Blog Archive

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

D.J.E.: Friendship in Daylight


My car on the side of the free way on a curved over pass. Yellow car plates of the government screaming out danger. Layla just called me saying something like that she was going into hiding. I get out of my car and the man gets out of his yellow plated car. He's dressed in some white, he's got the most intimidating pinkie's length pocket knife in his right hand non convincingly saying something like he wishes he didn't have to do this or that he was sorry. I was preoccupied listening to his eyes and hands to hear. My car having battery issues, I admit running might be the best way to go around it. Layla show's up, her message of staying in the clear for awhile, taking a vacation was all for possible bugs in the phones. We don't know how woven into the system might be. She raises her fist, saving me from this man is her top priority but of course she also doesn't want to be this mans centre of attention. I think about striking out at the most sensitive of male parts. We get away.

It occurs to me that back at the hospital when you visit they require you to at least put a gown over your clothes to visit in with the patients, but they were out. All the patients were either gone or jealous of us not having to layer up. Come to think of it, we realize as we start up my barely turning over car we were close to ending up in a locked box on the side of the road mistaking the movement for an animal. That's how they disposed of them. Metal cabinets beneath underpasses in the ghettos, or refrigerators in junk yards. They were already gone so even if you noticed it, you still left them in there, seizure after seizure until your brain fried itself to death. And if you stopped to help we figured you ended up on some kind of radar.

Some of them were let loose into society before terminal convulsion. We saw this at a near by gas station. I still thought I had a home at the time and was adamant about getting back even though it was forty minutes away and god only knew what was waiting back there. It's possible they got Bill. Even if I called, it could send them out there. The frizzy haired man in white was by no means their best man, we understood that.

So we went to get gas. Left her vehicle, left the man in white. I was going to go into the store by myself and we laughed at the idea like Velma probably laughed at Fred's plans, put our hands together and went in. There were enough women in there to hold a prostitution ring meeting, they were all early releases and I figured they just wandered as homeless. There was nothing we could do and tried not to make contact.

Gas filled we took off into what felt like a win but understood silently we could still end up in a locked metal box or retarded and those were just the two options we knew about. I asked her if she knew how to get home, she didn't. I pull out my phone and use the google maps. I suspect that was when we lost the war.

*D.J.E. = Dream Journal Entry
*Name's changed as this is a fictitious world
Inspired by: Jacob's Ladder, Mean Streets, Terminator, and Detoxification

Friday, September 25, 2015

Why We Write Poetry: Alzheimer

I write poetry because I want to celebrate events that I feel the need to pause at.
I also write poetry because I am scared that I will forget.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Escaping Reality Television

In sociology, there's a concept called, "Looking Glass Theory" and funny enough my father taught me the same concept but he had, almost like a little slogan for it. He would say, "perception is 99% reality". This idea has to be a major one for raising children...oh the pleasures of life I will never enjoy.

Long story short, by putting less than life yet "reality" on television on the idiot box, my quality of entertainment dwindles, women think reverse sexism is feminism, breast implants are no longer surgery, the Amish are now allowed to swear and have mafias, God is good-Jesus is better, but Dr. Oz knows best, and the educational channels like History and Discovery should really be renamed to something that implies the misuse of money and time to explore fictional ghost sightings with shot-ty camera work and a bad filter.

Channels I would recommend: AMC, Netlix, and downloads.

For All of Those Who Have Tried to Help, or to Hurt.


Ask Me
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say. 

Friday, January 11, 2013

When We First Met: Snowflake # 3

The Boy Who Now Calls Me Honey Bunny 

When you and I first met, I am sure you were wearing a button down shirt. The red one I have come to fancy you hansom in. I am sure the sleeves were not rolled up. Blue jeans made it casual and those black boots seem to be the only shoes you own outside of the tennis shoes you wear to run in. A girlfriend of mine came with, very little was said at the table. We continued the evening to her place where we lounged (as artists usually do) and had a dark beer. This is when it clicked. I thought your conversation was more intriguing to me than my original, more primal intentions. 

In the elevator, we had made friends and in the parking lot you played hard to get as I returned in a coy fashion. 

Post Script
We give each other kisses all the time now and say the grossest, cliche, and un-poetic saps constantly. Sometimes even over text messages.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Epagraph Poem


Till Our Lips are Stained Purple

A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A…
                                                -The Names, Billy Collins
My mouth gaping open-

When you’ve tipped your chair,
after teetering it on the edge.
Over.
And gravity drops you at dead weight,
And the air you’re breathing pounces off the inside of your lungs,
And the ocean of oxygen surrounding you hides…

My fingers scurry, reaching in
cannot grasp my sounds-

The vibrations of swears, so desolate.
used to be a circle of understanding
spiral until it boulders
into my gut, stomach
infecting numb tissue.

The salt taste caught and carried in
from my lips enhances and pokes my gag reflex-
(if I could puke the words I would)

The rape of the world has been dubbed
[silent] 
by consistent repetitive
war poetry pounding, raging on my brain,
pushing my eyes wide and forward.

Tonight we drink wine till our lips are stained purple.


Monday, October 29, 2012

Used Crayons and Ripped Paper


Used Crayons and Ripped Paper

They converse, white teeth,
enzymes diminishing pretty photo copied paper.
Skeleton cream walls surrounds
Old Yeller (her license barely printed horizontally) and me.

6 AM, day two:
Acupuncture draws blood,
All here are HIGH RISK.
Porcelain lips crack
‘til Vaseline coats seep.
Absent coffee morning,
caffeine free and a gum free security.

Old Yeller raises her quiet chin,
ceiling glass taking motion pictures.
Packrat contraband.
An entire Lost and Found building
dedicated to being an empty box.

Feet pace in hurried clicks.
Moans of distress inhale sipping
paper cups, sample size disguise
intoxicating helpers burns edges of neurons.

Our maps drop globs of ash
Burning our memories incomplete.
Legs do not walk themselves
anymore.

I asked before she left,
“May I borrow your crayon and paper?”
 -rip, scribble.