| Dog Poem |
[Oct. 20th, 2009|09:05 am] |
Dog Poem
The passing migration of old dogs
synchronizes with the passing of light.
I'll watch them sleep
stand
cross the room and sleep again.
Cross the house and lie down again.
Always under the sun until
there is no sun.
----
Who said I couldn't write happy poems? Not I! |
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| Missile Fields |
[Oct. 15th, 2009|09:23 pm] |
Missile Fields
Vacations through the missile fields are overrated.
For example, consider the disconnect between a driver and a pick-up truck:
one may think to use the word "lumbering"
*(for the pun, I mean).
but that's probably a mistake.
Or look for the sad reality of the starless poise past the cement factory furnace.
but there's nothing there.
Past the geometry of the cotton or orange groves.
Past anything at all.
Nothing meets anything.
----
Thought most of this poem while driving somewhere. |
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| Deep Breath |
[Oct. 10th, 2009|01:39 am] |
Deep Breath
A poem isn't a good place to discuss a car crash.
Ex: There's nothing to see here.
Ex2: It takes too long here.
Poems skate above ice
before the fracture,
the crack,
the plunge.
Today we isolate the plunge
and repeat
(times 2,3,4)
and the crack and the fracture
are gone.
And the plunge is gone too.
----
I want to write a story, I do. It's coming, I just have to organize my thoughts.
I seem to be the only person not to abandon livejournal. :(
 |
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| Reconciling Advice |
[Sep. 17th, 2009|11:41 pm] |
I've had these dreams lately whereas I can't recall anything other than the sense of loss. In a sense, it's like reading literature, I suppose.
I once read that every problem has a solution. That advice matters and, that, given enough leverage, a fulcrum will transfer force, given, of course, enough weight to surpass counter-balance. It's bullshit, you know? Advice doesn't matter, it's a sense of exercising perceived control over a meaningless universe, spread infinitely and forever through a (mostly) black pall. Over someone else. I find myself throwing up roadblocks whenever I think there's a solvable problem, and then barreling through them anyways.
I've read that one of the greatest evolutional processes in the human mind was our ability to recognize patterns. It's outgrown it's usefulness, I think. |
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| Upon Reading Ted Kaczynski's Manifesto |
[Sep. 16th, 2009|11:12 pm] |
Upon Reading Ted Kaczynski's Manifesto
Every storefront front chime tinkle isn't inspiration
An engine backfire
(not a melody)
Neo Luddites got some things right
I'll ring out Vocader phrases through Casiotone keys
(like a robot)
Singing "Sin is excess"
Singing "Sin in exit"
Singing "Circuit boards replace something"
In third grade I was taught that every comma meant pause
like
,
this
It's something this modern music should learn.
-----
I'm happy with the poetry I've been writing. Lately, I mean. |
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| On Image |
[Sep. 13th, 2009|01:04 am] |
On Image
Yr suit will be the death of you
Every periwinkle plaid tie and
derelict smile of you –
and the cars?
Faux-vintage rattle-traps dust stiff
leather cracked
and the sweat clutching the skin.
And her laugh filled the room.
I, him, resented her for it.
and I, him felt guilty for it.
I understand pain
in an American sense
and I can’t grasp you, her.
-----
Something I wrote tonight. I'm writing again. |
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| Because a pen don't mean you can write./You're no fucking John Updike. |
[Sep. 8th, 2009|12:35 am] |
I haven't updated this thing in a while. This is a minor tragedy.
I haven't been writing, really, as much as I should. And so much has changed. I suppose. I graduated. I moved to Portland for 3 months and then I moved back. And now I'm applying for jobs like mad but not really getting anywhere. Which isn't a minor disappointment, it's a major one.
I miss Tucson in a major way, which is surprising. There's something about it's blasé anti-pretension that I didn't realize was so fucking endearing until I left it. More than anything, I think, I miss that. The sad stores, the people, the fact that outside of sorority row, image isn't everything. Or anything. That's what I miss.
So I'm stuck running through the cycle of tucson.craigslist.com, phoenix.craigslist.com, and indeed.com, the trifecta of job sites that will show any opening ever within the state. And I'm not getting much of anywhere, despite my honest to god best efforts. This sucks, but I suppose there are worse things.
I've realized that I don't trust people unless I know they've had pain in their lives. This much is true. I don't trust most people, which I've known for a long time, but this is just a sort of pin on it. I've realized this lately
I'm going to try, try, try to maintain a more regular schedule. Check back often. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 7th, 2009|11:44 pm] |
I'm making a list. A list of things I will and won't miss of Tucson. This is a WIP, work in progress.
Things I will miss:
1.Awesome Mexican food.
2.Being around a bunch of fantastic writers.
3.Riding my bike through campus.
4.The classes I enjoyed.
5.Being around a bunch of fantastic people.
6.The crazy people.
7.Monsoons.
Things I will not miss:
1. The insufferable and often unavoidable heat.
2. The majority of students at the UofA.
3. The way people had a way of flowing out of your life here before you even knew it.
4. The crime rate and being a victim to it.
5. The Helicopter shining its light through my window.
6. The stupid classes.
7. The feeling like I never really fit in.
More as I think of them. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 3rd, 2009|05:05 pm] |
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This is an important time, I know. I should be updating this more. But I'm far too busy applying for jobs and preparing for the biggest transition of my life to really get to it. Soon, soon. |
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| We're batting our wings against the wall. |
[Apr. 16th, 2009|08:37 pm] |
I saw this image, and had to triple check that it wasn't taken in Arizona. It's actually Riyadh.
Moving to Portland is far too exciting. |
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| Pardon my French |
[Apr. 12th, 2009|11:35 pm] |
After going to Rubio's today with Nyssa, I saw a dead homeless person on the side of the road. He was slumped over on his side, surrounded by a couple of police.
It's really starting to get to me, I think. It's the first time I've ever seen a dead body.
I'm in purgatory right now; I've settled into the end of school and am just sitting around, applying for jobs in Portland. Other than that, I'm just lazing about. Reading and playing video games. Waiting to graduate.
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| The Lonely Hearts Brigade |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|03:23 pm] |
We're through with people! We're done! We know the secret is to love less than you are loved and we know we keep getting undercut!
I'm starting the Lonely Hearts Brigade. If you've been dumped, you meet our requirements. It's time for revolution! We're buying beers for all your tears. We're marching down the street this spring with a proclamation of anti-love. We're burning Paris! Ever romantic comedy will go unwatched! Theaters will be empty. Quiet conversations between lovers between the sheets will never be heard again! They won't ribbon out the window and onto the street, we're giving up!
So won't you join me in the Lonely Hearts Brigade? Oh won't you? |
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| Call the doctor |
[Mar. 30th, 2009|11:40 pm] |
I'm a doctor of sick women. I'm the bonified treater of all maladies: I can cook chicken soup for sore throats. I can suture broken hearts. I'm not certified but I don't charge much. Kisses on the cheek, that sort of thing, you know? I know over 50 ways to cuddle. I know how to set heaters. I know empathy.
----
Long weekend gets longer. Almost done with school, classes cancel.
Spent time with Lindsey on Sunday over some asshole on the days before than. Spent time with Emily today, over a fever and a sore throat. Made noodle soup for her the way mom used to (no lie.) Even let her put in the golden egg of flavor. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 22nd, 2009|10:07 pm] |
Maybe the third time is the charm.
(STILL working on that short story, it will be done eventually.) |
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| Do you want to dance? |
[Mar. 18th, 2009|01:01 am] |
I'm working an update for this thing, I promise. It will be beautiful. I'm working on a short story and I think it truly shows promise. Patience patience.
I have dates scheduled with like, four different women next week. Holy moly. |
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| Put me in. Let me run with the ball. Ha! |
[Mar. 9th, 2009|09:18 pm] |
I think I'm broken up with Charlene. Well, I am. She hasn't responded to any of my text messages in a week. I've sent like 3 and a voicemail. She was sort of immature, so this isn't that surprising.
If breaking up gets easier with every girl, does falling in love become harder? Does the heart harden? Do I need to find someone with a pumice stone and just have them grind away each layer and find something raw?
I'm working on a story. In my head. I really have a few pieces of dialogue finished that I think show promise, so I want to work on them and see if I can work out the rest. I'll probably work on it, tomorrow, bored in class.
Today as I walked out of my only class, I thought, for the first time, "today I am one day closer to moving to Portland." It all seems like a dream. Something too perfect to obtain. Like when I'm on a date with a pretty girl and I'm thinking about kissing her after it's over. Like I can't imagine that happening. And then it does. I've been like an astronaut lately, spacey and floaty and drifting. I find myself lost outside of windows.
Speaking of Portland, check out the wonderful musicians I'll be living with at myspace.com/bellbirds . The first song is fine china, fragile and beautiful. The rest is equally amazing. I feel both blessed and intimidated to share a roof with people that can make something so wonderful. |
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| And to those last ten years I've been howling at a paper moon? Well FUCK YOU! |
[Mar. 4th, 2009|06:43 pm] |
In Tucson I see Mexican children on rusty tricycles
I see dirty clothes and dark skies
Eye sockets like bottle rockets spark and cry.
I've seen everything here and within humid wind
I'll find each new breath staler
I'll mix drugs with something my shrink told me not
to because (secretly) we all know success is relative.
There's more to life than happiness.
When we look up we'll know the reasons why.
Behind the logic of the ontological.
We'll reach out and pull nothing.
We'll say "We Love YOU." and turn away.
---
One of those nights? One of those weeks. |
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| Lost Pilots |
[Feb. 27th, 2009|08:09 pm] |
I was there when the helicopters collided. I saw them, all of them, airborne. And then not. I saw them bloom in flame. I saw their carriages peel out. I saw them comet into the ground, intertwined.
There were no sirens. There was no shouting or crying. People looked a while and then moved on. A man walked out of the wreckage, blinked, sat on a curb, and then, finding no one to help him walked away. The fire burned until it didn't, until there was a charred black smear. People diverted their paths around the spot, and had minor headache over lost time. Children played around it. One jumped on a bent rotor blade.
Families wondered where their lost pilots had gone. The one survivor had disappeared. The newspaper was still blank. TV news was gone and the internet, we had forgotten about the internet by then. Phones were quaint. The metal rotted into the ground.
I found myself sitting outside the site, staring in. Wondering where everything had gone. Wondering why no one cared about the event. At night, under the dark poise, I seemed to see constellations spell out "Under Here You Will Find Nothing." I contemplated and then moved on.
----
Some explanation: I was thinking about helicopters while trying to get to sleep a few nights ago. About how I see the police helicopter flies back and forth all night now. This story is what came out of that. |
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