Mar 29, 2007

Lake Forest Oasis

This is my messy script. Some crude combination between cursive and shorthand, borrowing letters from each style. It's how I've adapted. Travel through life soaking up the bits and pieces that work, letting those that don't fall to the wayside. Right-handed, but positioning the hand as if it were my left. Were I to write this out with light lead, my hand would smear and erase the lines prior with each new line laid.

There is nothing in the sky right now but a steady, calm blue. Look hard, and maybe a whisp of cloud like cigarette smoke. A bird, tiny, and dark in the distance, silhouetted hundreds of yards out. Perspective could change it into a fly only a few feet away. The sunlight slashes this yellow page in half, perpendicular to the even, blue lines that cut across. On the baby ash in front of my car, two cocoons hang on opposite sides of the trunk, extended out, held fast by gnarled branches. Separate bedrooms for those two. Incubation to infancy, measuring the crawl with each slink of the body. If fortune does shine well down upon them, one day they will fly.

Mar 28, 2007

Adam's Apple

The city scrapers from a distance
glow blue from the smog, and I
think of you and of pigeons
waiting to be struck, waiting
to be fed heeding nothing
not even black tires
that signal a death
so bold.

And somewhere in this city,
where even though
it appears not so,
everyone is different.
I need to find you
but this is not your city
this is not my city

and this street is a placid pond
and you are reflected in it

in the student with her tote bag
and the woman and her stroller
and the baby in the stroller
and the homeless man with the
cardboard sign, with the bad legs
and the cane to prove it.

I wonder, what if I had rolled up
the window on you as well; too
fast in the approach was he
for this foreign traveler.

But no, now that I know,
dear child, my temptress,
my Eve:

I will waive my right to
salvation and eat the
forbidden fruit from the
palms of your hands
any day.

The Breakup

As we sit in our skin
on this flesh-colored
couch, smoke from my
glass ashtray--your

it moseys
evenly throughout the room
choking the air.

A hand creeps from my
knee to yours
like an injured spider.

I turn my head,
stiff as a mannequin,
so I can see you,
but a silver ribbon
swims into my eyes,

they burn; you blur
and think any one
of a number of things.

Mar 27, 2007

One Breath

Ahhh yes. The world has slowed once again. After the sudden heat wave beset amongst the busy and the tired folk of the Midwest yesterday, one couldn't help but wonder if things would ever return to their normal states. Eighty degrees in March set nature ablaze, black flies, wasps, and lady beetles assaulting the sides of buildings, huddling up against the window sills, any surface or object that held promise of storing heat from the sun's beaming grace.

Careless smudges streak the sky, clouds thin and pervasive. This day is not yesterday. It carries the weight of new beginnings, ends, promises, of restart. How humbling to see the close ties between nature and the tiny mechanisms that spur this life in a forward direction. The lady beetles do not fly today. The wasps and flies have retreated, left without any indication of yesterday's existence, as if they hadn't existed there in the first place.

The wind cuts, and ruffles clothes, and hampers life rhythms by pushing most breaths further down into the lungs, a feeling of struggle, relief and release, of bouncing back. The air is saturated with earthy richness, the moisture of the land, the stuff from which God created Adam. How many years has it been now, since the first man? And whereabouts on this planet has he been scattered since returning to the dust?

The world through these office windows appears sterile and threatening, like I shouldn't be out there. It's filled with anticipation, that space between inhale and exhale where the breath is held. What comes next?

Tomorrow. Everyone has a shard of an idea as to what that might mean, what it could bring, but no one really ever knows. Grace, fear, turmoil, joy, redemption, all, and none of these. An ever-changing almalgam with no easy answers. But for now, we can at least count on the lady beetle's return. We can't say how, or when, or for what duration they might remain. That is the substance and the fabric that holds this all together, albeit it loosely at times, better than not at all.

Mar 26, 2007

Spring Morn

Droplets of rain
speckled on the hood of a
black pickup truck

They waver in the wind
shimmer under dawn's light
as if overnight
the stars had fallen
and collected there

Mar 23, 2007

Two Hundred

A man sits in an empty, white walled room alone with a sackcloth filled with building blocks.

His steadied breathing is all he has to measure the time that has passed.

Methodically, religiously, one by one each block is pulled from the bag, and he adds

it to this odd, jagged looking structure as he has all the blocks before.

In unmeditated intervals he will rise and walk to each corner of the room,

eyeing the crude sculpture of blocks, only to return to it, sit cross legged at its side

and pull more blocks from the bag, methodically, rhythmically, religiously.

Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-Nine. Two-hundred.

The man leans in the nook of each corner in the room, studying the structure intensely.

It is not finished, nor will it ever be. There is no failure. There is no success.

There is only building.

Mar 22, 2007

Heat Rays

The sun
through the windshield
sets the shadow
of a page
on fire.

Dying Embers, Pt. III

Kyle heard the hinges of the door open, and he turned to see Sarah. She had cut her hair shorter than when he’d had last seen her, but it was the same, dusty blonde he remembered. She met his eyes, and he caught a glow in her face, but a drabness in her blue eyes, like grey coals, fading.

“Kyle, I'm sorry, I–”

“What happened,” he interjected.

He stood in front of her, awkwardly, almost confrontational, with a drink in his hand.

“My mother called, I couldn’t get her off the phone,” she said.

“I was worried you weren’t going to show up.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. Kyle felt her unease.

“Do you want to sit down,” she asked.

“I already have a table,” Kyle said.

He pointed across the room.

Once seated, she grabbed a menu, but eyed the ash tray.

“Still smoking, I see.”

“Yeah, haven't gotten around to quitting.”

“Are you planning on eating,” Sarah asked, “cause I already-”

“I don’t have much of an appetite.”

The waiter approached the table and began the normal routine of pleasantries followed by the recitation of the specials. Kyle stopped him.

“No, no food. I’ll have another whiskey and coke.”

Half of Kyle’s first drink remained, and what he really wanted was for the waiter to walk away.

“And for you, ma’am,” the waiter asked.

“I’ll have water.”

No words were exchanged until the waiter brought their drinks. Kyle swirled the ice cubes around in the glass, Sarah sipped her water, her attention taken out over the lake.

“Sarah,” Kyle said, “I brought you here for a reason.”

The corners of her eyes glistened as tears gathered.

“I know,” she said, not looking at him.

A hope flickered deep inside him, extinguished ash breathed to life.

She knows, Kyle thought.

“It’s not brain cancer,” Kyle said.

He noticed no change in her demeanor, and this worried him. Tell me you have it too, he thought, and everything will be all right. Whisper the words with me, he thought, and we can walk out of this life hand in hand. I don’t want to die alone. Please, die with me.

“I have AIDS,” he said.

“I know.”

Kyle told no one the truth. Not his parents, nor his brother, his pastor, not even his therapist. There simply was no way for her to find out, other than simple intuition. Unless, he thought, she found out first.

“How did you know?”

Even in the dim light he could see the anguish in her face, though he didn’t look on her directly, but admired her reflection in the window. Her silvery tears shined brighter against the night sky.

“Kyle, the only reason I came here is because I know.”

He reached for his cigarettes, gritting his teeth.

“You talked to Nicole.”

Her tears fell slow, but consistently, a sad meteor shower
flickering in the candle light.

“Yes, before she died.”

Sarah had to have been tested, and Kyle knew it. The poor form he saw in front of him, Kyle wanted to comfort her, warm her with his care and concern. She looked more frail than usual, more tired, like it was eating her too. Kyle would take care of her. He would grab a hold of her without letting go until the grave decided which one it would pull from life first.

No matter if the months spent last were those of dying months, but they would be entwined throughout the remainder of their lives. They’d die like many others, but not alone. Not forgotten, but loved.

“Have you been-”

“Yes,” she interrupted.

Her eyes met his, their centers dancing to a dull flame. His face wore hope, and he managed his best to hide it.

“I am clean, Kyle.”

He couldn’t stifle the first sob, and it shook the table, and the very marrow of the wooden walls inside the restaurant. The elderly looked at him once again. He lowered his face wiped away tears. He reached for his cigarettes, but she stopped him, placing her hand upon his. He looked up.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Kyle said. “I’m glad you’re all right.”


Mar 21, 2007

Dying Embers, Pt. II

After being diagnosed with AIDS half a year ago, Kyle walked out of the doctor’s office and never looked back. He knew that he'd walked out from the door, and into a new world from which he could never leave, until it consumed him, pulled his bones in the ground, dust to dust. With not feeling any effects of the disease, he tucked it from his mind as best as he could, but it began to eat away like cancer.

The moon cast a shining path across the turbulent lake outside, its gleaming white shadow bending in the wind-tossed waves. Kyle fixated on this white stripe that cut so cleanly across the black, acquatic mass, a white line slicing down the center of a black page. Sheets of grey clouds overtook the moon, and Kyle turned away. He reached into his pocket for cigarettes. The flick of his lighter brought disapproving glances from the elderly couple. He scoffed. This was only one killing pleasure found in life.

His was one night of passion with a girl from work, a frail-looking girl named Nicole. Sarah found them together in the morning when she had stopped by Kyle’s apartment unannounced, heard them fucking through the front door, and relations between him and Sarah halted right then. Full-blown AIDS. It only took one time. Two months later the doctor told him he was dying, with five years at most left to live.

Kyle looked at the clock above the television behind the bar. Where was Sarah? She's almost a half hour late. And then a thought crept up and centered itself in his mind. She already knows. Relief and regret clashed inside him. If Sarah knew, it would take a significantly less amount of pressure off of his shoulders. But if she did know, how did she find out? And would she still come? He pulled out his cell phone and dialed her number.

Click. Hey, you've reached Sarah. Can't get to my phone right now . . .

He decided against leaving a message after feeling the old couple’s gaze on him once again. He hung up the phone and stared back. A second or two passed and the couple returned to their coffees. Kyle snubbed his cigarette into the glass tray and watched the embers flare for a moment, then slowly die into black ash, grey dust.

He pushed himself up from the stool, then stood for a moment with his hands on the bar.

“Come on, Sarah,” he whispered to himself.

He ordered a whiskey and coke, then retook his position atop the stool. A man seated further down the bar looked over, smiled.

“How ya doin', buddy?”

“I'm all right,” Kyle said. “Yourself?”

“I'm alive,” said the man, then took a long draught from his pint.

Kyle almost chuckled aloud, but was startled by the man who began coughing violently. Kyle thought about helping, but soon came a final cough, and the man gathered the phleghm in his mouth and swallowed.

“Whoa,” said the man, his eyes watering, “gotta quit this shit. It'll kill ya.”

The man held up a cigarette, and started to chuckle. Kyle removed a cigarette from his own pack.

“I'm already dying,” Kyle.

The man laughed an uncomfortable laugh that always comes when a stranger tells you something more than you want to here.

“Aren't we all,” he said.

The man looked up at Kyle and saw no expression.

Kyle grabbed his drink. He looked back at the man as he rose and turned toward his table. He’d told his friends, his family, his pastor, that it was brain cancer. That’s how he’d avoid the stigmas that accompanied a man with AIDS. Why did it matter anyway what he was dying from? He’d be dead at the end of either one.

Mar 20, 2007

Dying Embers, Pt. I

Kyle skimmed over the restaurant's offerings while seated at the bar. The menu had gold calligraphy on its cover which spelled out “Harbor Cove Bar & Grill.” Now and then vanilla scent from the candle in front of him wafted up and mixed with the smells of steak, fish and steamed vegetables. The flame cast shadows across his face, revealing deep eye sockets and a gaunt face. A waiter, clad in black, approached.

“Are you ready to order,” he asked.

The words caught inside Kyle's throat. He glanced towards the entryway, then up at the waiter, whose pointy black hair seemed to sparkle. His dark eyes remained fixed, and those tiny black beads pinched between protruding cheekbones and a pronounced brow began to annoy Kyle. The waiter's teeth glowed against the rest of his demeanor.

“I'm waiting for someone,” Kyle said.

The waiter winked, his hands clasped just below his sternum.

“I'll stop back once I see your company has joined you.”

Kyle nodded, but gave no smile.

“Would you like something to drink in the meantime,” asked the waiter, “or hear the soup specials?”

Kyle clenched his jaw. A shock ran through his back molars.

“I’ll get it from the bartender.”

The place was nearly empty aside from an elderly couple having coffee and a man sitting near him at the bar. The voice of a male reporter echoed from wooden wall to wooden wall of Harbor Cove. Children are dying...Africa...inadequate medical support. He focused his attention towards the boardwalk through the window where here and there a weary traveler would walk past the restaurant. On a boat in the marina, a sandy-bearded fisherman wiped down the main deck.

I will not be alone in this, Kyle thought. He studied his image in the window.

He didn’t look like was dying.

Mar 19, 2007

On Holiday

By the time Steve and I arrived at the Baer, a small joint on the corner with plank wood walls, it was after midnight. The festivities were still going strong, even though the crowd had begun to thin shortly after our arrival.

Steve had been there the night before with the owner, helping him put up all the green signs and banners; Steve added his own personal touch--the Leprechaun by Sharpie--to a number of the green balloons hanging from the rafters. Also hanging from the ceiling at various heights by imperceptible fishing line were dozens of plastic easter eggs in every pastel known to man, which gave off the impression that indeed, for a day, the whole god damned cosmic universe had gone Irish.

There was at least one person with strong Irish blood in the bar, I knew that much. Steve was friends with the guy, a man in his late thirties with orangey hair, a pointed nose, a blue beady eyes. His speech was heavily slurred, and I wasn't following the conversation he had with Steve, not cause I didn't care, but 'cause I couldn't understand. Steve seemed to, so I gathered it was a subject familiar to the both of them.

Throughout the eve, the man busied himself with drinking, scurrying bar-end to bar-end, keeping dibs on the MP3 player behind the counter that had been playing mostly Irish punk throughout the night. After unwittingly helping me spill some of my green pint onto the floor, he headed over to the other side of the room.

The second, third, and fourth beers were not green. This bothered me slightly, but Steve seemed to take no notice, so I let it go.

Ah well. Such is the bread of an everyday life, from morning 'til noon, to the
shadowless night.

There was a woman there with long, brown hair, and sad eyes. I'd seen her there before; she was one of the girls that worked behind the bar. Tonight she didn't seem to be enjoying herself, not talking much, and at any given time having two drinks in front of her: one full, one half-full. I could sense her annoyance at the three men who kept approaching her. She lay it out across her face, but they weren't reading the message. Good ol' liquid courage, it'll have 'em running for the coffee and the concussion medication in the morning.

If I ever leave this world alive, I'll thank you for all the things you did in my life.

Our Irish man was back on our side, but not for long. Across the counter, another patron had spotted the MP3 player and wanted to play some Widespread Panic. Our man wasn't having it.
This was his night. He brazenly walked up to the Widespread fan and explained how what he was meaning to do with the music change simply wasn't allow. Not on this night.

I told Steve that it was time for me to make the drive back into the city. He offered me his couch, and I politely declined, though I'm not sure if it was an impaired judgement or a sound assessment that told me I needed to be back home, and in my own bed. I looked around once more at the green decorations, the drunken revelers, and finally, settled on what was left in my point of the pale, golden ale. I finished the final draught. Walking towards the exit, I took note of how even tonight, it still tasted the same.

Mar 16, 2007

Estate Sale

I rummaged casually
and the elderlies
cocked their eyes
and stared like
crooked birds like
my youth allowed
me foreign status

Silently stepped up
the stairs into his
room, he who fell
into death just
after cancer took
his wife, leaving
behind a quaint
collection of dress

They smelled like
an old man must,
that collection of
dust, old books, airy
mahogany, and faint
cigar smoke smell.

Nine for nine bucks.
I looked around, and
got the surge
they must often get
when feeling like
they've finally gotten
a good deal.

As I stepped outside,
most of my allowance
still in the wallet,
'twas decided that
it will have been a
good life if, at the
end, there isn't much
left behind to
sift through.

Mar 14, 2007

City's Coming

***This is a description/comment on a painting that one of my ex-girlfriends owned. Well, a print of it anyway. For the life of me, I cannot remember the name of the painting, or its creator.***

The wall facing east, on the left side when looking at the house, half is missing. Seen through the gaping hole, outside there is nothing but a vast field of ice crystals, and one hot-air balloon sailing overhead with its basket full of pink, yellow, orange, and green flowers. One girl, the first of two identically matched, stands with her hands tucked behind her back, gazing at the balloon as it melts further into the sky.

On part of the wall that remains next to her, there is a painting of a rural landscape, diced apart by thin zips of power lines and picket fences. Adjacent to that picture is one of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, hung crooked so that the structure itself stands erect.

The other girl kneels over books in the middle of the room, before the fireplace. The books rage in flame, the fire creeps on fly feet to the pages, the girl tears out the paper, while the mirror above the hearth ignores the white flakes and heavy smoke, reflecting only blue sky.

The front door has burst open by a cavalry of waves, waves being pushed along by a large steamboat that carries industry and skyscrapers underneath its deck. The city is coming. Burn your books, there will be no more time.

The city is coming. Abandon your gardens, for the biting acid-rain will only cause you to toil double.

The city is coming. Turn your heads towards the ground and forsake the sky, and starlights cannot compete with these translucent fists of neon. Long days, longer nights ride on the wings of the city.


The moon cast a
wide trail
of light across
the trembling waters
and you dared me to
walk on it straight
to the other side

so i ditched the clothes
and dangled my feet
over the glowing wake
worms too fat
and odd-shaped
for whatever lurks
underneath, you said

the seaweed
felt like human
hair weaving between
our bare legs
our bodies white
in that pale lunar

after a slight
silence affirmed
by a chorus of
crickets your laugh
like three cherubic
notes was passed
around the trees
and together we
grew it into a symphony

you turned my face
towards the heavens
i resisted and said
there will always
be two moons
in those eyes

those were
the worst of words
I'd tried that night
but for an instant,
a single notion
rooted itself
in the sandy shores
of my forethought;
clouds covered over the moon.

What then,
when the lights
do go out.

Mar 13, 2007

Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

I noticed recently that my SiteMeter hadn't been working properly ever since the switch from Old Blogger to New Blogger. This was the culmination of all of the difficulty I've had with the new version, and for that I am grateful.

Back on point here, one of the things I've become most interested in is how people arrive at this page. What's a common route? In the beginning I had a lot of traffic coming in through Jade's darlinks. But as the volume of posts increased, I started seeing a common referral URL pop up, part of which read "," followed by a string of other characters. Google Search. I must investigate.

One recent search for the following phrase had Controlled Burns at fourth in the overall listing:

Are white tails webbing spiders?

No, that doesn't make sense. Not quite. It's Googlian for "Do white tail spiders build webs?"
The CB link takes you here where I recounted a spider-killing expedition, and the post was tagged because of a comment left by Miss Jade. She responded to the post by commenting on one of the spiders she most commonly deals with, and even provided me with a picture of what was possibly one of the ugliest creatures I'll ever see in life. This spider was none other than the web-less white tail.

What if you'd google creative ways to kill ladybugs?

CB will be fifth on the list for that one, although the subject of the post wasn't killing ladybugs at all. In fact, it took them straight to the spider-killing expedition as well. This person was looking for "creative ways" to go about killing an insect. My creative ways are utilized for eradicating spiders, and spiders only; in no way, shape, or form have my methods been sanctioned or condoned for use on ladybugs.

And the person who googled damage to lcd screen dark splotch hopefully did not click on my post, because that would've led them to the same conclusion that I came to. Not a happy one. I wonder if he dropped his Ipod too. CB was the third website listed. Poor guy.

The next search nearly leaves me pissing: sprayed spider babies came out. Now say it out loud. Now take the words/phrases outside of the sentence, and hold them on their own. Sprayed. Spider babies. Came Out. It sounds horribly disgusting to hear those words in the same sentence. The more I think about it, the more I shudder here in my chair. There's a small chance that spider babies sprayed out of somewhere. I'm having visions of necrotising arachnidia. I must cease now. The CB link was 11th, and again took the searcher to the chronicle of the murder of two arachnids.

Then we have: I don't feel feel like dancing lost love?, a link to CB sitting second at the top of the list. Damn. That is heavy. The title to this post directly matched the phrase don't feel like dancing, but the piece consisted vignettes about different people I encountered while at a former job. And the people, they're not dancing either.

Search devil's breath and CB comes up at the top, a post about hot weather.

How does Criss Angel turn an almond into a cockroach?

Hmm. Then I start to think that I'm losing my mind because I don't remember watching Criss Angel nor being moved to write about him. Then there it was, number two, July 2006 archive. The story of my first encounter with cockroaches.

It floors to think about the connectivity of it all, this human life: All of the things that we search for in our lives that eventually we find, and all of the things we don't; what we deem important enough to search for, and how great the desire for something needs to be in order for an individual to put the effort into looking, while always weighing the potential of the unknown, the non-answer, and even the wrong answer.

Mar 11, 2007

Mexico: Me Rompio el Corazon

and he said it such
that to her the response
seemed primed and cut
with precision
like a diamond and
cast out upon the
shorefront sand as
white and fine as snow,
another measured lure
of flickered meaning
designed to ensnare the
female soul.

Despite her dark skin
when he looked at her
he saw that her eyes
had soaked up the
cerulean blue
of the ocean's surface
from blistering days
and glimmering nights
spent there as a waitress.

after she'd slipped out of his room
early the next morning
he felt bad for not giving her
a few green dollars
and tightly he shut his eyes
to press out the
clouded memories
of her passion and the way
she moved on him
like she knew the
fire's warmth all too well
and had grown accustomed
to it, without spurn,
loving the heat while
loathing the burn.

and the more violently she twisted,
an animal bound in the
jagged jaws of its prey,
so did the wounds dig deeper.

Mar 9, 2007

Ramble 1

Two snaking vines on opposite ends of a dank forest like cats claw towards the sunlight and though murk and dark separates the pair the fateless force of evolution grows them on where in the high reaches atop the eldest bows, and in when seeded with ageless time fuse together; just so, how you and I will dissolve to one.

April 24th, 2008: Rainbow Colored Wings

D and O were in the driveway when I pulled in. Relief. I had a direction to go in. I got out of my car and followed their footsteps around the house, to a swing set they had in the back yard.

E would show me the house later that night. The large kitchen, which was added on at some point in the place's history, the open dining room, the lightless living room, and the art room with the funky tile floor that is pattered by carpet. The generously sized bathroom with the walk-in closet. The steep stairway leading up to the second floor. The wood floors. O's blue-walled, black-ceilinged, gold-trimmed bedroom. D's purple-walled bedroom with pixie dust. The woman's room, how I felt anxious when I saw it, and the bird's nest of blankets on the floor.

How is school going, I ask D. She doesn't answer, too busy moving back and forth on the teeter totter. I'm behind O, who's on the swing, giving him gentle pushes as he hasn't conceptualized yet how to move his legs, to create the swinging momentum.

O goes to two schools, she says.

Which ones?

One is the Arts Center, she says, and one is the Chatterbox. Like a box with chatter!

Oh, that's cool. Do you like your schools?

Yeah, O says, with a nod.

Tell him about the dream you had about the light, D says to O.

Yeah, tell me about the dream you had about the light.

O doesn't respond.

Do you want me to tell him, D asks.


He dreamed that he was alone in a house, but it wasn't our house.

And my dad was outside, O added.

Then a light turned on all by itself.

O cranes his neck around on the swing, and I meet his blue eyes.

Oh, that is scary, I say.

Then the light started talking to him, she says.

No, it wasn't talking, says O.

Well I don't understand how that was scary, she says.

Sometimes dreams are scary just because of how they feel, I say, right?

Yeah, they say in unison.

Have you ever had a scary dream, D asks.

Sure, I say.

Tell us about one.

Well, I say, I was sitting in front of the fire place, and all of a sudden the fire got really loud. It was roaring like a lion.

That is scary, says D. Hey, that's kind of like O's dream!

Yes, it is. It wasn't so scary, but it felt that way.

Look, a robin, D says.

I hear the word rabbit, so I scour the grass in front of us.

See it, says O, see it? He points with one tiny finger.

Where? I look up to the roof of the garage. The robin.

Oh, there it is, I say, just before it takes flight to roost on the neighbor's roof.

Is he going to fall, O asks.

No, he can't fall, because he has wings. He'll fly away.

The robin takes flight from the neighbor's roof and exits from view.

You have wings, D says to me.


You have wings, D says. I saw them.

Really, I ask. Hmm...did I accidentally let you see my wings?

Yeah, she says with a smile. I know what color they are.

Have you ever had a dream where you were flying, I ask.

Both say they haven't.

I tell them that I have.

Was it scary?

No, it wasn't scary. It was fun! You really haven't had a dream where you were flying? Maybe that's just me since I have wings in real life.

I know what color your wings are, D says again.

What color are they?

They're rainbow colored.

That's right, sweet dear child. Though far from an angel, I am an angelic being. I'm here for you, and I'm here for your mother. I know when to take flight. The time is not right. Hence, I will first bear witness that there is celestial light to be had in this cold, nightmare-filled world.

90 is the Number for Now

For the folks who've been stopping back regularly for the last few months, I'm sure that you've become aware of the irregularity in the frequency of posts. The truth is this phenomenon coincides with my creative spirits being drawn elsewhere at this time, and I know what happens when I spread myself thin. All projects suffer. My Morning Cigarette is an example. I originally intended to keep this going, and never let a week pass by where I didn't post about my environment three to five times.

The band is really starting to gain some momentum, and really, since the beginning of October, the majority of my creative efforts have been focused there in writing music, lyrics, and collaborating with the brightest, coolest musicians I've ever played with. The buzz that started back in November, to my own admitted alarm, has not subsided. At the dawn of our third month now we've managed to secure shows spread across a 150 mile radius here in Wisconsin, opening up for bands who've played the late shows on TV, get time on indie radio, bands who've toured the nation and beyond. And to hope, this is the beginning.

I'm acting as manager right now. Trying to take what I've learned in the "real" world of business and apply it to this project, use the strategies most fitting to our situation. Trying to make sure that we have an agenda this time, a plan, maybe something to aim for, and that is to be alive as a band.

So I'm abandoning this for now and won't strike the keys here again unless that inspirational lightning does strike me. But if you're reading this please keep on writing cause I still make time to read. That's where I get much of my inspiration to begin with. I have started a chronicle of events surrounding the band. A media-journal of sorts. If you want to get in on it, go here. It's private now, but just request access and I'll let you in.



for Jade
Falling from the heavens
like a million angel feathers,
and now, tabula rasa
from which melts
the craft of Spring.

Mar 7, 2007

The Weatherman

He said it'd rain
fat like
silver bullets
falling from the sky
at three o'clock
that afternoon
but they just
stared it him crazy.

sure as shit
as peaches have pits,
at three o'clock
the clouds huddled
over the mountains,
a pack of pachyderms,
and pissed upon
the town.

On the Natural Death of a Man in His Backyard

After the fall,
long you lay
out in the cold
on your back,
death creeping
through your veins
like a serpent leaving
a trail of concrete
in its wake.

Too long your
spirit lingered with
your body, the soul’s
eyes darting, waiting
on neighbors,
before the wind
whisked it away.

At least you passed
with a view as
moonless sky
stretched wide
to accept your
on your vision like
a black fist.

The drinks
fermenting in
your belly were
drops of warmth
in the infancy
of death,
serum that slowed
a stiffening storm.

Mar 6, 2007

The Resurrection

The conversations
came each night
with the moon,
cloud cover
or not

the talks were
whisps of wind,
short, playful
and welcome
in the desert

her voice,
distant notes
dancing on
copper strings
plucked dull

the vibrations;
that bring
a broken boy
to life

Mar 5, 2007

The Hem of Winter

As I've often done this winter, I couldn't help but take notice of the cold, and the nipping winds that have come late this year, and have been uncommonly chilling to the bones. I swear when I'm walking around campus I can feel old soccer injuries stir from deep within my legs. The toe I once dislocated feels thicker than normal, and doesn't move as easily. And finally, it has become numbing to the mind.

These winters were always something I could appreciate in one manner or another: as a boy, sledding, building forts, and all sorts of ruckus that was made all the better because of the frozen padding that fell during the cooler months. But you grow, and responsibilities take hold.

Maybe it's a vehicle you own, and suddenly the white bliss floating down from the heavens is really a potential death sentence for you whether you head down that one way stretch via an unfortunate, ice-enduced accident or from the wrath of your parents if you survive and they see the car.

Then you get your own place. That's when you realize that feces also comes in white because shoveling it is just about as fun as cleaning up after the neighbor's dog. Sort of, just think on a large scale, like if the dog took a shit that canvassed your entire drive. Suddenly, playing in the snow loses its appeal as well.

But at the same time, there were ways to appreciate it then, is simply for the sake of itself. A pure aesthetic found through writing, seeing what, if any meaning could be found that could relate to humankind. It's always been gazing, not looking. Looking implies there's something to be found. Looking implies you know what it is you're looking for.

The morning sun today smiled down once again in that devious, golden manner, and cast its light out on a world that appeared much more welcoming and habitable than it was. The earth outside does not stir with life. Not yet. The change is slower than that; things must still run their course, and we have to wait, as we always have. And trying to make sense of the world helps to pass that time. The sheer wonder of it, it's out there. It's just been harder to see it this year.

Mar 2, 2007

A Happy Beginning

There will be a total lunar eclipse tomorrow evening. The event, at least in North America, will cause the moon to rise with a dark reddish, almost bloodlike hue. I plan to drive far out into the country, find a front row seat amongst the snow-covered pines. It's the first in four years, and could be the last one anyone ever sees.

Armageddon. I used to have quite the fascination with this concept, being raised in a strict, Christian home. The signs of the times. Ain't it amazing what you can find if you're told what to look for? Earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, tornadoes, fierce storms, wars, and finally, the moon is turning to blood. Sit back down. Don't raise an alarm. This is what the apostle saw when he was trippin' on Jesus' special sauce, so there's nothing we can do.

Armageddon. Also known as "Har-maggedon," in the ancient Hebrew language, which meant "Mountain of Megiddo," a clear reference to the place where the book of Revelations says the final battle between good and evil will be waged. Also known as "A Happy Beginning." I don't care where this mountain sits. Nothing I can do now. It's about to get real happy out there.

Wait...Earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, tornadoes, fierce storms, wars, and finally, the moon is turning to mean, the same shit that's been going on since humans knew how to document it? Hmm...Sketchy's here.

In fact, all facts point towards something else. Cause we're always going to kill eachother. That's obvious. Natural disasters, well.

Natural. I'm not even going to bother for a dictionary defintion of this one, because every single entry will have the word "nature" in it's explanation. That's possibly one of the only things I clearly remember from high school, that you're not supposed to define a word by using that word in its definition. Why the FUCK is everything backwards?

Natural Disasters. Destructive forces in nature.

I think I'm going to shit out of my ears.

Many people would contend that these same disasters, although natural, can be effected by humans, encouraged, and intensified, especially with pollution.

So, Armageddon. Is this simply the end of the world? The final battle between good and evil? A natural cycle the earth progresses through every gahbuhzillion years or so? The result of us killing eachother off, whether by bullets of burning fossil fuels?

This is why kids don't want to go to college, and adults choose not to have kids.

Why does it seem that science and religion are nothing but a couple of sex-hungry frat boys sitting in the pub together getting one another increasingly cocked up and drunk as the minutes pass on?