Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Bob Hope on a float. A float of Bob Hope,
Not a Human Man on a float.
Just rolled into Pasadena from Nam.
Working for a living. Can't blame 'em.
Get behind that guy behind that guy behind that guy.
They are not saving you they are hiding you.
It's New Year's Day.
You can forget about everything now!
Celebrate life. It's void of pain!
Did not you hear?
Wake up wake up, it's not a dream!
...............you are sucked in to
that one singular vacuum. you may not come
back. We, the us, that keeps holding it up,
will miss you.
Not a Human Man on a float.
Just rolled into Pasadena from Nam.
Working for a living. Can't blame 'em.
Get behind that guy behind that guy behind that guy.
They are not saving you they are hiding you.
It's New Year's Day.
You can forget about everything now!
Celebrate life. It's void of pain!
Did not you hear?
Wake up wake up, it's not a dream!
...............you are sucked in to
that one singular vacuum. you may not come
back. We, the us, that keeps holding it up,
will miss you.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Emotional Renaissance
He hears about her death late, which seems slightly absurd considering how fast news travels these days. Nevertheless, the words shake him in a manner that he's not used to. She was so very young -- they all say, including him, although like all other things he somehow manages to make it about himself. It's a way for him to better assess his own mortality at twenty-three; his past failures, lowered motivation, self-esteem, but above everything else what gets to him the most is his lack of effort to care before she died.
They hadn't spoken in person for over a year; their last encounter brief due to his crippling infatuation with another. He thanks the universe that she's still breathing, even if some of the consistencies aren't quite what they used to be. Then the overwhelming nature of the phone calls and text messages filter in. He loosely flirted with the idea of this young and recently whittled flower unbeknowest to anyone else (His productively close and strangely distant friends and acquaintances)
It was a personal conquest to prove an age-old point to himself. A lack of concern for everything she was, only made her want him more and furthermore turned his own thoughts on the entire situation inward.
He wasn't himself in brief technological flashes of boredom. She would send him her vulnerabilities and he would return the favor with an intelligently bloated facade of a personality.
And this trend didn't so much continue as it popped up on occasion in the late and vacant nights spent in similar small towns with dry wells and feeding holes, until it became too much for him. Not the thoughts necessarily. They were genuinely fantastic while still remaining marginally false when push came to shove. The slender form saying all the right things in the back of his head wasn't her, but more so the her that he wanted her to be. The girl that chose him and his anti-social tendencies or compulsive vices over the brightened lights and blurry Sunday mornings.
She invited him to participate in the safe and expendable occasions to which he denied at least three times like Peter, before the end of it.
Part of him didn't want to put up the effort of selling himself short for what would have tragically amounted to an easy lay for mostly everybody else. Not him, though. He refused to take the drive, to order the drinks, to listen to the same stories heard a thousand times over, simply in preparation for the standard effects of alcohol to sink in. He was above the curb, while still unfortunately stranded below it.
Communication was finally cut following a table tennis game of electronic symbols, sent back and forth before he got his cellphone plan changed to compensate for evolved times. She considered texted sentiments communication while he was simply trying to work on something more concrete, about the ones who truly managed to spin him around blindfolded in all directions.
She felt inferior and dumbfounded by him electronically shrugging her off of his shoulder and soon sent her emotional imbalances back through the same means. he told her to go fuck herself and thought nothing of it until after his work was done.
The images then pounded away at his brain on sporadic and unnatural occasions when he was having problems deciding on a direction. The fantasy still surprisingly held up for him, representing in the simplest of definitions a last resort for a new era. One when it all suddenly made sense. He could be the fully-fleshed example of what he always wanted to be with a girl so beautiful, but at the same time, only worth the experience of another late night.
That was all her really wanted, and yet as it still somewhat tears him apart, he has problems deciding what defect made him stop caring. He's not sure if it's a still grainy moral code or just the way times happen to be sputtering along. A refusal to conform, tied together with the strings of a philosophy that clearly states -- it's so much better to be alone, waiting for something spectacular to come along rather than placing half the dozen eggs into the carton and seeing how well they sit.
However, despite all his thoughts on unexpected circumstances (poor motor skills in beach side communities) he still can't help but feel that there is always going to a splotchy void within himself simply because he knows now that she is forever gone. Regret is a piece of it, although double-edged in nature. Part of him regrets the way he acted, whether it was virtual or in person; the seasoned appearance of someone who didn't ever give a fuck. The second and less stable part regrets that the fantasy will never be the same again.
It fell apart before it's time, and now only acts as a reminder to an in-between period of his life when he didn't completely and fully understand what it meant for life to be fleeting; for last chances, however mediocre they may be, to truly be last chances. He hates that every similar thought of her and the person she was trying to be makes him think of death, but in any case has learned a valuable lesson in the proceedings. There's no point in being so short with the others anymore.
They hadn't spoken in person for over a year; their last encounter brief due to his crippling infatuation with another. He thanks the universe that she's still breathing, even if some of the consistencies aren't quite what they used to be. Then the overwhelming nature of the phone calls and text messages filter in. He loosely flirted with the idea of this young and recently whittled flower unbeknowest to anyone else (His productively close and strangely distant friends and acquaintances)
It was a personal conquest to prove an age-old point to himself. A lack of concern for everything she was, only made her want him more and furthermore turned his own thoughts on the entire situation inward.
He wasn't himself in brief technological flashes of boredom. She would send him her vulnerabilities and he would return the favor with an intelligently bloated facade of a personality.
And this trend didn't so much continue as it popped up on occasion in the late and vacant nights spent in similar small towns with dry wells and feeding holes, until it became too much for him. Not the thoughts necessarily. They were genuinely fantastic while still remaining marginally false when push came to shove. The slender form saying all the right things in the back of his head wasn't her, but more so the her that he wanted her to be. The girl that chose him and his anti-social tendencies or compulsive vices over the brightened lights and blurry Sunday mornings.
She invited him to participate in the safe and expendable occasions to which he denied at least three times like Peter, before the end of it.
Part of him didn't want to put up the effort of selling himself short for what would have tragically amounted to an easy lay for mostly everybody else. Not him, though. He refused to take the drive, to order the drinks, to listen to the same stories heard a thousand times over, simply in preparation for the standard effects of alcohol to sink in. He was above the curb, while still unfortunately stranded below it.
Communication was finally cut following a table tennis game of electronic symbols, sent back and forth before he got his cellphone plan changed to compensate for evolved times. She considered texted sentiments communication while he was simply trying to work on something more concrete, about the ones who truly managed to spin him around blindfolded in all directions.
She felt inferior and dumbfounded by him electronically shrugging her off of his shoulder and soon sent her emotional imbalances back through the same means. he told her to go fuck herself and thought nothing of it until after his work was done.
The images then pounded away at his brain on sporadic and unnatural occasions when he was having problems deciding on a direction. The fantasy still surprisingly held up for him, representing in the simplest of definitions a last resort for a new era. One when it all suddenly made sense. He could be the fully-fleshed example of what he always wanted to be with a girl so beautiful, but at the same time, only worth the experience of another late night.
That was all her really wanted, and yet as it still somewhat tears him apart, he has problems deciding what defect made him stop caring. He's not sure if it's a still grainy moral code or just the way times happen to be sputtering along. A refusal to conform, tied together with the strings of a philosophy that clearly states -- it's so much better to be alone, waiting for something spectacular to come along rather than placing half the dozen eggs into the carton and seeing how well they sit.
However, despite all his thoughts on unexpected circumstances (poor motor skills in beach side communities) he still can't help but feel that there is always going to a splotchy void within himself simply because he knows now that she is forever gone. Regret is a piece of it, although double-edged in nature. Part of him regrets the way he acted, whether it was virtual or in person; the seasoned appearance of someone who didn't ever give a fuck. The second and less stable part regrets that the fantasy will never be the same again.
It fell apart before it's time, and now only acts as a reminder to an in-between period of his life when he didn't completely and fully understand what it meant for life to be fleeting; for last chances, however mediocre they may be, to truly be last chances. He hates that every similar thought of her and the person she was trying to be makes him think of death, but in any case has learned a valuable lesson in the proceedings. There's no point in being so short with the others anymore.
I am the asshole
I heard a knock on the door and I didn't know where it was coming from. The rest of the house was seated comfortably stoned in the living room watching O Brother! Where Art Thou, with Chris and I drinking forties. I walked towards the solid grey blue front door with the rotting brass doorhandle, turned it to discover an empty hallway full of bikes punctuated with a wooden and glass door, inside the glass criss crossed fencing.
The door was not locked.
I went to the only other obvious source of this noise, the back door, which is situated a small carpeted hallway and a left turn away from the front door. I unlatched the top lock on the door and turned the other rotten brass door handle to discover an african american male post-30, and to his side, a four year old black child. I knew her age because her fourth birthday was spent in the backyard with Emmy Chris and Kelly, playing musical instruments. She was amazing, he was a drunk piece of shit. Or maybe he was on oxy, who knew. He tried to sell it to one of them. He sat there and solicited them for cigarettes and weed in the short amount of time I spent outside stoned out of my mind attempting to fathom the idea of playing a guitar.
Not that I haven't before, but regardless. It was one of those nights. Here he was.
He said 'Let me in real quick' and shoved the door open a bit, his daughters hand in his. She had typical little plastic clips, whatever the fuck they are called, and looked like a sweet little cliche that could make anyone let this drunkard with a doo rag and a junky face whose lines seem too forced for his age.
The type of thirty something who might as well be 24 seven years deep into an addiction.
I forced him out. somebody has to be the asshole occasionally.
I said "I don't want you in my house, man" and shut the door in his face. I locked and latched it, turned away and went back to the living room where all the kids sat and looked at me, their eyes bearing the question the split second before they asked "What happened?" I told them exactly what happened they said "Oh." and a tiny bit of panic ensued, particularly in myself.
I was pissed. The type of pissed that only a vulgar statement could possibly declare.
Thus I stated: "If he comes back here I'll fucking stab him" a few times and fancied myself shoving a cheap steak knife from the drawer into this bastards heart, winning the accolades of all the public for my bravery in the face of danger.
I didn't think of his perfect little inner city urban child, and where that would put her. But as I do, I wonder if it would have been better or worse.
I'm going to assume worse. Nobody wants some fat white dude stabbing their dad.
I then went out front and promptly discovered his Bronco was smoking less than half a block away,
A few black dudes circled around it, one in a tall tee particularly exclaiming how "fucked" the situation was.
Someone called 911. They already knew about it. The firetruck came and promptly put it out as if it was a scene from Grand Theft Auto III. The cops came, and so did AAA. they lingered outside as those who made the exodus from the living room to the porch watched in bummed amusement, hoping it would have blown up but also glad to be free of the shrapnel which would have exploded.
Everyone was innocent except for me. I shut him out.
The door was not locked.
I went to the only other obvious source of this noise, the back door, which is situated a small carpeted hallway and a left turn away from the front door. I unlatched the top lock on the door and turned the other rotten brass door handle to discover an african american male post-30, and to his side, a four year old black child. I knew her age because her fourth birthday was spent in the backyard with Emmy Chris and Kelly, playing musical instruments. She was amazing, he was a drunk piece of shit. Or maybe he was on oxy, who knew. He tried to sell it to one of them. He sat there and solicited them for cigarettes and weed in the short amount of time I spent outside stoned out of my mind attempting to fathom the idea of playing a guitar.
Not that I haven't before, but regardless. It was one of those nights. Here he was.
He said 'Let me in real quick' and shoved the door open a bit, his daughters hand in his. She had typical little plastic clips, whatever the fuck they are called, and looked like a sweet little cliche that could make anyone let this drunkard with a doo rag and a junky face whose lines seem too forced for his age.
The type of thirty something who might as well be 24 seven years deep into an addiction.
I forced him out. somebody has to be the asshole occasionally.
I said "I don't want you in my house, man" and shut the door in his face. I locked and latched it, turned away and went back to the living room where all the kids sat and looked at me, their eyes bearing the question the split second before they asked "What happened?" I told them exactly what happened they said "Oh." and a tiny bit of panic ensued, particularly in myself.
I was pissed. The type of pissed that only a vulgar statement could possibly declare.
Thus I stated: "If he comes back here I'll fucking stab him" a few times and fancied myself shoving a cheap steak knife from the drawer into this bastards heart, winning the accolades of all the public for my bravery in the face of danger.
I didn't think of his perfect little inner city urban child, and where that would put her. But as I do, I wonder if it would have been better or worse.
I'm going to assume worse. Nobody wants some fat white dude stabbing their dad.
I then went out front and promptly discovered his Bronco was smoking less than half a block away,
A few black dudes circled around it, one in a tall tee particularly exclaiming how "fucked" the situation was.
Someone called 911. They already knew about it. The firetruck came and promptly put it out as if it was a scene from Grand Theft Auto III. The cops came, and so did AAA. they lingered outside as those who made the exodus from the living room to the porch watched in bummed amusement, hoping it would have blown up but also glad to be free of the shrapnel which would have exploded.
Everyone was innocent except for me. I shut him out.
Laying stoned on seperate couches, God let us forbid that we have to change
our attitudes. into, and only
apart of embaressment. Just plain
old selfishness. It's all we own now, and we hold it
like a touch and go addiction, an unchanging possession.
We watch eachother from any separate stance.
Like the wind.
We've even resorted to running now, and large closed
mouths. Open only for the special kissing reserved for strangers. Only.
And the running: Well nobody's tired as far as I can see,
Not tired enough to tell me, anyway.
I'll wait. For everyone. I'd wait and waste away as
I do. Most days its barely noticeable.
But when I see the eyes falling, and the shoulders sagging,
I remember.
I remember that once I wanted to burn instead of decay,
and now I can only think of living forever,
but "this" does not end with death.
No. It doesn't.
So we continue to stare into each other's faces,
and become overseers. But forget that it takes energy
and passion, more than we know how to maintain.
Life is that hard.
Accept that. Revel in it if you can. Because you can.
our attitudes. into, and only
apart of embaressment. Just plain
old selfishness. It's all we own now, and we hold it
like a touch and go addiction, an unchanging possession.
We watch eachother from any separate stance.
Like the wind.
We've even resorted to running now, and large closed
mouths. Open only for the special kissing reserved for strangers. Only.
And the running: Well nobody's tired as far as I can see,
Not tired enough to tell me, anyway.
I'll wait. For everyone. I'd wait and waste away as
I do. Most days its barely noticeable.
But when I see the eyes falling, and the shoulders sagging,
I remember.
I remember that once I wanted to burn instead of decay,
and now I can only think of living forever,
but "this" does not end with death.
No. It doesn't.
So we continue to stare into each other's faces,
and become overseers. But forget that it takes energy
and passion, more than we know how to maintain.
Life is that hard.
Accept that. Revel in it if you can. Because you can.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I decided to write you a note
A story told in plain speech
Without too many words, or big ones
That have too many syllables
It’s a story for the people;
I want its message to ring through the streets
To resonate in the hall,
Pollinate the ear drums.
It’s a story by the people;
Chiseled from bone and steel
Dripping with sweat,
Coughing with black lungs,
Hiding its pride like a bruise.
Birthed from the same prickly cactus
Same angry, trampled hole in the ground
Oh, our mother.
Is she not at the heart of all our great tragedies?
Harmonizing over them like a wailing siren
She is moaning a cautionary tale
Of shattered glass,
Of sea-foamed shores swallowing entire cities
People becoming pansies for the picking
No longer fit to survive
No longer quick as the carpenter
We are lined up
To be pinned down
Drowning in the waters,
We swim against the current
Just to survive
Our scaly, limp bodies flailing in the foamed rapids.
But her call falls to deaf ears
As we shuffle along, dirtying our hands.
Working for a clock that bends, but never breaks
A story told in plain speech
Without too many words, or big ones
That have too many syllables
It’s a story for the people;
I want its message to ring through the streets
To resonate in the hall,
Pollinate the ear drums.
It’s a story by the people;
Chiseled from bone and steel
Dripping with sweat,
Coughing with black lungs,
Hiding its pride like a bruise.
Birthed from the same prickly cactus
Same angry, trampled hole in the ground
Oh, our mother.
Is she not at the heart of all our great tragedies?
Harmonizing over them like a wailing siren
She is moaning a cautionary tale
Of shattered glass,
Of sea-foamed shores swallowing entire cities
People becoming pansies for the picking
No longer fit to survive
No longer quick as the carpenter
We are lined up
To be pinned down
Drowning in the waters,
We swim against the current
Just to survive
Our scaly, limp bodies flailing in the foamed rapids.
But her call falls to deaf ears
As we shuffle along, dirtying our hands.
Working for a clock that bends, but never breaks
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Gospel According to Barry
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO BARRY
Barry Dale was a simple man with a complicated life. Fate is often cruel this way, it seems. However this isn’t a sob story for all the simpletons of the world, about how they are unjustly dealt the proverbial “shitty hand”, this is a story about Barry. Barry Dale’s father owned a car shop, so when it was time for Barry to decide what he wanted to do, where other students squandered over college application forms or thought about technical school, the choice seemed pretty simple to Barry.
However, his life didn’t go as simply as it would seem. When Barry was 22 he got married and his father died suddenly of a heart attack. They were working on a car together in the shop. Barry’s father asked Barry for a ratchet and Barry brought him the wrong size. Barry senior, who was drunk at the time, and all the time for that matter, threw the ratchet back at his, “Good for nothin’, half-retarded” son, and before Barry even got a chance to stand up for himself, his father collapsed.
After this, Barry found Jesus and his mother found the bottle. Barry sought some sort of adolescent, misplaced forgiveness for causing his father’s death, and his mother just drank and blamed her son. He would always take care of her though, being that he found Jesus now and all. You see, Jesus teaches us to take care of our family, even if they won’t be saved when He comes again. They are your family, and you are bound to them in this lifetime. Jesus said honor thy mother and father, so no matter how painful, Barry took care of her.
Time would show that Jesus ended up saying a lot of interesting things to Barry Dale.
Barry worked and worked and saved and prayed in those days. He really did better business then it would seem for how tiny his garage was. He was lucky in that his father’s house, well, his house now that he had moved his mother to a “retirement community”, was directly above the shop. By this time, Barry and his wife weren’t getting along very well anymore. After his father’s death when Barry became religious, his wife did not follow suit. This gradually added tension to their arrangement, however as I said earlier, Jesus said to stick by and take care of your family, even if they won’t be saved when He comes again. So that’s what Barry did for 13 long years.
But 13 years was the breaking point, who knows why, maybe because 13 is an unlucky number, but for whatever reason, on the 13th year of their marriage while Barry was replacing break pads in the garage, he heard something. Barry heard a voice. In fact, Barry heard the voice of Jesus. To try and replicate the words of Jesus would be asinine and trite, however the gist of it was Barry you must kill your wife. She has been unfaithful to you and to the lord and for that she must pay eternally. I am coming again soon, Barry, and when I do I will remember what you did for me. I will remember you and you will have a seat in my kingdom.
That night Barry Dale murdered his wife of 13 years with his bare hands. He strangled her at 5:30 in the evening, wrapped up the body and put it in the bed, and still made it to the 7:00 service down the street. There Barry prayed. He prayed for the soul of his wife, and for God to forgive him for his stupidity. He never should have married a woman who didn’t have Jesus in their heart. He told God that he knew he was doing his will, and that he longed for the day that Jesus told him about, the day that he would come again. Jesus said it would be soon, but Barry wondered how soon. Soon could mean a week or a few years, or even a few decades to the Almighty.
Barry Dale was a simple man with a complicated life. Fate is often cruel this way, it seems. However this isn’t a sob story for all the simpletons of the world, about how they are unjustly dealt the proverbial “shitty hand”, this is a story about Barry. Barry Dale’s father owned a car shop, so when it was time for Barry to decide what he wanted to do, where other students squandered over college application forms or thought about technical school, the choice seemed pretty simple to Barry.
However, his life didn’t go as simply as it would seem. When Barry was 22 he got married and his father died suddenly of a heart attack. They were working on a car together in the shop. Barry’s father asked Barry for a ratchet and Barry brought him the wrong size. Barry senior, who was drunk at the time, and all the time for that matter, threw the ratchet back at his, “Good for nothin’, half-retarded” son, and before Barry even got a chance to stand up for himself, his father collapsed.
After this, Barry found Jesus and his mother found the bottle. Barry sought some sort of adolescent, misplaced forgiveness for causing his father’s death, and his mother just drank and blamed her son. He would always take care of her though, being that he found Jesus now and all. You see, Jesus teaches us to take care of our family, even if they won’t be saved when He comes again. They are your family, and you are bound to them in this lifetime. Jesus said honor thy mother and father, so no matter how painful, Barry took care of her.
Time would show that Jesus ended up saying a lot of interesting things to Barry Dale.
Barry worked and worked and saved and prayed in those days. He really did better business then it would seem for how tiny his garage was. He was lucky in that his father’s house, well, his house now that he had moved his mother to a “retirement community”, was directly above the shop. By this time, Barry and his wife weren’t getting along very well anymore. After his father’s death when Barry became religious, his wife did not follow suit. This gradually added tension to their arrangement, however as I said earlier, Jesus said to stick by and take care of your family, even if they won’t be saved when He comes again. So that’s what Barry did for 13 long years.
But 13 years was the breaking point, who knows why, maybe because 13 is an unlucky number, but for whatever reason, on the 13th year of their marriage while Barry was replacing break pads in the garage, he heard something. Barry heard a voice. In fact, Barry heard the voice of Jesus. To try and replicate the words of Jesus would be asinine and trite, however the gist of it was Barry you must kill your wife. She has been unfaithful to you and to the lord and for that she must pay eternally. I am coming again soon, Barry, and when I do I will remember what you did for me. I will remember you and you will have a seat in my kingdom.
That night Barry Dale murdered his wife of 13 years with his bare hands. He strangled her at 5:30 in the evening, wrapped up the body and put it in the bed, and still made it to the 7:00 service down the street. There Barry prayed. He prayed for the soul of his wife, and for God to forgive him for his stupidity. He never should have married a woman who didn’t have Jesus in their heart. He told God that he knew he was doing his will, and that he longed for the day that Jesus told him about, the day that he would come again. Jesus said it would be soon, but Barry wondered how soon. Soon could mean a week or a few years, or even a few decades to the Almighty.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The last time I was at this hospital, I was pretending to be an employee of Pifer Funeral Home so I could pick up my grandfather's death certificate. Time before that, I watched my grandfather get his last rites. Time before that, my throat was closing up and my fingers and toes turned the brightest blue. Time before that, I was born.
This time, it's Dad. My dad. I feel like I've read a million passages about the shock of seeing a parent in the hospital for the first time. I also feel like I'm supposed to ponder the inevitability of our body's eventual breakdown. Mortality. The loss of strength and ability. You know, that kind of shit, and I suppose it's supposed to feel profound or overwhelming or whatever. I'm not thinking about anything like that. Not at all. I'm thinking about how he looks without his false teeth. Old as hell. Looks like his Dad, Thorton. My only memories of Thorton are of him on his death bed, but that doesn't bother me so much. I think it's just unfortunate that my dad has frown lines like that. I was just wondering the other day about whether I'll have frown lines or laugh lines when I'm old as hell.
I think Dad wants me here to lighten the mood. Mom seems to be embarassing him by trying to help him. Right now she's writing down questions to ask the doctor: "Can I go to work on Monday?" ("I'm going to work on Monday!"), "Can I mow the lawn?" ("It doesn't need mowed for another week.") and "Can I go to Seattle?" ("I'm going to Seattle!"). She keeps repeating the questions so he'll remember to ask. He's getting mad and talking about his dick and keeps repeating "I hate this cathetar." I haven't really done a good job of lightening the mood - I'm embarassed and I can't stop looking at the bag of bloody piss by the foot of his bed. The image is good incentive to stop smoking. It's the color of fruit punch. Dad tells me that yesterday it was port wine. Am I supposed to laugh? I do.
Mom talks about the hospital visit I didn't tell anyone in my family about until after the fact. I think she's still mad about that, so I show her some cell phone pictures I took of my hospital stay. The view from my room, the tv on the wall, the individually wrapped piece of bread they give with meals (Dad is buttering his right now), and a picture of myself. Mom laughs a little but thinks it's strange. "Why would you take pictures of something like that?" Dad speaks up "She wants to remember, is all!" I smile. Dad gets it. He asks me to take his picture.
He laughs louder than I've heard in years and when I look at the picture, he's got the dumbest shit eatin grin I've ever seen. Good. I'm glad.
This time, it's Dad. My dad. I feel like I've read a million passages about the shock of seeing a parent in the hospital for the first time. I also feel like I'm supposed to ponder the inevitability of our body's eventual breakdown. Mortality. The loss of strength and ability. You know, that kind of shit, and I suppose it's supposed to feel profound or overwhelming or whatever. I'm not thinking about anything like that. Not at all. I'm thinking about how he looks without his false teeth. Old as hell. Looks like his Dad, Thorton. My only memories of Thorton are of him on his death bed, but that doesn't bother me so much. I think it's just unfortunate that my dad has frown lines like that. I was just wondering the other day about whether I'll have frown lines or laugh lines when I'm old as hell.
I think Dad wants me here to lighten the mood. Mom seems to be embarassing him by trying to help him. Right now she's writing down questions to ask the doctor: "Can I go to work on Monday?" ("I'm going to work on Monday!"), "Can I mow the lawn?" ("It doesn't need mowed for another week.") and "Can I go to Seattle?" ("I'm going to Seattle!"). She keeps repeating the questions so he'll remember to ask. He's getting mad and talking about his dick and keeps repeating "I hate this cathetar." I haven't really done a good job of lightening the mood - I'm embarassed and I can't stop looking at the bag of bloody piss by the foot of his bed. The image is good incentive to stop smoking. It's the color of fruit punch. Dad tells me that yesterday it was port wine. Am I supposed to laugh? I do.
Mom talks about the hospital visit I didn't tell anyone in my family about until after the fact. I think she's still mad about that, so I show her some cell phone pictures I took of my hospital stay. The view from my room, the tv on the wall, the individually wrapped piece of bread they give with meals (Dad is buttering his right now), and a picture of myself. Mom laughs a little but thinks it's strange. "Why would you take pictures of something like that?" Dad speaks up "She wants to remember, is all!" I smile. Dad gets it. He asks me to take his picture.
He laughs louder than I've heard in years and when I look at the picture, he's got the dumbest shit eatin grin I've ever seen. Good. I'm glad.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Told you guys about this on Kelly & Emmy's porch.
The day is still, and I am watching all of creation in the blue smoke pouring heavenward from the end of my cigarette. It is an impromptu ballet whose music I cannot hear, only taste; whose dancers betray gravity in lieu of a lasting life; whose audience consists solely of me, and my stubborn pen. Like geometry unharnessed, it is the ephemeral portrait of the Almighty Himself - bending and swerving and spiraling and falling and lifting, given to whims as capricious as His own judgement. It is not yet Death's umbilical cord, as it has been for so many. Who am I kidding? It is mine already. Have no doubt as I light another just to watch it burn: Plaintive poetry flowing out in ghostly cursive: the whispers from a lovelost; a caveat too beautiful, so left unheeded, floating with enticing grace and heartwrenching fragility. As I inhale, its form folds in on itself and is sighed from me in dozens of squid-like specters, leaving their tarcoated corpses smoldering in my chest - can feel their venom still. Returning my gaze to the slowly burning end, I see the silhouette of a man: His name is Cecil. He is sailing on a boat and the wind is strong on his face, he's taking big, mirthful gulps of it. I am carried into his lungs by the wind coming off the sea. It is too dark to write anymore down here.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
So much it feels like things are apart. Not you or me knows how to fix this. Though when walking on the side of the road, and grass banks pass you, and you notice things in backyards, like silver pinecones or a dad just standing and clapping and looking at his lawn, you feel some things are right, that some things do belong and you are glad you got to see it.
You may love it or you may hate it. But you must not deny that it is there. She said, "You cannot find peace by avoiding life."
When you're at that point where you believe that nothing is good, and you'd rather not feel at all, so you distract yourself with other things, you cannot run. You can run for now, but every single thing you pass on your way will be reminiscent of that pain in some way.
So what do I say, what do you say? Don't run. Stand still and look up, down, around, suck it in, breathe it out. Sit and stare, allow the crushing to come down upon you and take it's blows and knock you on the ground. Lay on the ground, lay in, sink, look up. Wait.
You may love it or you may hate it. But you must not deny that it is there. She said, "You cannot find peace by avoiding life."
When you're at that point where you believe that nothing is good, and you'd rather not feel at all, so you distract yourself with other things, you cannot run. You can run for now, but every single thing you pass on your way will be reminiscent of that pain in some way.
So what do I say, what do you say? Don't run. Stand still and look up, down, around, suck it in, breathe it out. Sit and stare, allow the crushing to come down upon you and take it's blows and knock you on the ground. Lay on the ground, lay in, sink, look up. Wait.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
