may sometime four

All I own I cleaned and placed in boxes, and may leave in boxes, crowding the walls around the central space. There lies my great wooden desk, small but solid, I take with me wherever I go. All the way back to 1998. There lies my intention to write my books. The tv got the last of invitations. I may not open the door. When I die someone oughta cut my desk down and bury me in it. Together may we be, repurposed.

may sometime two

I told you what she said to me and then I felt hurt again, yesterday all over me. I faltered and began to cry. You were my witness. All night I was on knees and hands, scrubbing the place I called home for 5 years. When I finished it was dawn.  I hardly got any sleep. Life pulls me along. Today I am the broken tree lying in pieces in the parking lot. I will surrender the keys.

last day of may the reverb

America. was the last day of may and all of the dead end streets look like never ending roads, and all the dead end relationships are enthusiastic pressing another go around with hopes one lucky night of what we once had may carry a small sound around and turn the johnny rotten back to first date territory with long lashes and laughter, and heal the deep gashes like reverb sweetening the deal, to hold a song's triumphant note deep into the memory of the night, a stripped mall's dollar store turned boutique, a dead end presidency turned back to camelot and kennedy days, a mid-preaching pause full of meaning, careless words begin to care, a rebellion to the cause of suffer leaning... it was the last day of may and we have a chance to be deep again, full again, and resonant

May 25

The daily life enhancement initiative was set into motion and sprung forward like a tiger, claws retracted for non-violent approach and soft padded manipulation of the microcosm, as opposed to the previous quarter century of claws out technique for random slashing of enemy throats. Said outdated technique had really done a number on the psychosocial sphere, as folks don't like to make friends with sharp claws and cannot see the kind eyes behind them looking softer and aiming to collaborate in a bold italicized continuum.

off running. always dreaming

Life will always be troubling but we have to find our way and how i feel about myself has direct bearing on how it unfolds. what the hell it wasn't even a magical morning i woke up alone like usual with a not so friendly recollection on my mind and a not so super feeling like i probably blew a gasket. i got up and said hey! it's another effin day and either i'm gonna make something of it or it's gonna bury me. i got movin and french pressed around one in the afternoon, so i could kick it up a notch and pop my eyes in shake my hair out change up and get back to work. sure i said a mantra. i had to find myself in the mirror. when ready i hit the pavement and let the freeway style the day, and i got lucky enough to turn on the radio just before the last pony the one with the patch over its blind eye got into the final gate at the Kentucky Derby, and we were off running. Bukowski was somewhere mint julep in hand lucky ticket in his breast pocket, always dreamin.

Journal # 05.31.16

The mercury climbed to triple digits yesterday, and i went to see a film with a friend. My car was black and when i got back it had melted. The movie was about human relationships and all the actors cast as themselves. One of them died on screen so we could get our money's worth. Well he was killed.  You were talkin to me in the parking lot and i was too shy to ask if we could take it to the sidewalk, so i stood there mindless holding my breath. I had no money left and the sun cooked my car. We could not decide if we were happy or not that the actor got murdered. Because it was a movie, we paid so we could weigh human lives like gods. Yet we had no say on the thermostat, and alternated from too hot to too cold and back. I was worried we would be hushed cause you kept talkin during the film and i shoulda hushed you myself but you were too goofy to be hushed. I coulda died in the dam parking and bled sno-caps for all i cared.

Journal #05.08.15

The spirits of the deceased could be found all around. There is a child in a bird. Her tailfeathers have horizontal lines, markings, cream-colored. We are looking for her wooden tombstone, the only one left of hundreds now destroyed by the elements and time. A girl who died in 1893. The bird leaves the tree and shows us her tail feathers prominently. The cream lines. Our bird flies in an arc, in a direction, and then back to the tree. We follow our own path to the same destination. Dusty lines. We are spirits. Equals. In the same place and time. We are free in a nonlinear yet static context. Our lives are wooden, not stone. They will decorate these lands and these times. To be part of the great spirit. Creativity is a use it or lose it affair. And still we are creations. And will be destructions. And recreations. The context is there. Gravity holds us to land. The bird has its wings, to put spirits in flight. But there are other forces at work, greater forces beyond any concern of gravity. I wrap the food in napkins and place it in my bag. The sun has decimated my energies. The coffee has worn off and dehydration setting in. A couple of kids dressed in black and purple, bring new life into the cemetery. The wooden tombstone is hiding beneath some rose bushes. This is how it survived all this time. The inscription is impossible to make out. There are greater forces, beyond any need for inscription. Our lives are written across the sky. Death does not exist in this world of static flux. Context can be archived. Paradigms may shift. The earthquakes may help us toward the truth kept in the earth. Tornadoes cleaning skies. I will disappear into the dust. Then see me swimming with four fingers on my left hand. My legs become a fish tail. Dive down with me into our resurrections. One word at a time. The sun feels better, underwater.