minds of moral negotiators. There are agitators. There are sinners. There are single justice seekers dating simple-minded educators. And in the midst of all of this are faith and love and hopefulness. In this midst of all of this stands economics and the rising cost of living. There are inflationary pressures of salaried positions. There are starving artists and bloated stock brokers smoking weed and rearranging their needs. There are uninspired artists and corrupt executives slowly chewing their dinner meals. There are the animal squeals and the Eskimo seals. There are the crackling of glaciers under the oscillation of our prosperity wheels.

Dancing in the Light

2007-10-06T12:26:00.000-07:00

It was a resurrection year. There were bags under my eyes. There were the burdens of my sins. There were those dangling, pointy things. There were women on the verge of drawing me in. It was a perplexity year. A year of scattered projects and loose associations. There were self-righteous Bible believers quieting our Bible scandals and polishing their Bible-sandals. There were over-wealthy hippy-chicks shouting at our tail-pipes. And the tail-pipes… they coughed out filthy gasses. And the hippy-chicks... they took enlightened classes. It was a year of shrinking barriers, and I was peeking over the top. I was peering around the side. I was dancing in the light. And in that light there were immigrants trying to come back to the land their ancestors owned. Like scattered tenants returning to their homes. It was a resurrection year, and now ascension is near.

Rules for the Sedentary Life

2007-10-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

Seek to increase your comforts.
Maximize your efficiencies.
Create for yourself an ambiance –
To charm all of your visitors.
Compile yourself a wardrobe –
For all conceivable occasions.

Always keep an eye on your culture
So you can update your ambiance
And alter your wardrobe
According to fashion fluctuations
And shifting decorating trends.

YES, this world is on fire –
And the world blames you!
But what can you do?
Don’t they know it’s wrong to hate?
YES, people are rotting with need.
But what’s that got to do with you?
You buy Dolphin-safe Tuna, right?

Now back to work with you,
Don’t be Late.
If you feel nauseous or dizzy
Find yourself a mate.
One who agrees with your furniture.
One who has that suburban spark.
The one they learned from their favorite TV shows.

If this all makes you sad and weary,
It’s probably just a chemical imbalance.
Don’t cry,
Express yourself with wallpaper.
Dwell on your retirement.
You’ve earned it!

Losing Patience and Patients

2007-09-29T01:18:00.000-07:00

The elderly women Conspire
The nursing home cameras aren’t working.
Cranky old women with walkers
Perspire while plotting and escaping.
“There’s just too many to stop,”
Cried the 4^th street, dumbfounded cop.
“We should just give what they want,”
Said a nervous young mother, breast-feeding.
“But they’ve made no demands. Their medications are empty.”
“And where are the men,” asked a curious driver.
“Oh-They’re huddled in doorways and closets,”
Said a Nursing Home Escape Specialist (NHES).
“Lieutenant,” said Nick, with a telephone receiver.
“It’s for you. It’s them. I think it’s their leader.”
“This is the Lieutenant with Nick,” said the Lieutenant with Nick.
“What do you want and where are you going?
Return to the homes or you’ll surely get sick.
Your joints will start aching, your diapers will be overflowing.”
And then spoke their leader, in a definite tone.
“Save your money, young man, and take care of your home.”
“Love your neighbors and uncles and ride on their boats.”
Then Nick grabbed the phone – at the end of his wits.
And said, “Look, Lady, I’m losing my patience,”
“Where the hell are you going?”
But the old lady chuckled and spoke with a grin.
“I can tell by your tone, you must be Nick.
Well Nick, this is your mother, but I’m not hopeless or angry.
We’re just off to the woods where it’s fertile and shady.”
Then Nick felt like an ass, and said “mother, I’m sorry.
I’m so buried in work I can’t keep track of my family.
My children are sprightly, but their names they escape me.
So, wise mother, may your journey go greatly.”

The Poor and the Restless

2007-09-24T00:46:00.000-07:00

Wedding-faced Rumor-queen
Crambing whisper pills through clenched teeth.
O, her Wooden Cup of swirling fluids;
O, her diagnostic noises;
O, her rashes on my itching eardrums.
Peasants scatter,
Vultures gather.
Onion-man with iron stubble
Speaking in jittery lipped need:
“Please help me seek my wooden cup,
I lost it when I fell asleep.”
The poorer one is, the less they can rest.
Rippled itching eardrums draw a finger near.
Earth’s half dozen peacemakers sleep
On tender couches orbiting a foreign sun.
African ointment boats lost at sea.
African ointment boats lost at sea...

Wonder Puppets with Windy Pockets

2007-09-19T22:11:00.000-07:00

Justification for the wicked
Is like mail-in rebates for sauces.
We all walk, windy pockets.
We all stop (wonder puppets).
We find watches, hide our losses,
Great, great, gains
Spent on sauces.
Door-to-door, or store-to-store
We buy watches, hide our losses.
“What’s that smell,” wonder puppets.
The wind blows through their empty pockets.

The Exchange

2007-09-15T00:46:00.000-07:00

You’ ve walked through the exchange,
The turnstiles of my mind,
This one stays,
That one goes;
This one’s Strange,
That one’s Kind-
Hold that pose!
This one has a clue to the maze
Now give it to me please.
Someone tell me what he knows
So I can go and get my cheese.
Now look here:
If you don’t like me, there’s the door.
That one has youth,
That one drags their foot.
Now where’s my notebook?
I want to jot this down.
If noone wants to read it, there’s the door.
I’m no sleuth.
I’m no crook.
I’m just on bad terms
With the author of my book.
Now look here:
I need someone to turn the page.
I said “look here,”
Someone turn the page.

Progress

2007-09-05T10:31:00.000-07:00

The sheets are well folded and the dishes have been put away. I wipe down a table for nothing. There ain’t no dust on there. I just want to feel useful… like I am contributing to progress… making things better. But things are always as they are. Tomorrow I’ll blow out of this place in a flash and it will all be a shameful mess. Work, work, work. That is inevitable. But I drive a motorcycle to work and I feel free-spirited for a few moments. And I help people get better. I help people progress on their paths of self-fulfilment. And I can’t get gratification for a damn thing. I’m never satisfied. I’m always chucking it against a wall, then sweeping up the pieces. I’m always listening to angry music and crinkling my forehead. Who the hell are these pissed-off musicians that I should crinkle my forehead for them? I rev my motorcycle and feel free spirited. I don’t need to crinkle my forehead for anyone. Not anymore. Never again.

"Personalized License Plate" Induced Psychosis

2007-09-02T16:31:00.001-07:00

It all started as a mistake, really. All of it. A casual mistake, involving strange people along the freeway. The prairie winds blew. The road signs twinkled and there was that exit that they should have taken. So now they are lost in a land of personalized license plates and amusement parks. The sun beats down on them and they try to shift into a higher gear. Their baggage is well secured, though, so there’s that. One must always have secure baggage in this amusement park world. What started as a wedding wish ended as a facial twitch. But I’ll tell you all about that if we get more time. Right now I am too busy being a good passenger; One arms length away from the steering wheel, one dream away from reality, one car door away from death and rapid pavement.

All My Lifelines Lead to Deadlines

2007-08-30T23:36:00.000-07:00

On the one hand, I’ve got all these work requests coming to me demanding my time. I’ve got well dressed peers handing me work orders while they are pointing at deadlines on a calendar. I’m at the bottom of a hill and milestones are rolling down on top of me. I’m following all my lifelines all the way to my deadlines. I check that one off, then hand it back. I check that one off and hand it back. I’m always checking things off, but nothing is ever satisfied. I’m dynamic in my resource allocation, but nobody shares a joke. On the other hand, my foot aches and I limp from place to place. All my schedule estimates will have to be delayed because my foot is slowing me down. All my estimates are suffering. These non-physical, fairytale estimates are laying on the floor and I am squashing them under my aching foot. And as my body slowly disintegrates, my projects slowly integrate. My plans grow stronger as my hands get weaker.

I Can Do It Without Looking

2007-08-29T01:57:00.000-07:00

I zipped up my coat (I can do it without looking), and said: What do you mean what’s wrong? Are you blind? Have you been struck down with stupidity? I mean I’ve got creepy things crawling through my towns. I’ve got milkmen who look at me as if I’m the one who let them down. Isn’t that enough to make this all clear to you? Do I have to draw you a picture? I’ve got candy stuck to the roof of my mouth. Astronauts call me in the middle of the night saying I left my headlights on. The roof of my mother’s house twinkles in the moonlight, and I can’t find the keys to the damn barn. Do you see my misery now, onlooker of wayward wisdom? I try to eat pork chops but the fridge is so cold that milk is frozen. When I ask my friends to come over, they climb all my trees. I went to the ball park and they said I had to bring my own seats. My bridge caught on fire, my dog barks at crickets… just leave me alone.

Wayward and Dreamless

2007-08-28T02:34:00.000-07:00

Well here is the problem, see: I'm wayward and dreamless. My hope is stuck like a mouse in the mud. I can't get my feet down to work. I'm without mobility or clear vision. My eyes are slippery and eager to close, yet itch and ache to be open. Soon I will do... all I want to do. Yes, when all these symptoms are rejiggered, and my inspirations are allowed to breed - to feed behavior, so to speak - and hinder these temptations that thwart all my goals and all of my main objectives. "Oh, all my objectives are main objectives; one massive priority heap, too steep to sleep." I need to go see a specialist. A counselor. I just need the help I need. But the secretaries are downright wired and impolite, and their coat racks have such small hooks, and I've got such big coats with large mittens - like a boxer who's cold.

The Sleepy Hand

2007-08-27T02:12:00.000-07:00

The squeak startled me, I’ll admit that. I’ve been to your planet and I know what’s going on there. You told me to follow that twinkling star, but I lost track of which one and ended up here on your planet earth. You pointed to "that star," but you were sleepy and your hand was wavering, and the sky has so many stars, I couldn’t keep track. And so earth it was. This is where I ended. It’s not that bad, if you don’t mind eating chicken, or drinking bottled water. The gas prices here fluctuate. The price of stamps stay stable. The friendlier the person the smaller their net worth. The richer the child, the slower their intellect. The clouds are from moisture, which builds up in the sky, then purges itself on the weekends when all the blue-collar families seek picnics and worship. The speed limit refers to "driving machines," and is established by assessing the dangers of the immediate environment.

Miracle Children with Fancy Objects

2007-08-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

She was a real lanky winner, a first grade teacher. Her words were sizzling butter, and their little minds were popcorn kernels on the verge of exploding. Each lecture was a sermon, each student was a miracle of God. They raised their hands and she would point. They spoke, she redirected. It was a symphony of shared experiences. Yeah, there were trouble-makers and rabble-rousers, but they disappeared like ghosts in snow. There were ideas and clever drawings made from crayon. There were silly jokes and fancy objects at the show and tell. Sizzling butter flooded their ambiance. Miracle children floated on their fancy objects, passing lonely, angry ghosts trapped in snow.

I'm Glad Someone Thinks It's Funny.

2007-08-20T04:51:00.000-07:00

It’s possible, ma’am, but I think I’m done. I’ve been run down and pressed to the ground. I’m gonna go this way. You go where you want to. Too much time has passed and I’m not talking about "pretend" time. I’m talking about real time, with real consequences. Real shifts in reality. "Ontological" time that ticks in cosmic permanence. The type of time the clicks and whizzes on the clocks of God’s observatory; His grand balcony overlooking his show. We prance around and run into each other, and God and his angels… they laugh and laugh and laugh. But you know what? That is okay. I’m glad someone thinks it’s funny. I just don’t want him to change the channel, or cancel my program. Not yet, anyway. Not until I see what happens with all these improvements I’m making. Not until I finish this episode I’m working on. But you... you have had your episode on my show, and the ratings just weren’t good enough to invite you back. Sorry ma’am.

Banality Food

2007-08-10T17:48:00.000-07:00

We were looking through the void for a better method of document delivery. A system to get our forms to their targets. A message-launcher, or something to that effect. But what we found blew our minds. Deep into our research we realized that banality needs equipment to be transferred from one person to another. Inconsequential data is dependent on the mechanisms of man, the tools of technologically savvy people. Banality thrives on information systems and populates in the minds of misguided seekers. It infests those who are greedy for more information, who are looking to be one rung higher on the knowledge ladder so that they can look down on whomever they are seeking to look down upon. They are looking for a better view, but their sad accumulation of information blocks their vision, until, in their highly elevated misery, they climb right off the top rung and plummet to their doom.

If I Go In...

2007-07-25T22:57:00.000-07:00

I’m at the ocean, standing at the edge of the beach. People pass me with distorted faces and misguided dreams. Reflective people stare at the ground. They're at the beach, but are nowhere to be found. I hear the ocean water pushing and pulling, like the breathing of the earth. I’m on the edge. I can either go in, or I can turn back. But if I go in, I’m going in deep. Women pass with their Japanese hand-fans. They cover their face, but not their eyes, and I feel like the world is waiting for me to move my feet. There are certain people who have earned a place in my mind. They are my portable audience. I carry them with me wherever I go. Everything I do is done for them to see. With eager anticipation, I imagine what they will say and think and if they will be pleased. They're in my mind, in the back, behind the hypothalamus and the amygdala, just beyond my hoping lobe. I check my watch. I check my feet. “If I go in, I’m going in deep.”

An Inversion of Wealth

2007-07-19T22:45:00.000-07:00

It’s dull and boring, but it’s homeostatic. It’s in the cellar. It’s in the attic. Wishing will never make it better. "Want" is the first instantiation of destruction. It is the "Indian Summer" of our impending doom. It is a "Garbage-Truck Holiday" with overflowing trash-bins in our room. Eliminate want, but not joy. Frugality is the first step towards freedom. Frugality is a type of inverted wealth. Frugality is sweet fragrance to the Lord’s disciples. The specter of fear to greedy corporations. Frugality is the death bullet to stockholders and their hillside-mansion dreams. It is the antidote to the disease of world domination schemes. It is a wrecking ball rolling through the halls of crystal things. And their sculptures of glass crash in its path.

Spiritual Concrete

2007-07-09T01:02:00.001-07:00

I was in a dangerous space, stuck in a contracting crevice. I was being crushed by the consequences of my past actions. I was drowning in the results of some highly destructive behaviors. But you came to me with your life jacket and tow-rope, and now we’re standing on the hill staring at the skyline of our city. Now we’re making plans for a more productive, fulfilling future. We’re making vows to save money, to eat healthy, and to sleep on a regular basis. You nod your head. I clap my hands. The deal is sealed in spiritual concrete and cosmically valid. We won’t under-sleep. We won’t over eat. We’ll buy things with cash and put our credit cards in canisters surrounded by fire and electric fences. There are not too many mornings left, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them to ungrateful credit card executives, or to anxious restauranteurs.

Walter & Winthrop

2007-07-06T01:35:00.000-07:00

Out past the Garden Store, and beyond the apple trees, a semi-trailer creaked and whistled in the wind. Inside the semi-trailer was a goat and a little boy, and the little boy was talking to the goat with human words. He said, “I like bananas with peanut butter. Do you like bananas with peanut butter?” The goat did not seem to be paying attention. The boy said, “My mama doesn’t know where I am. She don’t know anything about me.” The goat began walking to the rear of the trailer, but the boy tugged on the goats collar to keep him close to his side. The boy said, “I hate school, Walter.” The goat’s name was Walter. “Everyone is always saying ‘Winthrop is a doorknob, Winthrop is a doorknob,’ and I hate it.” The boys name was Winthrop. The goat did not like the boy very much. No living thing did.

Grandpa Jones (The One-Armed Bandit)

2007-07-03T20:04:00.001-07:00

Oh Grandpa. Weren’t you so misunderstood with your stump. You were a misunderstood amputee. Or perhaps you were a misunderstanding amputee. Or perhaps you were a shape-shifter of the highest degree; a fossil of your old self that would penetrate into the future like some pseudo-digital, new-age travel guide. A swoon-magnet! A dry-drunk with a wife to mute your rage. Scatterbrained and unaware. But somewhere you’re a soldier. The leader of the platoon. The driver of the fishing boat. With no fear. No insecurity. No stump. You were the heredity faucet. You were dripping down the vine into the leaves. Everybody falls from memory. Everybody shatters the hourglass. But, for now, you are deeply missed.

Mountain of God

2007-06-27T23:39:00.001-07:00

And you'd say, "There is the mountain of God!"
And you'd turn, and I'd be gone;
Clambering up that mountain.
Tongue scraping ground;
Eyes pulling out;
Rib-cage burnt from inside out;
Ancient wisemen decomposing in soil beneath my feet
(Scrolls in robes).
And if my foot gets caught in rock,
I'd crack it off and crawl
Until my tears find home
On the robes of the Lord.
Until I can look upon his face
With eyes wide
And not go blind.
Because if I've ever been right about anything at all:
There's something more.
'Cold' is a lack of 'warm.'
And I don't even want to sleep
Until I find the source of heat.
The path is crumbling behind me.
I can't go back
"Yeah I know that."
I can only go inward and outward,
And forward,
Until I go mad.
Or until I'm forgiven.
Until my regrets are all frozen
In ten-ton blocks with sharp edges
And prepared for demolition
By broad shouldered spirits
With yellow jackhammers.