Friday, August 29, 2008
I cried the first time a girl showed me affection.
I'm not talking sex, blowjobs, or making out.
I'm talking about tender affection
kisses that mean something ,
other than fucking.
Not for a second,
Not a head turn
and an excuse.
on her lap
Other guys would have been
working open button flies
and snapping elastic
all the way down
to her ankles.
I put my head down
in her lap, comfort not desire,
thoughts of pussy
and fresh unexpected
She touched me
with such honest
unmetered love and caring
that it broke something within me
- something from childhood
- something artificial.
I cried in that girls lap
long enough to be relaxed
for the first time.
It felt good.
Open affection was
I melted that day,
broke a little,
these years since.
in mine own
A narrow escape
from who I was
(for that is not always who we were born to be)
Life has recently been easy enough
(speaking in scope of human history)
that we have forgotten why
why we have friends:
The ancient primal reason
we first stood side to side
with those not kin.
Life has been easy enough
we have lapsed into
looking for entertainment ,
diversion, or other low
drives to friendship.
Originally, friends were for strength
for support in crisis
for tooth and nail
for bloody companions.
We have friends so we can kill better.
We have friends so we are harder to kill.
so we can laugh
a little more,
but not a reason.
Maybe we don't need to kill as often,
but competition is just as great.
Forces still struggle to subdue
us, to make batteries of the other.
Friends are still needed for a fight;
a fight for independence,
a fight to spend our short lives
serving our own purposes, and
We should remember,
if we intend to live free,
why humans first made
friends with each other:
tooth and nail,
I won't say wake up,
I say look around
from a different perspective.
I won't say wake up,
I say prepare for
the fight that may
Revel in the strength of your friends.
Written as the first, very small, response to a question posed...
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The daily builds up scabs
deliberate and patiently slow.
So incremental as to escape
a good efficient drunk
blows out the cobwebs
leaving soulish scabs
and calluses scattered
over the bedroom floor
Tracks of renewal
following me to a wake up.
Slight wince as I notice
A half smile spread as I notice
it was worth it.
No regrets when you need it.
I get up early,
shave and pay attention to the detail,
Open up the office before dawn
sporting my wake-up-smile
worn out from the therapy,
but ready to keep moving,
The marching days
always stretching out
always in my face
this morning they feel
like they are humping to glory
not shuffling home from defeat.
The union heading south,
and not Lee moving from
lost field to lost field.
Today vibrates a little more
open to my
There is room for creativity here.
Space for crafting a style
Couldn't see that clearly yesterday
Hard to focus through the build up.
Lens must be cleared
on shirt tails.
Purpose must be cleared
on the tail of discipline
pulled out for an evening.
Yeah its a massive drunk
phone timer to pace the shots
thirty minutes to agave
with beers interstitial.
keep 'em coming bartender.
keep 'em coming.
I'm a good boy,
I take my medicine with a smile.
I say thank you for that one,
Its worth it,
and when its worth it
there are no regrets,
I'll tuck in my discipline.
I'm just cleaning these glasses
for an improved perspective
for a fresh prospective.
I owe you one
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
caused by stupidity
inability to listen
compulsion to speak
of an empowered accident.
I can't accept that it is
than an accident.
What would that make of the world?
How would I have to change my
appreciation of people
if a decision was made
to give her position.
I prefer to see an accident
of the system.
I prefer to be angry
at the accident weilding
power over me,
than loose faith in humanity
Sunday, August 24, 2008
to north east Oklahoma
so she could appear in court
for a restraining order on her
recently ex husband.
He dealt drugs
and ran with white supremacists.
So did she,
and her brothers were all shaven,
and leading pit bulls to the Dairy Queen
on chromed chains.
I read ancient texts found in deserts
and influenced other people on occasion.
This was not such an occasion.
I drove her to Veneta OK
known only for having a large mental hospital
and from what I could see,
She lived in a rented house
unfinished and without air conditioning
summer was hot,
but the breeze was nice
and the nights were dark.
She was miles out of town on dirt roads,
and town wasn't much,
but she was on a running stream
and her mom kept a nice garden.
I didn't fit.
I felt like I was camping.
So out of my element that I couldn't relate.
I drove her back once
she'd got her restraining order.
She lived with me and my friends
for awhile longer
until she was sure I wasn't interested,
then she went back home.
When we first met I had seen more life than her
I was experienced and older,
but last we met the tables were turned
and I was innocent from so many years in books
and she was not.
I wonder how she is doing.
I wonder how her son is doing.
I'd like to introduce her to my daughter and wife.
But these are silly thoughts
maybe I'm still an innocent,
too long in books
but I remember her
and I wish she knew that it wasn't her.
It took me another decade and one half
to marry. It wasn't her.
I went to the cabinet to get a glass of scotch. I was in that mood. Standing between the open doors, I notice that all the bottles are more empty than full. Some holding onto the shelf with a single finger. The french oak Glenlivet retains two fingers at most. The Ardbeg, one. I take down the Oban. Nearly half full. Comfort scotch. I also palm the complete guide to single malt scotch. I retreat to my kitchen chair and four year old laptop. Music is needed: A choice to be made.
Decision made, Nirvana: Comfort music. I sit drinking; sipping really. Reading about what the nose will deliver. Sniffing. Realizing, I can smell the sea and a hint of peat. These always make the mouth water. Sipping, again. The palate does taste of seaweed. A brief smile in appreciation. Settling in.
"Come as you are", excellent song. The warmth of a decision well made, and of the scotch embracing throat and stomach; warm. A good book is at hand. It is ever so, and when it ceases to be so, I will wander the streets until my wife drives me home. The book is as essential as the music. Periodic readings between scotch and visits from the baby. The music and the scotch together form a sort of cloud around the head. One of fumes and another of sound. The words swirl and form pictures. They clear away leaving an impression, a distance from the day.
Mountain top moments, can be found between covers, beneath corks, and within clouds of slowly moving smoke. Not the fist pumping mountain top of extreme sports but the sheltered body and deep set eyes of a man too engaged to sleep, just yet. Sitting up, days spent waiting for the sun to set and rise. Mountain tops without Gatorade. Mountain tops with quiet and more absence than presence. Steep paths are single file, climbed alone. Think of Sargent York making his decisions about whether or not to comply. What is right, and what is wrong.
Where was I going with that?
I forgot, but I enjoyed it.
Leaves me feeling like I'm wiggling a loose tooth
still holding on
by a vein
or some thread of meat.
I'm twisting left and right, pushing back, until,
not a snap but a release of tension.
It slowly pulls free.
Leaves me feeling something like that :-)
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
"Friction is the force resisting the relative motion of two surfaces in contact" (wikipedia)
There are classes of opportunity. There are classes of control and influence.
When society looses balance the loosing class will resist. When power slides away from an entire class of people they will resist that motion.
Enough friction can start a fire.
"When contacting surfaces move relative to each other, the friction between the two objects converts kinetic energy into thermal energy, or heat." (wikipedia)
Dress for success? Empty headed idea leading to useless idiots parading around in nice clothes, fanning peacock feathers. There is a reason to NOT judge a book by its cover. The purpose of the book is the content NOT the cover.
Work for success? Practical headed idea leading to productive behavior. Its more likely that study and hard work will pay off than a nice suit, much better percentage of return.
Focus on function and let use drive form. Purpose shines through an object, making natural forms attractive.
Get to work early. Work longer. Study forever. Its not that complicated to be good at what you do, its just hard. Its even harder to keep it up, but the alternative isn't peacock feathers - fuck that, I create :-)
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Liberty is always the first casualty of force.
Force begets force. You can never force liberty on an individual.
However valid the cause, force should be the last response.
There is no freedom without freedom from force
I hear the concept of class struggle pushed aside under the guise of greater enlightenment, as if their eyes beheld higher goals than wealth and goods. In this way these voices shift the argument out from under the truth. The goal of class warfare is control, not physical wealth. My heart does not burn with jealousy for greater ability to consume. We don't need more stuff, we need more control. I'd skip a meal every day, if the people paying for where the country is going could control where its going to - and NO voting every couple years is not working.
Class warfare should be avoided when its about money or goods, but it should be embraced when its about control. Power should rest in the hands of those whose backs bear the burden. Only burden gives right of control. This is a critical balance a free state must maintain in order to remain free. A populace will not tolerate abuse for long. The abused hits back, given time. Given enough disrespect. Given enough suffering. It is only a matter of time, not if. If, is a certainty. We will rise up and take back control, the only variable is time. When we decide enough is enough, there will be no stopping us. 90% of us can drown the opprossors in our blood alone, but that won't be required. We only have to stand up and reach for control, and NOT the honey pot of greater consumption or the illusion of security. Reaching for these abdicates responsibility for freedom. The only security we can trust is control gripped in our fists. Not in one man's fist, or a few, but 90% of hands clenched around control forming a fist, a fist that easily trivializes any obstacles. That is freedom, that is security, that is where the heart of every free individual beats and hungers to reside.
Those bearing the burden are responsible and have purchased the right to control through their labor.
We are not free until we have regained control.
If is a certainty, when is a variable.
We are the ones that need to wake up.
We are the sole source of change.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Why put on airs? The only people that will see them as real are too foolish to depend on anyway. Their belief in a false image will only reinforce personal self delusion. Put on airs? No thank you. Better to have impressions made by slower real-time interaction. It will take longer to build up, but it will also take longer to wear down.
Blend in, until others have a reason to pick you out.
Wear gray every day. Let perception color you in.
Monday, August 18, 2008
warmed up donut
both go down easy
pleasure of an oarsman
returning to his bench
hands gripping, gripping
warming to the rythmn
ground in by necessity
practiced long enough
to transform a pain
into a pleasure.
Its Monday morning.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
"Do you really believe that Jesus
on a white horse
flying down from the sky?"
Thinking this was so ridiculous
that it would be easy common ground.
"Yes. Yes I do.
He said he would come back,
and riding a white horse
and we'd see him in the sky."
Conversation footing lost,
not sure where to go from here.
How is the horse flying?
We know heaven is not above the clouds:
Where is it coming from? Orbit?
"Couldn't this have some metaphorical
"Some things are beyond our understanding.
I have faith that every word in the bible is true.
So even if it doesn't make sense to me,
it makes sense to god and will happen just as stated."
"But we know about horses and that they need to breath.
That isn't beyond our understanding"
Unless, this is a divine horse. Pegasus maybe?
Friday, August 15, 2008
I remember being a child.
I remember the coughing,
trouble breathing, and
The girls thought I was gross,
spitting phlegm into trash cans
The teacher still make me run laps,
I would do my best,
but I would start coughing
and would spit into the trash cans
No one was impressed.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
At times, times of scotch, smoke, Hayes Carll, Hank, George, David Allen and faces; faces looking back at me from where I left them. In my mind, they all blame me for going away, and leaving them to themselves. I trip over memories. Memories of girls covered in youth. Stumble. Memories of boys full of future glory. So many memories, a trip and a stumble into them, and you can feel them again. Eyes wild with beauty, and the smell, the musky smell of excessive freedom: More than any of us could afford.
Enough water has run under this bridge, to carve a ravine. I look down, from the railed bridge of the present, and get a little dizzy, a little melancholy. Thoughtful. I miss every moment, but wouldn't trade this moment for one spent. Never. That is innate and why they linger and crowd. They were all the present moment, once. They all filled my thoughts and defined my horizon, at one time; past. That does not lessen their pull, or their ability to reach right through.
Memory tripping: An indulgence like scotch over gin, or tokes over smokes. So many friends, friends that I loved. I loved them all. I still do. That is my nature; extremes. Nothing was ever what it was, it was always what it was and all that it could possibly be. No one was every who they were, they were always possible. These are roots and curbs, we all trip over.
At times, times of scotch, I lift my small glass to their expansive memory and wish them well, and wish their weight was a bit less. At these times I always lift more than one glass, nursing the moment into a night. I embrace them in order to stay afloat. They are too many to deny, or ignore. They are so much of who I am, and who who I've been. I drink again, and again. They must all have their due. I pay and pay, waiting for a freedom, a lighter demeanor, a different step.
I miss them when they don't visit.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
I refer to myself
as a "Recovering Christian"
I affirm my disbelief
in supernatural causes.
of another's belief,
I try to be understanding.
of supernatural causes
and of the unknowable as known,
I look at my watch
"Its getting late,
it was good to talk with you again."
Thursday, August 07, 2008
When I was a child I was told that I was born tainted by sins not even my own, that my nature was fallen, broken and would always slide into wrong. That my natural inclinations would be to hurt others and sin in a myriad of ways. That unless I committed myself to God I would suffer under this corrupted and putrid nature until I was justly tormented for eternity. I was made to understand that I should not trust my instincts, they were corrupted. I should obey. I should listen and believe. Question, only to hear the answer. What self image does this build? An ugly one, with the only goal left being to force myself into some one else's image. I was told to hope and wait for the world to be destroyed in flame, and for everyone happy with this life to be judged and tormented. I was told to struggle against the stink of my own self until I was released in death. The hope for life I was given was nothing more than survival and hope for the end. "Saint" Peter exhorted me to love this life as much as a dead person does, and I heard this from the mouths of parents and teachers.
I will not brainwash my daughter with this filth. She is a wonderful product of life, the universe and everything. Whatever deities may exist, I doubt those with creator rights will mind our appreciation for what they have made. I look at my daughter and say, good job! I look at my daughter and feel the natural desire to protect her from those who would hurt her bodily or emotionally. I look at my daughter and the natural father in me knows, deep down in my evolved genes, that I will savagely protect her from any being evil enough to wish her harm for simply being who she was born to be. My entire role as father is to help her realize and fulfill her inborn innate nature, and to defend her from those opposed.
Eyes up baby. Heart Open. Love others because they have the innate, inborn potential to be awesome. Life may be hard but we are flexible and resilient.
Eyes up baby. Heart open. No star shown above your crib on day one, but you are a gift to this world, and this world is a gift to you. You are a new and ancient force: you are humanity, refreshed once again. I'm yours until you no longer need me, and even then I'll be on stand by just in case.