dirty coffee

I wake up to another group of wishes,

one in particular

come true.

Focused on my minds dumb smile

ash falls into my drink.

There has always been ash in my drink,

and a dumb smile on my mind.

I wont fish it out.

Especially if Im asked to.

But I wont ever mention again

That its in there.

A puddle.

It has come to be one thing,

life and dreaming.

A line I never thought would blur

has dissolved

and left me in a puddle

of happy and sad.

I love you Tony

Finding a place

where beer is sold

and the joint isn't kidding you

is a rare thing.

We have a place where they sell beer to men 

who want beer

and to women who love men

who want beer.

The ones who like sports 

and all that

watch them

and drink their beer.

The back is dirty and open,

to the sky

where you can smoke.

the last free plot of land in Los Angeles.

The pool players play pool and drink their beer.

Old men ,

who know the bar as a friend, 

their wives

sit and smile and drink

while they rattle on, and pat the bar.

Untitled

Sitting around kidding myself has grown into a pastime and furthermore an art. I think maybe the only real satisfaction I'll ever draw, is that of my dreams. Day dreams, and thoughts of what could be. In every situation there is a play. The heaviest comes before seeing girls I care for, Genuinely care for, wild dreams , calm dreams. Slices of the evening to come, played out by two actors, identical to us, but for their position in time, and together. Then I turn, and bend myself over the keys, and perform a poem, a place I thought was made for escaping, but isn't. I thought it was a place I could create but instead its the world where I live. I've moved there, and this is all some vacation gone wrong. I live a wonderful life, but it isn't as perfect. 

It is not my intention to prove my poems are perfect things, and I hope you would ignore me if I ever did. They are perfect in the way that they are true, and there isn't any doubt mixed in. There is no question and no dreaming. A way of looking straight into things.

Then I turn away to drag on my beer. I lift it and a flash strikes me from outside my window. Immediately the flash tells me it's only a reflection and the swig settles. Im stuck dreaming again and my heart shakes around. Not the love heart but the fear heart. Also the curiosity heart. My fingertips are freezing from typing fast, and grabbing a cold can. The love heart shakes, and I care for her.

Caring  has always stricken me as a delicate and terrifying condition. It's so much a concept, and so little a real thing, its as delicate as an important fact to remember. There's no telling weather or not it will stay, or be worth it, but you hold on. People don't behave rationally, the people who say so are afraid, and have made horrible mistakes. The people who do not say so have probably made far worse mistakes. They are terrified, but have known the truth about at least one other human's soul. That human soul is fickle and changes. It isn't to be trusted but embraced. Cared for. And if you stop caring, you no longer know this human soul, because it is fickle, and again it changes.

Now its getting later and all the dreams of what's to come have blurred with alternate versions of themselves, conflicting, and now they are a ball of wire. Its circumference is so that the outer wires are 100% longer than the wires at the center of the mass. There is no reaching where the dream began, and now all thats left is to wait. The hopes that had sparked the trip were now extinguished. Often, and most of the time, love is one sided. Dreaming of this girl who loves you the second your first drinks are down. All smiles. No rattling your old mouth. It might be useless or it might be the way things actually are, in day dreams. Not the way things are going to become here on earth but the truth that only you know, and you know as pure. Everything- these thoughts and dreams, poems, they're nothing but you, or me. They are born inside what I know as real, and never leave. Related sometimes through writing or song, but the event, the actual dream is something that happened in you, its the past. It is as solid a past as any event in flesh, or in the air could be.

I come to seeing I'd be better off sitting at home dreaming, drinking. Singing. But none of that could compare to the dreams I would have if I got to see her eyes. Fuel for dream fire. Timber.

Waste vast hours, tired

unleashing thoughts without having to wish they were real.

Waste your life dreaming and forget everything important. 

Feed yourself with food, booze, other people's dreaming

And die

with your eyes open,

because dreams feel better

when you look toward the places in which

whey are based.

The Ballad of Carlo Porter- Pt. 3- " Warming up"

The camp wasn't big, where Carlo drank, at this makeshift bar. The Drunk's resumed their chattering and dice rolling. Card flipping. As the barman took Carlo's payment, far less than what was normally required for the amount of whiskey he consumed, A man stood up from the closest table to the bar and declared: " You'd never beat Bill Waterloo hands to hands! No way in hell!"

Carlo turns around to face the rebel.  His face is plain and calm.

"You Couldn't even beat me! look at ya! your in rags!" The Rebel charged him. This maniac had some kind of death-wish. He was broad shouldered and almost as tall as Carlo, but lacked the posture and brovado of a fighter. He stood slumped over, and had his elbows pushed backward, leaving him very open. A bad way to stand while taunting a Brawler.

Carlo sent him three fists without any warning. The first was to the sternum, this launched the upper half of his  body and his head, forward. While this motion was still in action, the same fist pulled back and struck again, meeting the man's neck on its way toward Carlo. Now he was traveling backward, but before he was upright again Carlo drew back and returned his fist, this time coming from above and directly down upon the mans nose. He fell backward, half onto a table, knocking all its contents to the floor. He flipped onto his front after hitting the table and landed on the floor. It was all blood and glass and cards down there. The man on the floor didn't move. Everyone was quiet again, shocked. One man cheered and before his first holler had ended the rest had joined in. Everyone enjoyed a knockout.

It was time to find a place to sleep. 

Carlo wandered the camp, half drunk for the better part of the evening, sizing up everyone he saw. No one would look him in the eyes. The camp was small but had been around for a while, so there were some wooden structures, though most of the stations were tents. Upon losing his whiskey energy, Carlo knew it was time to turn in. He had come across a feild of tents, rented for a quarter a night.

" Ill have a tent then." Carlo handed the attendant a quarter.

"there, in the back. Second from the left." The geezer directed Carlo. He squints and points to the tent.

The tents were almost all occupied. There were some men who stood around still drinking and shouting at their fire to ' Grow! '. Some were face first in the dirt. Some had women in their tents, which shook and almost fell at every quake. The tents around where Carlo was directed were calm, mostly sleeping men. One had a woman in there with him but they were sound asleep. Their feet stuck out the back of the tent and were still. They both had multiple layers of stockings and the man wore his boots, to fight the cold. 

Carlo crawled into his tent and wraped himself in his own arms. There was a small wool blanket but wouldn't provide any warmth. It was better to protect him from the dirt, and the bugs.  He dug his fingers into his shirt and curled up. Sleep.

Though he dreamt, Carlo had always been more so the type to deny such silly things. Not showing much interest in the arts, or words. But his mind was flush with strange visions. This night, as with most nights on drunk, he dreamt elaborate, seemingly eternal dreams. They were all about conquest. The dreams never had any historical significance or accuracy, but rather portrayed a caricature of each of his fights. He was a commander sitting atop a gigantic black beast, a spear in his hand. He would shout to his warriors and direct them, pushing each group forward as if it were a fist being swung at his enemy.  Carlo's voice would carry across the battlefield as clear as ever and charge his warriors with passion. Every time the enemy was defeated and everytime Carlo would behead the enemy leader, and awaken. This night, (as every night since Carlo heard the legend of Bill Waterloo) it was Bill's head on the ground before him. Carlo was just warming up.

The sun cooked the leather on his shoe and Carlo awoke. 

---------------                               --------------------                          --------------------

Sitting on the steps of his shack, Bill watched the sun come up, and craved his sport. 

It had been only two days since his last brawl, and he already wanted to win again. Competition was growing scarce.

'Have you heard the Legend of Bill Waterloo?'

'Who hasn't?'

The Ballad of Carlo Porter- Pt. 2- "How To Throw an Axe"

Little Bill was hit in the eye by a stone. It was his first interaction with the boys in his town. They had never said a word. Never at school. Never at the church. Bill was red, and red was bad.

It didn't take a stone for little Bill to learn how to hate back.

Bill fell straight back onto the road, hand cupped over his eye, trying to hold the blood in. Maybe hiding it from more rocks. The boys ran off and disappeared into hiding places Bill would never know. He sat up.

Half way between school and and home was an area little Bill wasn't too familiar with. Don't mistake this for a lack of geographic genius, which he had always exhibited, but a loss due to distraction. His walks to and fro the school were filled with day dreams and memories. The two mixed. The terrain around him, the weather, disappeared and a new landscape was drawn. Some of the dreams were of his fighting the other boys, some were of girls in his school, who were always starring at him, so different, red. He built upon vague memories he had stored, of living with his parents and a people all the same. He would wonder if this was just some wildly creative day dream, and everyday, every morning, he would realize it was real. A real memory.

Shaken- on the dirt floor, Bill got his first clear view of the wilderness in-between his school and home. It was a great, and far reaching thing. So clear now that his brain had been rocked and higher thinking fled, the truth of his surroundings became evident. Then quickly he was back to the eye. 

It didn't hurt at all. The pain was not yet a factor. All the blood was a problem. Bill cried. The crying made him bleed more but Bill had been crushed and didn't care. So many dreams of fighting back, of starting the fights. 

IN CLASS- Bill sits at his desk. Tommy O. comes up to him from behind and slaps the back of  Bills head, as to call Bill a fool and rock his skull.

Bill stands and turns about to face Tommy. A look of grave fear runs across Tommy's face and he begins to back off 

'Im awefull sorry RED!' the bitch cries.

Bill winds up and collapses the face of his adversary. Blood is everywhere. Tommy lies chest up on a desk, maybe dead.

Curtain

Each morning had a thousand of these, and each afternoon was saved for thoughts of girls. But he now realized he wasn't the hero in his dreams, he wasn't as quick, brave, or deadly. 

The next year he spent in the surrounding wilderness. All of his spare time. His adopted parents worried, but could not stop the boy from  going out into it. He would go further each time. Sometimes gone for days. He was 14 and capable. He knew his basics, and knew his instincts better. He learned to hunt without the aid of anyone but himself, and this hunt became a thing of sport. He would never kill in excess, but when the time did come, he was more thrilled than ever. Bill used a sling he had fashioned at first, hurling stones he would find. This did him well as far as rabbits and squirrels were concerned, but he continually out did himself.

An old Miner who had come across a fairly bright and wealthy creek, was living out his days in a shack near the road Bill to from home to school. He would sit on his porch, and you could see him as a spec from the road. His shack could be called a spec aswell. It was far. Bill would watch it grow as he marched east, toward the hills he had to cross before each adventure. He would pass the shack and exchange a nod with the Miner, usually drunk. Never a word until one day when Bill was returning from a 2 day excursion. Bill had three rabbits slung over his shoulder and nodded as he passed, but the Miner shouted- 'Hunter! ay hunter! have I got somethin fer' you!' 

Bill looked back and saw the coot dragging himself from the porch step where he sat. He stops.

By this time Bill had been making money off the pelts he collected and carried his income on his person. The thought crossed Bill's mind that maybe this coot was accustomed to seeing him emerge with valuable fur and figured it was time to take a cut. He was white and Bill hadn't had many good run-ins with white folk other than his parents and the pastor at his church. But the Miner was smiling and alone. Something was bringing him joy and it clearly wasn't his greed. The Miner disappeared into the shack. Bill was confused and nervous. A few seconds later, after a rattle and crash or two inside the shack, the Miner emerged with an axe in his hand. He held it in a passive way and shuffled over toward Bill coughing and smiling.

' Got this from a man, red like yerself, helped me figure these parts out and find my claim real quick. Wernt' fer him I wouldn't be livin such a life of leisure.' There was a sincere tone in his voice and he looked happy to recall his getting the axe. ' Its a Tomyhawk' He stated, extending the axe handle first. Bill grabbed hold and took the tool. It felt good and quick. He had used axes for chopping wood but they were heavy and purposeful, this was some finer thing. 

The two of them spent the afternoon hurling the axe into the side of the Miner's shack. ' Take five natural steps away from the wall, about face, and throw the axe' the Miner offered. The handle would hit and there would be clarification. ' Extend your arm, when you loose the axe you should be pointing at your target. Dont whip your arm, extend it.'

He stayed with the man for a month and hunted, and learned from him. He learned to box, and shoot a bow. He would travel miles in all directions and learn the country, but would always return with speed for another lesson. The man died. Bill burned the body, as per request, and began his residence in the shack.

                                  ------------                 -----------------            ---------------

' Wheres the bastard live ' Carlo called,  preparing another drink for himself.

' Somewhere out toward that school ' A local lush shot out quick, begging to see a fight.

' How's he take to challenges?' Carlo asked.

' Lives for em '

The Ballad of Carlo Porter- Pt. 1- "Temper the steel"

'Bill Waterloo is about the best fighter around here yup. Think everybody'd agree on that one.' The Gray fellow behind the bar settled. The barflys and card shuffling drunks had long since gone quiet with their fascination. The room was dominated immediately, upon entry, by one Carlo Porter. Six feet and three inches tall, stood straighter than ever, and marched like a cattle baron, as rich and powerful. All with a hole in his right shoe, his boxing unitard, and over that his thick wool pants. Summers were rough, but he didn't have the money or the care for a suitcase, or a second pair of slacks. All Carlo cared about was winning the fight. He was born a gladiator,and knew no other cause. Nothing could bring him shame less a defeat at the end of another's hook. He had been spat on, cursed, kicked from hotels, bars, the homes of women he loved, and still no shame. His family denounced him and thought him a fool, and mental loss, and 'Severely lacking in compassion'. He lived his life more or less alone. There were small bouts with women, or a gang. Gold was old news in California by now ,there was nothing left to be settled, you had to buy in, and investments never payed off quick enough. Carlo could haul stones, and sacks of brick, so he went to work with road building gangs. Tearing up and down the coast, hopping gangs just to pick fights in the next, Carlo Porter had established a decent reputation.

But there were other fighters as brave,( if not braver they would boast) and as cunning, as drawn to the fight as Carlo. This is the very thing that kept the fighter's heart beating. Blood had no reason to reach the limbs if there was nothing to prove. Of course though they had some things in common, the brawlers of the new American horizon were the most varied the world had ever seen. Everyone had a different background attached to their bloodlust. Carlo was born in the dirt, at his family's claim in the north of California. It had ceased to yield a flake of gold for a year by the time he was old enough to do anything about it. His greedy brothers had constantly feuded up until then, about who would take the smaller cut, Carlo - would it be even. It didn't end up mattering and they took to moonshining. This brought with it, a serious amount of trouble. The neighbors wanted some. The Porters and the MacLeons traded blows for  years. If it wasn't one thing, it was another, the battle never ended. First it was freeing the livestock. Both families had a few sheep and more than a few chickens. A horse each. The MacLeons would send their youngest to free the Porter's animals. Two little girls, 8 years and 9 years, and a little queer boy, who danced when he ran and was very strange. He was maybe 8. The Porters then unleashed Carlo and his two Older brothers, in their early twenties. The boys, one night, invaded the MacLeon property and murdered one of their sheep. Upon settling the shaking corpse, they managed their way into the residence with the it. They were raised to be clever, but there wasn't any knowing in which ways it would manifest. Stealth. They sawed the animal open and strung its organs around the the main room of the house, all with the most painfull attention to how much sound they were making, not a noise. Without a second to know, a young Carlo took his first real punch from somewhere within a shadow. This sent him to the ground with ease. Not clever enough.

 Carlo woke up leaning on his fence, shirt covered in blood, and one eye open watching his family's home burn. He could hear the fire and nothing else. Everyone charged about the front of the house cursing the MacLeons, and cursing the boys, Rifles out. Everything was lost but Carlo could only hear fire, and see mouths flapping. Eyes wet and swollen. Crushed people. Lost people and angry people. He looked to his sides- his brothers. Same state as himself, as far as wounds were concerned. They both had a look in their eyes, 1/2 part guilt 1/2 part motivation. They had murder in their eyes. Revenge.

Terry, the oldest leaned over to Carlo and grabbed his forearm  ' You didn't even get one in'  He said smirking. Carlo looked down shamed as ever  ' Don't worry little Carlo, you must temper the steel to make it  strong enough for the likes of a MacLeon brute. Fuckers are double sized.'  Terry looked back up at the burning chaos. ' Well make a Bruiser of you yet '.

The boys left their family and went to the city. Carlo learned just how to swing his fists.

Bill Waterloo had a different story. He was red, and carried and axe.

Carlo had to know who he was up against.

My Time as a Human

Growing up there was a skateboarding age. Genetic I think. Maybe some strange beat in the rhythm of evolution. Human. It came to my turn, my year, and I got a skateboard. Things were good and I was human. It was almost like any development I had gone through before. Things were good.  Would ride around and attempt to flip the board in ways that were sure to crack my head, or my ankles. 

Time passed an I made very little progress. In some areas Im sure my skills decreased. Soon enough I decided it wasn't for me. Many of my close friends became craftsmen of the plank. It was their art. Their genes. I took to reading and Girls.

We all continued evolving and settled into our niches, some being sportsmen, Skate board junkies ( in a hideous bulk ) , do nothings, yellers, sitters ( good company for do nothings, but the do nothings insisted always, they were doing something, not just sitting around. ), future adults, and musicians. I had always been musical but now I could realize it wasn't something I learned, it was my genes. I was sure, upon being stabbed, music would flow from the wound. We started a group.

This was my becoming human. Tapping into what seemed to me a most accurate portrayal of what life was, we played punk rock, thinking the whole time we were responsible for the mental evolution of our peers. I now see it wasn't necessarily us, but we were flag bearers for a cause. Whatever it may have been.

These years also managed to connect the dots as far as my view of the natural world was concerned. For the entirety of my life up to this point my father had made a constant effort to expose my little mind to the wonders of what was, and what still is. We spent every spare moment in the mountains. In the forest. Looking for rivers (always trying to find the water, surrounded by life). Pushing away from the slabs and onto the bare and naked parts of the earth, where her skin was exposed to the sun. I always enjoyed it, and walked away with a good experience, but only in these punk rock years did I see its value. Not only see its value but adopt it. I knew in some way the things I had seen were right. Set up right. Working without flaw. I wasn't sure how to word it, or piece it together then, even in my head. All I knew is that it was right. Looking out and forgetting I did so with eyes, forgetting I did so with looking at all and then I was gone, but everything else was still there. I was everything. I didn't realize the last bit until much later, but looking back I can see I knew it then. I didn't have the words to hold the feeling out in front the part of me that was separate from everything. The fake part. It was when I saw these things, with my thought, and my eyes, and the bottoms of my feet; this is where I ended my time as a human.

Sybian Caribbean

I wonder if I've met a whore.

I have met with keepers of the title,

but not the profession.

There's an even balance

of disgust

and appreciation.

Tonight I paint my feet

Before searching for a place to stand

I paint the bottoms of my feet.

Tonight I will step

A masterpiece,

Because Im less sure than ever

Where to stand.

A word on my addiction to the letter.

There was a point, and I remember it well, when I had no clue what these shapes meant. I could hardly tell them apart. Squiggles all the same. Upon investigation, most of the children around me began to notice differences in the makeup of these glyphs. Some were a stick with arms, others were a circle with a tail.

My observations were cluttered. I saw a storm of lines and mutated 5 armed stick pests with double tails. I could grab the shape of a letter for a half second and then it would combine itself with the letter next to it, above it, and suddenly Im looking at a storm of shapes. Look away. Look back, and its back to a normal page. 

This confusion was not only obstructing the intake center of my literacy, but the output aswell. I would drum up a poignant sentence, logical and clear, and lay my pencil to the paper. Out comes what was described to me as 'Completely  illegible gibberish', but only moments ago was a thought. with meaning. I can't exactly remember my thinking proccess at the age of 6, or 4 or 7, but there had to be some sort of meaning in the things I said. Some part of my soul telling my brain what to say, or coming to an agreement. Most likely being forced to meet in the middle. I know for a fact I've always been eager to speak my mind. This must be some inherent trait. I alot the feeling to my physical nerve centers more so than my decision making ones. Its a tensing of the muscles and boiling of the blood, where your brain is the third man, and is willing to go along for the ride. It must have existed then, but what could it have been I wanted to share? I knew so little. My best guess is that it manifested itself on the opposite side of things. As questioning. Im told that as a little one, I 'Wouldn't shut up with the questions'. Asking about the parts of machines what I didn't know the name of. Or asking WHY is the porch light and the street light two separate colours? or WHY the lines in the road were yellow. Often my family didn't have the answer, and I couldn't blame them. Even then I knew my mode of thinking was different, and the questions were a long shot. When I did get answers I held on the them. Anytime they would come up, even remotely mentioned, I would project and launch my little fact forth. This is where the evolution of this trait began. From questioning to sharing, or in another way, blindly following my instincts.

This early interest in the world and what it had to offer gave me a frustration with my literary stunt. Why the hell can't I figure this one out? Why is this puzzle so much harder to solve than that of the way a spring works, or that fathers were hollow. I was plagued by this for some years.

Since then I've managed to overcome almost every bit of it, and in doing so formed a sort of obsession with the word, the sentence, the string of shapes that transports information, thought, emotion. Warning. The word and I are almost on the same side now, though there are still a few beaches to storm. Filling out applications and tax forms brings me directly back to the times when I was blind to these shapes. Its the boxes and lines they paste all over the damn things. One look at the page and they all start swaying and moving, switching around. I almost have to hold on to the table to steady them. It takes a while to decipher the grid, but i manage through it. I think its this near understanding of words that keeps me interested. The chase. If it was all clear to me I wouldn't have to write. I would just sleep.

Tired state

Looking down at the zig zags what make my legs to the floor, all I hear is shout-chattering drunks. Im exhausted and at the same time, charged in thought, in this garage.  There was a lot of seat switching, my friends were around but they were all engaged in their own circles, or couples. Talking of old times.

I was listening to a conversation, the best I could in my tired state, about personal philosophies. This topic was a constant at these sorts of gatherings. Especially near the art school. Awful. I couldn't stand it and what made it worse was that I knew, inside, that I had participated in excited conversations about my views only 2-3 years before. In the same way. The same style even. That was really it, it was the style of sharing opinions they used that bothered me. so anxious to spit out their exciting new world views.I was guilty, aswell.

I turned my ears. I couldn't seem to get angry, in my tired state, but a little anxious. Uncomfortable. I looked over to my friend, who wrote, who was in the same way as I, in his tired state. He looked back, direct, to say he understood. We both looked off to find new topics to observe. 

First I chose the girl who never had anything to say. She was beautiful. Deep black eyes. Dead. She had nothing to say. I prodded her with a few words of my own and there was nearly no response. 

I turned my attention to the budding conversation of my close friend Berret and a girl he had slept with one new years. I was especially drunk on this  new years, (due partial to good company and more so to the open bar.) and spent it charging up and down the hill they lived on with fellow fools. The evening ended with a bout of vomiting with three acts. First was relief. Then hardship. Then desperation. This was a much different new years than Berret's. I don't suppose his was too much better. He sketched a similar vomit story, and we left so early the next morning, he couldn't possibly have said goodbye to the girl after. Yet here they were again, and chatting. None of the words made sense. I was lost into memories. My tired state craved to dream.

We all switched chairs.

I ditched mine.

The other tired fellow and I were upstairs having a long conversation about the past few months of his life, which had been fairly eventful and out of the ordinary. He had landed himself in a bit of trouble  by way of his love for heroine. Some spark ignited a fuse what led to his need to flee and he was off, taking with him a good friend of mine. This left a current project in a strange place. ( He was playing guitar for our group, this friend, not the one I was with, but rather the one who had escaped the states alongside the other tired fellow.) We talked about the hi-jinx and mishaps of his trip, England, then France, then back. Im not sure what the idea was at this point in my life.

I find a chair-

Back in the garage. Berret is now fully engaged in conversation with his new years bride. Im feeling especially tired and a little reflective. This sends me to feel sad and wonder what Im doing here. These gatherings had lost their meaning. There was no reason to be there. To strut or show something off. I can't say I had nothing to prove, but this certainly wasn't the forum. 

Sometimes the timing of certain events lend themselves to theological daydreams, of gods. Of 'Maybe some of this was planned!' 's. Silly thoughts, only generated out of admiration for the

pleasantness of them. My close friend, A girl, Penny, came up and fell into a chair beside me. She wasn't in our tired way, but she was down. She knew I was down and knew she was transparent as much as I was. We agreed on what we thought of where we were. We agreed on what the things had turned into, or always were. We wanted to go home.

Flu

Be cautious 

when they start testing their spit

on the pregnant.

This is how generations

and genes

are changed.

Use caution.

Milk Helps

Slam them shut and dream,

godamnit.

You've got worlds to explore.

Untitled

Every day I think of you.

But as a bird to a hammer-

Do not understand.

A Way Out Of The Woods- pt 3

The branches got greedy,

and took all the sun for themselves.

Or the sun

had other plans.

Dark.

I released the gate,

and let my own light out,

from a lamp. Orange light.

More fear came to me, 

until my legs could hardly move.

I shook all night,

walking.

I wondered about the one who threw the rock.

If they understood,

they didn't have to throw anything,

at all.

Clear thought.

I wondered, walking, shaking,

about the bear what spared my life.

He thought, that I,

had spared his.

Lucky thinking.

I did not,

at this time,

remember the tree

that had landed me in this trouble.

Robbed me of my sense of direction,

and memory.

Sanity.

After walking, and shaking, and thinking,

I came upon a road. 

It materialized so naturally,

that I wasn't even shocked.

So overwhelmed,

by the decision -

Right

Left

I closed my mouth,

turned around,

and went back,

into the woods.

A Way Out Of The Woods- pt 2

Waking, on a leaf mound,

it was morning and my blinds were the trees.

Thick, and far from me, they had twisted to shade my eyes.

It was cool and clean, on my back, lost.

I could stay here all day.

My head ached,

for though I had Averted the rock,

hurled by someone I had upset,

I had walked right into the tree.

A trap I had set,

for myself.

I wondered from clearing to clearing,

and none of them looked familiar.

They were all the same.

It was circles for me, 

and I almost lost hope.

A Way Out Of The Woods- pt 1

I see a stone, soaring toward me.

A curve of the spine,

and it is overcome.

I see a bear marching toward myself.

I stand, and back away,

the bear flees.

I am hit-at force- by a tree. Oak.

And it becomes clear, I had charged the tree.

It was still, and un-inviting .

This left me wondering,

which way I was headed, 

and from which way had I come?

The Battle of Cold Harbor

He sat 

This man, a leader, grinning.

This was his town. Everything was in its place. All the power was belong to the mayor. Ernest.

And he took what he wanted.

Ernest, born on a farm, had managed his way into college when the war between the North and the South had ended. Not something he ever expected to be capable of as a boy. He wouldn't have had the money unless he'd been on the winning side of the war, which he was just so lucky to be. It had little to do with his beliefs, his fighting for the Union, but rather the fact that he was pursuing business opportunities in New York, for a Grain coalition in the south. The realization that the rails would be compromised, and thus the Grain trade of his employer would stall- a young Ernest sought new employment with no notice of resignation.  

Ernest had a flare for adventure, for rawness, and nature. He enjoyed exercising his cunning over other men, and emerging victorious. This is what led him to becoming a salesman. He would barter with wit and completely devastate his competitors.  This was his natural talent, and his way. He wasn't a bully, he wasn't always a leader (acting obsessively in vain, committing no fault of remorse) he was a conqueror. And now, with a war at hand, his attention was directed to the rifle, and he signed up.

Lincoln was cracking the whip like a devil and pushing Ernest and his new Union on into Virginia. By 64' He had fired his rifle 60 times, and spent nights in the company of mortars firing , 'drums' he would say- and fall asleep. Gunpowder and ash covering his sleeping self- his eyelashes dusted just so, to have a thin sand or ash bridge between each branch of hair. However small.

He had learned to accept the terrible taste in his mouth, and the sores on his feet. It was all secondary, and finally he was surrounded by maniacs that felt the same. They marched through the woods, led by a wild murderer genius- Ulysses. S. Grant- Slaughtering the enemy. Ernest loved himself for having chosen the correct side of things. It felt great to be pushing through the country taking it, as your own. He always wore a subtle but firm smile, and stared out from right under his brow.

Pull it up to you shoulder- Aim at his---BAM- and almost all 60 hit.55 hits. He knew when to shoot, and when not to. 'Sometimes you have to stay ready' his rifle coach told him, ' You musn't waste ammunition, or take on a hasty point of view. Be calm and place your bullets in the enemy' - and Ernest had no problem. 

This was the longest Ernest had ever been in Virginia, and he was growing uneasy. Everyone was in poor shape and some information had been gathered, warning us of overwhelming forces in the area.

He was shocked awake by the scream of Reginald Detton, An Artileryman, who upon hearing the estimated number of enemy, began shouting and barking. He tried to operate his cannon alone but was dragged down. By the time Ernest had woken up completely he was pushing through the woods with his boys, The group he fought with. A bird flew through the trees and four of the men alongside him  flew to the ground. They all rang their bells. The fight was on.

There was no more bloody day in Ernest's life before or after this day, the 22nd of May, 1864. Three hours in, his wrists were swollen from the nearly constant impart of his rifle on the faces of men, pushing their way over mounds of bodies. His hands were stained so red they would be red forever. His throat was sore from the yelling and crying. His leader, when the time was certain, and the mass of Southerners was as a flash flood, pouring into their line, the retreat. And Ernest escaped into the woods around the slaughter, away from his company, and theirs.

This was the wildest moment of Ernest's life. Dirt and blood soaked his wool, and cotton. The blood on his hands collected dirt and his mouth tasted awful. He pulled himself through the wilderness, sometimes on foot and others, on knee. He ate berries, a vast sum of which were poisonous, causing nearly constant joint pains. To move was excruciating. His back arced  to form a 'C' and his jaw was clamped shut most the days. After 2 weeks had gone by, he had settled on a certain variety of pleasing foods, and managed to kill a skunk and a dog. He was beginning to realize the mechanics of the forests around him. But the fact remained that he was indeed, lost. 

Apathy Of The Limb

Growing weaker

the muscle in a box.

Beating twice as hard as normal-

the heart in bondage,

And blood filled skin craves to be whipped by the cold,

Whipped to a bloodless and numb place.

Palms unbruised 

never used.

Good health, a badge of laziness,

And the real world waves lashes I may never know.

Post

My box is stirring

but I am not.

The valley is stirring, and over the hill

but I want quiet.

I told this to a friend, and she went on to ask

'Why do you like the trees if all this stirring gets you down?'

I replied that the trees didn't want anything.

'What about that giant flag you point at, and remind me of every time we go to Santa-Monica?'

I replied maybe its stirring that I like. Both these things stirred around.

'As long as you don't have to take part in it, you like it.'

Secretly, I just didn't know how to stir like those things.

And didn't want to learn.

I would fumble and fail.

I would wiggle where I was expected to shake,

and stretch when the contract was to contract.

I'll let the trees and my flag do the stirring.

I'll be a post.

A poem for the dollar

There is no winning with this paper.

But on high when Im tricked into thinking

I have won.

I've been shaken down, left broke.

By police, by tax, by tobacco and drink.

And I

Return, as the sun comes up.

And smile to know its all gone.

Words for Workday

Edge of bed, not yet sore.

At least I can't tell.

Already tired- coffee 

Heavy lifting lets the mind wander.

yazu

In the center of the hottest burning coal, was a cage made of Brass chicken-wire. 

The oldest cage.

In the cage was a rooster what stoked the fire, continually.

The oldest rooster.

This caused the coal to forever gain more and more heat , and Thusly

earn its tittle.

From this coal was come everything.

And it is because of this coal that I can laugh at god.

And laugh at your church- o' your jesus!

I wish for spectacular magic and a place to go as much as any knee sitting god lover

but do not let these longings cloud the spectacular world that already exists.

Without it- o' your jesus!

Without it- o' your judgement!

Without it-o' your shame for humans, on their own.

Without it- o' your crutch.

And fall backward into a world that exists for itself.

"Nice dead grass Asshole"

I hadn't cared to fix my sprinklers. The front lawn was stupid. It made me feel stupid, so I avoided it. To be fair to myself. Apparently, The city I lived in at the time had strict laws as to the grooming and "Keeping" of ones front lawn. Nazi war criminals who had managed to escape Germany as the Reich-stag collapsed, found their way over to southern California; Changed their names, Dawned the appropriate accents and lifestyles, Worked their way into local governments, and found the perfect outlet in which to exorcize  their perverted power fetishes. This time it was Lawns.Maybe. I had gotten a ticket from them.

Rarely did I step outside my house for leisure. Either I was leaving or coming home. Didn't participate in the porch sitting rituals of my neighborhood. It was a bitter time and I didn't want to deal with the other humans. I had gained some perspective in this house. I have always managed to dare myself into taking a step out of my own comfort zone, and this house had attained its status of comfortable. I gave the porch a shot.

The porch was mostly over grown seeing as I had no gardener and never spent more than the time it takes to  find a key there. I consider myself a perceptive person, the porch considered me aloof. This porch was only about 4 feet deep and 6 feet wide, rising 3 feet off the ground. Not necessarily conducive to porch sitting but I was committed by this time. Two willy-thick green bushes had grown up the front and onto the flat surface of the porch, shrinking the area by a foot on either side. A rouge tree branch , grey and dead but still somehow attached, hung in-front of the walkway and over the stairs. I dodged it every day and wondered If his brother branches, still living, were trying to save him. They didn't know it was too late. I didn't know it wasn't. 

There had been a chair on the porch when I moved in. Aluminum pipes with some red and white canvas stretched over it. It was ratty and covered in web. I now dusted it off and saw the actual hue of the red beneath the layers of filth. What a nice chair. I sat.

I pulled up my book and began reading. Not a bad place to read. No ones around either. I smiled like I was getting away with something.

"do not tell them you was manin' that cannon!

That big gun sent too many boats

straight to hell.

The orders came from japan.

To spare us

but kill the men who fired

that big gun.

Don't tell em' it was you!"

- B. T Masters after Wake Island- 1945

Time moved quickly past as it tended to when reading, or writing. A school down the road had just let out. Id hear it at 3:15 PM every day. It didn't sound much different from the crows that squawked throughout the day, just louder. Like the crows had gotten excited. They would get excited, and as loud as the school children from time to time. There were events that set them a-stir. Roadkill- the crow banquet.

Being on the porch, I could now discern child from crow, and saw the hordes as they marched past. Bubbling and fat, covered in plastic, and if you're lucky enough to have seen plastic melt onto something, imagine that. They bobbled past and spoke in tongues. I could pick out a few words. Immortal words. They used more immortal words than we did at that age. Maybe one day, we would evolve into speaking a whole entire immortal language of 'FUCK's and 'SHIT's. These stinkers went by and all looked the same. I was sad they would turn into people. 

I was unlucky enough to live on the corner. Within striking distance. 

"Nice dead grass Asshole!" A little cheese dumpster shouted. Cool fuckin' hair kid.

"Go away." I replied loud and to the point. You cant just curse at little kids. Not if you want to keep a low profile at least.

"It looks like a shit!" King dumb dumb the cheese dumpster screamed. He made sure for me to hear. He had two Cronies- A gigantic girl with watermelon tits, she was a freakishly well endowed 8th grader, haunting image. The other was a little one. Half the size of the cheese dumpster, and no command. He was just a shit eater. I bet the fatty's he hung out with walked all over him all the time. He had little spikes in his hair and wore a huge button-up shirt with predictable fuck-off designs dancing about it. His shoes were from space. All of their shoes were from space. Cheese dumpster wore an array of brands around his body. It was as if he had been passed through a label machine. A few times. He looked like the state fair. Jugs wore something one step above a moo-moo. I was starting to get sick.

"Eat shit" I replied under my breath. There was no way they could hear me. They heard me.

"OOOOOOOOO IM TELLIN MY MAAAMAA!!!" Jugs said jumping around. I worried about the frames on my walls.

"Her moms gonna sue yer ass!!" Cheese dumpster pointed as he said this. I burried my face in my hands for a moment and wondered if any of this was worth my time. Fuck the porch.

"Go away." I stood up, folded the chair, and began toward the curb. Someone would want this chair for their porch. Why, I do no know.

"AHHH! He's gonna hit us with the chair! aaahhh!!!" The little spike haired peon screamed. He looked to either side, to the big ones, for approval. They joined in the screaming and he was fulfilled. They all ran off down the road together screaming. I left the chair and went inside. There was no place for negligent lawn keepers in todays world. There was hardly any room to sit on my porch. Fuck the porch.

This is the first time I've recalled the porch since that day. There was no room in my life for the porch.

Consider your surroundings. Watch the way they change and stay weary- This is where you live, and this is what is happening.