December 16, 2009
On the ground, a movement – just flailing. On the floor, eyes wide open, staring dead.
On the move, the flow of life and life’s liquid onto the ground, onto the floor.
On the make, the congealing mass that collects, the stink that rises up.
On the town, everyone celebrates the remorse the possibilities
On the money, something for everyone, thank the lord
On the fence, someone had to know me better
On the way, my spirit ascends at last
On the team, that made me whole
On the head, cracked
On the mend
Never
December 15, 2009
The Hell
What the hell was that supposed to mean? I told you what I told you because it was what you wanted to know and now you tell me something that is none of my business. Why?
What the hell am I supposed to do now? I was expecting something different and then I get this response that contains too much of something I can’t do anything with. Why?
Where the hell am I going to go with this? I am holding something that has no value and no real purpose, but it is addressed to me and therefore it must be mine alone. Why?
When the hell do things begin to change? When I change and act like all that has harmed me has actually helped me and made a better man, and made me stronger is that the way?
December 14, 2009
I don’t mean this, but I can’t say anything that you would like to hear or that you could understand right now. I don’t want this, but I’m afraid that whatever happens happens because it had to happen and that is just too damned bad.
I don’t feel this, but I know I should and if I did it would make a world of difference, but I don’t right now. I don’t know how, but I’m afraid that the time has passed for me to understand just what it is so damned important to know.
I don’t like this, but if I am to survive I have to struggle against my own shyness and inhibition and do it now. I don’t make these rules, but I live by rules that I’ve never tried to figure out why they’re so damned cold and strict.
I mean this: if I am any man that can make any difference then I want start right now, because right now is all I’ve got.
I feel this: if I am any sort of man that can love and hope then I want to be better than I feel the average man is right now.
I like this: the way the trees are bare and cast them selves against the azure and the flaming orange canopies out my window.
December 13, 2009
Cutting corners, cutting costs, curing ills and causing all sorts of spills, freezing in our threadbare pajamas.
Sending letters, selling things, shouting at each other and sitting still, sipping tepid tea in our threadbare pajamas.
Blaming the rain, blowing off steam, bending over backward and breaking down, dead asleep in our threadbare pajamas.
It wasn’t always this way we were once poor and content. Three generations at each end of this trailer. Neighbors visiting us, giving us food and gas money and we just smile.
One in the trailer and one in the yard and cats, dogs and dogs, cats all over the place. No one visits us, no one gives us food and gas money and we do not smile.
Breaking windows, smashing glass, shards of the flatware all over the grass, chasing each other in threadbare pajamas.
Slipping to our knees, grasping at straws, arms around each other, side by side in back of the trailer.
Out all night. Out all day. Soaking in our threadbare pajamas.
December 12, 2009
Plans are plans. Something tells me that these are going to be different than before.
Plans are plans. Although it seems so familiar, I’m even sitting on the same place on the floor.
Plans are plans. I feel the same guff and hear the same rotary blade spinning over head.
Plans are plans. Something tells me that these are going to be different than before.
Something else to make. I wonder if I am repeating things just to learn some life lesson.
Something else to make. I must be able to glean something different or better than nothing.
Something else to make. You are a different person, literally, but I am just the same.
Something else to make. I wonder if I am repeating things just to learn some life lesson.
Plans are something. Forever following something that someone else has in store.
Plans are something. Everyone else has a better, a good idea. I’m just going to wait on the floor.
Plans are something. Let me know when you’ve got if all figured out and count me in.
Plans are something. Forever following something that someone else has in store.
December 11, 2009
We leave a place for him, food for him, room in bed for him, but he does not come.
We leave a tire for him, a can for him, a piece of thread for him, but he does not come.
We do the obscene for him, the absurd for him and we sleep with worms for him.
But he does not come.
December 10, 2009
If I were to counter with beauty all that labored me into the dirt each morning when I rise.
Then I would never be without a glorious decree of amazement to the wonders of my eye.
I would praise the sliver threads that weave their way through our souls
I would engulf with fragrant petals the barriers, the obstacles, and more.
If I were to be a poet with a comely word and phrase, then I could lie down and die.
If I were to place beauty before everything that encountered me and dragged me down.
Then I would always battle with blinded love, dispel enemies onto the perfumed ground.
I would protect simplicity and honesty with handpicked rays of sunshine.
I would envelope each obstacle with confidence and grace sublime.
If I were to be a painter with a slash of color and shape, then I could lie down and die.
December 9, 2009
I fall down the stairs with great ease. I almost relax into my descent. I feel nothing on the way down, and then I find myself at the bottom of the stairs. I’m looking to the top of the stairs and I see a man silhouetted by the fluorescent lights from the room at the top of the stairs. He walks away. I lay at the bottom of the stairs.
It isn’t until he walks away that I realize how much I hurt myself as I fell down the stairs. I’ve gotten so old that I can’t fall like I used to. I don’t exercise like I should and my muscle mass has decreased exponentially the past few years. In short, I hurt.
I slowly get to my feet, but have to stay hunched to one side as I must have pulled a muscle and my stomach and I can’t quite straighten myself up.
I pull myself up with the railing. “I’m coming” I shout to no one in particular.
December 8, 2009
It Christmas and I’m in jail again. What did I do? What didn’t I do? Seriously, it wasn’t my fault. Nah, it was my fault. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say? It wasn’t my fault, honest. I don’t want to spend no Christmas in jail. Let me see that script. Does it really say that? Nah, it’s me, I did it. I did what I always do, but this time I did it a little better than before. Not so much better, as much as I got caught. I timed it pretty well, Christmas in jail.
I’m not supposed to be here, not this time. I did my time and I learned my lesson. Nah, I didn’t learn a damned thing that I didn’t already know. I know this. I know this, I do. I know that this is the wrong way, but this is the way. This is the way. There’s no other way. But, I’d rather not be spending Christmas in jail. Not this year. See, I have plans, well I had plans, but my plans have been interrupted. I won’t be doing exactly as I had planned. Not while I’m spending Christmas in jail.
All I want for Christmas is a week in solitary so I can finally be alone with my thoughts, maybe I can pay the price for things that I have done. I can have some me on me time where I reevaluate my priorities. Yeah, right, like I’m gonna do that. I miss the snow, I miss the candy, I miss the gifts. I miss it and I don’t miss it. I will definitely not be home for Christmas, not this year. And thanks to my parole violation, probably not next year either. Damn, it’s good to be back.
December 7, 2009
We live in an age that still lacks definition. It is not ours to define by term, but it is only ours to define by action. One assumes that growth is always an outward act. Maybe our age is like an in grown hair, dark and thick and racing headfirst right back into its roots.
Faith replaces science. Man replaces Woman. Colors are again huddled at their own end of the spectrum. The last gasp of a fat, pale, hairless old man wheezing and spitting out poisons and doubt as it falls upon itself and creates generations of dirt, generations of filth.
Welcome.
The Best Years of Our Lives 