Bets Laid for the Mocking Crowd

The devastating drink upon which
 man lays his bet; the dusk-time red in his glass -
the glittering tonic
 soothed in gin -
the warming sips through the heart and lungs when
 the wheel of his roulette lays him
bare for the evening, etherized by dawn
by whiskey -
the Devil's breath its aroma;
its taste the juice of poison berries.
He returns to the drab, damp brick
in amber lights,
lays his ante, shakes dice.

 A goblet of beer then for now. It's early yet.
The cards have only just been shuffled.
A shot to the evening star,
the sun's worried tear, afraid to leave man alone at night,
 knowing better than he his folly. A shot, then,
to the sun's tear, slowly dripping behind horizon;
   and the antagonizing stars arriving
   to watch and rant, laugh and jeer, wink sinister - the demons -
 saying, "We are here still. Why should you slow your drink?"
and, Oh! how man falls.
At dawn, the man
 bowing bankrupt and tragic;
the last stars scornfully and laughing go away.
 The sun nervously opens her eye upon this man, her face
wet with the dew of tears
she sweated through her nightmare sleep.
 She prays over the fool while he sleeps
under her watchful, mourning gaze. Then,

Dusk, the ante, cards shuffled.
 The roulette wheel lands on bleak.
A bet, a tear,
and a billion winking sneers.

gentle day

the lake water has gentle conversation with the shore. a cloud of birds flies just over the water and turns, whips around, and is lost in the glistening of the sun on the ripples. just following, a jetliner is seen overhead due to the reflection of sunlight off its metallic body. a crowd of ducks float by, against the current, effortlessly. a duck guffaws - "whock whuack quack!" - as if his neighbor quietly made some quip regarding the guy watching from the dock; or otherwise, startled, to say, "something just touched my foot!" the distant jet, long past, now sounds. an old war plane is heard before it passes above. it hums steadily and flies over. everything keeps moving, except for me, sitting in the sun to warm myself. the water warns the shore, "I will soon replace you." two days of rain were not enough to refill the lake, but fires burn sporadically around as homeowners catch up on yard work, long behind schedule due to the burn ban, recently lifted.

Do You Wake in the Middle of the Night and Can't Get Back to Sleep?

I woke up at 3a.m. I'm finishing Barry Lyndon now. I dozed out a few times, but didn't really sleep. So, do I start my day now? I don't know.
A whale's tail, according to dreams, is a powerful propellant against that which swims behind; and a bicycle can be peddled, with wings hoisted above that flap by a rope pulled by either arm of the rider, to fly.
Why in that house, all to myself, were those two moochers with me? These women who want to talk, have nothing to say, and never want to listen. I could say something more to them, but they don't care. They will use it as a segue, poor as it may be, to say something else of their own.
My God. I planned to buy groceries. Why did they buy four cartons of milk? And all those prepared and snack foods, overlooking produce and items with which to prepare meals? and then expect repayment for all this I do not care for? Out of my dream, women. I've a wedding for my good friend Barry Lyndon to attend.
What an outlandish wedding with all the accoutrement. Dreadfully long ceremony, disgustingly uncomfortable clothing, and everyone seems to snub each other. I'm going to hit on all the women, steal away with each for just long enough to lure their desire, then drop them, all to spite their husbands and their own snotty upittyness; and I'm going to kneel here, now that the ceremony is over and everyone is escorted to the dining hall, and disrobe; and steal this figurine, just because people with this much will not notice this is missing - why, a figurine of my dear friend Barry Lyndon!
(Oh, I see I'm closely watched by a guard. Let's see how many garments I can remove before people passing and this guard who stares on me become uncomfortable.) There, all done. To eat!

The Sea That Swallowed It All

Little birds catch little bugs,
running away from waves.
Not much time to catch their supply
before getting washed away.
   Make it quick, little birds!
  Make it on the dash!
   Take your catch to the trading post
  and swap it out for cash!

Seals swam across the tide
that washed the tips of my toes.
They looked at me with drowsy eyes
and even waved hello.
    Howdy, slippery sea seal.
   Hope yer doin' well.
    Come up closer and tell me,
   whatcha got to sell?

The ocean acted timid
then heaved a heavy sigh.
I said, "Come closer ocean.
Whatcha wanna buy?"
    It breathed bigger waves and
   I was nearly washed away.
    It said, "Your trades bore me."
   Then swallowed up the bay.

Let's Keep Moving

Hunger pangs me, love pains me, music sustains me. Let's keep moving.
News bores me, money ignores me, people entice me. Let's keep moving.
Fiction inspires me, truth enlightens me, roaming drives me. Let's keep moving.
Math confuses me, strangers define me, life survives me. Let's keep moving.
Heaven's beyond me, politics distract me, economy lies. Let's keep moving.
Rain washes me, sunshine bathes me, clouds shade me. Let's keep moving.
Drugs trap me, boozing troubles me, laughing delights me. Let's keep moving.
Songs lift me, stories teach me, banter delights me. Let's keep moving.
Creation amazes me, work strengthens me, boredom kills me. Let's keep moving.
Religion bruises me, argument tires me, God leads me. Let's keep moving.

Three My's...

My American Dream:
"We banter with strangers, then we have friends." - Elwood P. Dowd, Harvey

My National Anthem:
This Land is Your Land

My philosophy:
I am this. Life abounds. Let's mingle.

Sidewalk Party

I played music in the street one day and this guy came up wearing messy clothes with scraggly hair and beard. He listened and clapped along to one of my songs. We started talking. He asked what songs I know. He said do I know any Bob Dylan, so I played Like a Rolling Stone. He sang every single line to that song and when it came time for the harmonica, he cupped his hands up to his mouth and made this loud "Whah whah whah" sound. A group of other people, bums or homeless, beggars, all joined me and we played songs together. Guy at the pretzel cart gave me a free one. It tasted like turpentine. On the streets of NYC, outside of Port Authority, about 4 strangers and myself had a sidewalk party, jamming around and talking. Tony said that if every hour I put 2 dollars of what I earned away, so that I can't use it, by the end of the day I'll have a growing savings account for anything I want to spend it on. Good tip from a beggar.

Riddle Rant Ranger Rufus

Billy the Kid was a nickname until he became an outlaw. Then it was his "alias." Like an "area" becomes a "jurisdiction" for cops.
"Sir, you can't sit on the floor to read."
I'm getting sick of all the little rules. Leash laws. Seat belt laws. These are forms of control. Think you are "Free." I'm going to enjoy wine on Greyhound because I'm thirsty and prefer wine to water. Most people do. Why you think Jesus so often made that fancy little change up?
And I'm gonna sit for a moment to read the Forward written by William Carlos Williams because the book is on the bottom shelf and it hurts my knees to squat. No, i'm not gonna go sit in the in-store Starbucks to read a page and a half. Go shelf books.
"Sir, you're blocking the fire exit." "No I'm not. If  there's a fire, I'll be the first one out the door!"

Beach Nights

Beach Nights

Midnight swim, three a.m., clear stars and the tide rolls in bringing a cloud of stringy seaweed. Wading in the water, dark as the bluish black-eye of night, we float with the slow breath of each rolling wave, low in the calm of pre-dawn, in the mouth of the world; the ocean of antiquity, that never ceases, will never cease breathing. We, needles in the pin-cushion sea, reflections of constellations, every bit as stationary; every bit infinite, stitching the seam between breath and eternity. The breadth of reality extends beyond imagination, and we are fantasy. Serenity such as this exists only in ourselves, buoyant and unattached; bound by air and water to the terrestrial water scape that lays below our dangling toes; eyes upturned to heaven, looking through paradise to paradise; perfection exists in experience. No need to sulk and every reason to open our eyes to the salty serenity of living. This is easier in the cold water and chilled breeze of seashore serenades whispered by the lips of the Atlantic, shone by the pierced ears of midnight blue skies. Life reminds us, on occasions such as this, that to float is to celebrate the tide.

The Lesson

I've been criticized and idealized, treasured and turned away, put to work and robbed, paid big and overcharged, de-railed and rampaged, threatened and befriended;

I've been kicked down, pushed out, walked over, passed by, stared at, shouted at, and mocked;

I've been helped, welcomed, spoken with, carried away, lifted out, fed, bathed, laughed with, listened to;

I've been left for lost, left behind, left waiting, left without a goodbye;

I've been picked up, cleaned off, handshook, and shoulder-patted;

Along this road I roam,
I've slept in parks and
slept in homes;
I've gone hungry and
I've dined for free;
been caught in rain and
handed an umbrella.

Why, you might say I'm a lucky fella.

My legs are weary, but
warm hearts are plenty.

Scene from Garden Diner

The boy with short hair and heavy eyes walks in quiet and, murmuring his order to the waiter, takes his seat in the midnight diner booth.
Usually, he drinks coffee, after it has, for ten minutes, cooled. He drinks it black, until the pale brown that remains reveals the few grounds that managed their way through the filter while brewing.
The waiter seats him. "Coffee?"
The boy with clean face and heavy eyes says, "No. Just water for now." He later orders iced tea. The ice melts, for ten minutes, then he drinks.
The crowd around him, scattered, but collected away from the front windows, which look onto the wet pavement outside, is more excited and perk up during conversation.
The heavy-eyed boy takes a mouthful of bitter tea, and swallows.
He replaces the cup to its ring of condensation. He stretches his shoulders from his neck, and his head from his shoulders, then yawns.
The waiter across the diner sighs heavy.
I saw him earlier, frustrated that the boy ordered only tea. Something is on his mind as his shoulders drop, and he waits for the plates headed to table six.
No steam rises from the plates. The food doesn't come out piping hot at Garden Diner; just lukewarm. The boy with heavy eyes and clean face likes this. He can eat straight away.
The teaspoon sets broad-side down over the wedge of lemon on the corner of his rectangle paper napkin. The napkin is parallel with the table edges. His ice water dribbles condensation at his idle left hand. Beside it, his cutlery on a second napkin. At his right hand, the bill and his cup of tea.
A boombox masquerading as a cellphone presently challenges the diner radio. It's lo-fi Latino ballads against oldies, talk, and commercials on HD stereo.
The chatter lifts to laughter. The heavy-lidded boy smirks to hear it. He then steps away from his booth, leaving his wearisome burden behind.
The waiter stares at the cluttered seats, and at the couples and groups coming in, sitting at the other waiters' tables.
It's expensive to live in this town and the waiter knows the boy feels it; and that he himself will not get what he needs from this slow-moving, quiet boy.
The boy sits. The boom box forfeited the challenge to 60s R&B/Soul. A party left and several late night love-birds have their conversations. The boy makes a pattern with his tea's condensation rings.

Sketch

Sketch me from the front to see
what I can't behind me. My figure
silhouetted by the morning cloudy sky
in the window that faces a long blue
Chevy Astro van with 6 minutes left on
the meter. The meter is wet. Droplets
bead off onto the saturated pavement
that splatters with tiny pin-prick rain
drips as early strollers, hiding inside
of umbrellas, splash through.

Sketch me from the back to see the
three young baristas make orders and pass
a combination of cafe drinks to the old woman
on my right, who reaches for a cardboard
4-cup holder. See from behind me the steam
rising over my shoulders; and hear the early
inconsequential conversations; and
imagine the racket of plastic utensil wrappers
opening and clatter of espresso machine parts
being rinsed by the full-power faucet.

From a Wet Porch Step

In the amber street light
under the rain,
the clouded night;
red stop sign, then green;
twiddle in the rain drain;
twirping car alarm from thunder,
then a flash;
a rain drop beside you.
The roof is giving way.

Trickle drip down the cheek,
over the bone to your chin.
How many times
will this bird chirp again?

Flutter of thunder
in the clouds -
not as loud as
the rain splats
in the mud;
on the shoe;
through the laces.
It's late, morning.
A car drives by
and stops at the red light.

Eyelids fall as hard as the rain.
A car drives by again.
What must be started at this hour?

This Sunday morning,
church pews will hold fewer families,
but the priest will be there.

Two New Songs

"I Didn't Hear"




"Termites Got Me Blues"

Granma on a Mountain

Eccentric Granma, cooped up
after decades on a mountain side,
because desert winds take your mind
and her family gave her a TV to draw into
as moths to that blue glowing
zapper. Her husband, found
in a plastic bag inside a box at the
back of the bottom shelf, corner
of her garage. He moved to
a terracotta pot where Granma used to
sit at sunrise and sundown. She liked it there
because these events occurred on her left and right
shoulders, respectively, as she looked
across the valley to where the coyotes
howled each night. Her fingers,
like bark, massaged the textures of
rolling acrylic paintings that lined her walls,
mountain-scapes and children hiding
in tree trunks that she painted, or her friends.
Ghosts hid her belongings. Otherwise, she'd have
flushed them to the septic tank, not
emptied in twelve years and she
couldn't understand the smells permeating
from those backed pipes.
She sipped Jim Beam with her neighbor, whose
arms hugged around her five foot, frail
frame twice, but with caution. She
loved to see those coming arrive, and loved to see
them go. She loved the loneliness in her
thoughts that taught her, properly enough, that
the weather is a lady in a frying pan and
three people in her bathtub was precisely
how she felt that day.
Granma, out there in the mountain desert,
wearing her sunhat, told Billy Mack just how
things truly were and that someone's been hiding
her things; her suspicions relieved when
she gave everything away to her friends and had
nothing else to worry about. Her family,
very shortly thereafter, sent her to the half-way house.

Bank Fees Blues and the Matter with This Place

congress passed a law.
banks stopped collecting tens of extra cash from some citizens overdrafting.
i have to pay 9 dollars each month now for wells fargo to hold the zeros and ones that create my monetary worth.
so i ask,
what is the rate and breadth of suffering incurred by those bank owners,
compared to those they lay-off to replace with automated tellers, to keep afloat
that bottom line?
 A salary cap in baseball?
A salary cap in football?
A salary cap for the fortune 500's who flout we people, highly floating on waves of gold coins like Uncle Scrooge
would be communism.
Although those who stay in the bottom category of society,
or wade in the middle,
are dependent on those who have money to pay;
and those who have money to pay
want to hoard more for themselves to ride those glistening waves,
thereby firing their dependents,
what is a citizen to do
within Capitalism?
Serve the customer her rake
so the company can pay the bank, and the rake maker,
who can then pay the bank, and the material supplier,
who then pays the bank.
And everyone still pays an ATM fee
because their bank doesn't supply its own
at the nearest corner store.

Anthony Weiner

Anthony Weiner, said to be a "rising star" among democrats, spoiled by his own crudeness, animal tendencies, and naivety. I heard, "Why would he lie?" to which I must argue, why WOULDN'T he lie? Explicit photos of himself to young girls behind his wife is inexcusable. Beyond dishonesty to his wife, he understood the magnitude to which the media would blow this and how they will dig deeper and exploit it further and cause more difficulty to he and his wife. And they have. And they continue. This rising star, instead of stumbling and regaining his steps, is bombarded by cameras and questions about his personal life and the most pressing issues regarding the state of the United States are ignored... because there's gossip. It is Anthony Weiner's fault for what he did and that he lied (which he has admitted), but it's the media's fault for being little distracted children who, apparently, like to look at pictures of Anthony Weiner's privates.

Short Stop by the Camera Store

Asked a man what TVs he had.
He told me, "HD-3d and Scandal cam."
I said, "Well, I like to knit."
I went home with a set of rabbit ears.

8-fold

Windy eats a hamburger as the Sheriff makes his rounds outside. Misfit Murphy walks the streets with Penny Greentips when they come across a junky stooped against a wall. Murphy strikes conversation. Trying to be on good terms with the junky, he throws ice in his mouth and spits out ‘Wut up, playa?’ Penny laughs to herself as the junky looks up to the gleam coming from Murphy's eye.

        A private jet passes overhead
        for a scenic view of the city.
        The people drop into paralysis
        of this too recent sight from
   
        the too near past.

    ‘I fight for justice,’ Eddy Pilot tells Paul. ‘I want for the law to be abided by, and, if not, I speak penalty against transgressors.’ The two walk the alley between a mansion and a gold and velvet salad bowl. ‘Amen, brother,’ declares Paul. ‘I want to feel safe in this town, but this place is been going downhill ever since they passed that "Liker" law. Glad to know you're fighting the good fight.’ ‘God bless America,’ says Eddy Pilot. 'God bless you, brother.' ‘Amen.’

        Spotlights shoot up like a cry
      
        for Superhero, reminding the
      
        city what’s been done, and why
      
        they must always walk
      
        in pairs.

    Dan Dean wants a bite to eat, steps into a burger joint, sees Windy. ‘Howdy, pard'ner.’ Windy looks up. ‘No soup today?’ Dean chuckles to himself. Windy stares at him, silently chews the last of his burger. Dean gets in line. Windy leaves without saying a word. He’s bumped into by Paul who presses past for a chicken sandwich. Windy quietly laughs to himself. Dean turns around. Paul stands beside him in line. Windy looks up and salutes Airforce One.

        The flag flies half mass outside
      
        the local Publicans’ office while
      
        the Derns’ office is closed. They’re
     
        out looking for a taller pole. Trophies
      
        were given over the weekend and
      
        Battle-ready won for peace. Meanwhile,
      
        NASA searched for moon ice using
      
        long-range missiles, and Middle Earth wants
      
        a new energy policy.

    ‘We’re hip, ya hear? Why you think people like me carry ice?' Misfit Murphy spits the ice out of his mouth, puts it in his pocket, and he and Penny Greentips walk away. 'Peace holmes.’ The junky sneezes in the shadows of two blue Towers. Penny offers to buy Murphy a bite. He accepts and the two go to the burger shack where they find Dan Dean, being converted by Paul, at a booth with two burgers and two drinks, no fries.

        People come and go at the museum.
        They ask each other, ‘What’d you think
      
        of that?’ before they look up and see a hot-air
     
        balloon followed by a chorus of flashes.

    Windy passes the sniffling junky, then tracks back, pulls out his point-and-shoot, snaps a picture, and goes on his way. At his studio, he makes thirty prints, eight by ten, then sews them into a quilt. It goes on display at the museum. The junky sees the quilt on the front page of his Wall Street Journal sleeping bag. Paul is appalled. Dan Dean and Misfit Murphy argue at the burger shack. ‘We gotta get these people up by example,’ says Misfit. ‘Show em the better way of sacrifice.’ ‘We must help these people,’ says Dean. ‘My people have proposed Monkeys for Junkies: Peers for the lonely.’ Paul clangs in, shouting, ‘If you hadn’t passed that law!..’ and they continue so on.

        Airforce One went home.
        The balloon ran out of gas.
        The golden salad bowl went
        to the Alchemist. Crime increased
        8-fold. The burger joint was packed.

    The Sheriff finds the junky cold in the corner. Eddy Pilot prosecutes Penny Greentips for insider trading. Misfit Murphy, remembering the hamburger, gets her off. Paul drinks the sacrament and rests against a dumpster. Windy sees him, snaps a picture, goes to his studio, and makes it into a Rubix cube. Dan Dean eats a burger, no cheese.

        In Washington, news broke about
        a helpless missionary. ‘Good men should
     
        not fall through the cracks of society,’ the
      
        Derns agreed. Congress tried
      
        to pass a bill to help him, but someone’s
      
        feelings got hurt in the process,
        so instead they passed a bill requiring
        
public apologies any time
        
someone is offended.

poem, 2009

Finding You

Dew trickled up my legs,
to the clouds, before the day warmed and sweat.
‘Shall we head to the water hole?’ ‘Let’s!’
The day burned to speak of You.

There stood beauty,
purity.
Placid flesh, divinity –
she threaded the water, stitching You.

Cream flesh through gray silk,
body slick as silt.
Though Devil tried, no flower would wilt,
as she wrote poetry to You.

Out of the water she shouldered the weight
of the breeze drying her grace.
Her form, delicate and chaste,
took no effort to praise You.

She asked why I stood dressed.
I explained, “I’m shy,” and the rest.
She reached, unbuttoned my thoughtless vest;
told me, our bare selves liken to You.

‘Are not the trees raw?
Does not the night thaw?
Is nature not law?
I abide,' said she. ‘What say you?’

* * *

She chuckled for my naivete;
cried, ‘We ought to live life joyously!’
In her gentle hand she took me,
smiled, ‘Come! I will show you.’

We escaped to a meadow.
Sun had sunk and damp moon followed.
Fireflies flickered and glowed.
Bare as palms, we raised, and I saw You.

a French party on Saturday

Kristel prepared her hair in the tinted window of a minivan as I brushed mine with a quick sweep of my hand.
Kristel's French coworker walked from her vehicle toward Kristel with greetings. I got the wine from a saddle bag as Kristel reminded me to get the wine.
The three of us walked to the door together. The two of them spoke French. A man walked out of the house, salutations in French. "Bonjour," and I gave him a handshake. The girls received a kiss on each cheek. We stopped at the front door. French coworker tried the doorbell, then we let ourselves in.

French kisses and hellos in French went around. This family friend and that of the parents of Kristel's student, Max.
The bar-b-que hosted fruit and spinach salad, tortilla rolls with tomato lettuce and cheese, Babybel, lamb, meat balls, and sausage. Coke and Sprite, beer or wine to drink. Guests carried disposable paper plates, each printed full with the Texas flag, and napkins to match.

French conversation and light drinking in the mid-afternoon, then cake. Two candles, 1 and 8, burned in the cheesecake as the crowd droned through the only English all day, "Happy birthday to you... Max..." "Happy birthday to you... Max..." for all four lines. Then French continued. Cake served on little paper plates - no Texas flag - and handed to mouths by silver spoons. Meanwhile, adults drank France's finest champagne from crystal. Max's dad looked at the 8 candle, mostly melted, and wryly said, in French, "The candle has been consumed by flame. Makes me question my son's virginity."

Into early evening, the crowd thinned. Some plates were cleared. Max's mom took out a bag of garbage. By the time the party finished, Kristel, French coworker, and I remained. We said French goodbyes and left.

I wonder if, after everything wound down, and as the host and hostess relaxed, did he say, "I think your salad was a hit," or she, "Everyone seemed to love your meatballs."

Clean Hands

hands are not so easily cleaned or dirt removed


it's a bad habit to aim for someone else's goals.
and it seems careless not to know that
you can fail the lesson, but understand the concept.


fixing a small mistake can lead to a big one,
but should you always leave a mess?
advice comes in torrents,

and hits the mind late, fragile,
like cigarette ash stays full
and is easily blown away, or smudged.


Hier encore est demain tôt ou tard.
Aujourd'hui est demain est hier et
Lorsque le soleil se couche ou se leve, et Tu dormais.


i'm building a robot to make my bed,
then going out to play,
but no game shows.


I am searching for what I don't know
because what has been offered
I have too often seen fail.


The fork gets chewed up in the garbage disposal
when the sink is full of grubby water
of leftovers.


Hair parted on the side one day
gets shaven
for being less noticeable, presently


lacking its past ability to create the once
astute coif. Lights cut off earlier each year,
except for CO detecters, fire alarms.


Between Sunday School and next Sunday Dinner
days that end in Y are open for business,
until further notice.


Things amount to less space
better security
and sealed cracks in the heating and cooling.


sweat is for the soccer field and
the mall is reserved for
those without a/c in summer.


gifts become debt and
no matter what you study, academia is a
yoke, tethered to a block.

you pull the block into its spot,
then climb down for another.
this pyramid must be built.

palm readers digest

i hold a braid.
it's not so long and not tightly woven.
the craftsmanship, however, is flawless.
intentionally left loose.
this sort of technique gives
a casual flow
like two sensual worms embracing
bellies and necks.
yet, i don't know where they're heading,
or if it's even in the same direction.

of Time

This is What Time has Brought

We tackled the dishes as Family.
The water ran full force
and elbow-grease applied
to the counters, table, and,
when mess was seen,
chairs.
I prepared the movie.

No one eats at the table anymore.
There are three TV trays,
the fourth one lost under a printer
in the office.
Movies never run anymore.
News plays after 10 and
on a special night,
Saturday Night Live.

The house is visited more than it used to be,
but not by one big group. Not a group of 5.
Not a group of 5 members of my family.
Not at the same time.

Pre-Existing Condition

I have a pre-existing condition
and am therefore denied.
lol.
something about me adds color
to my face and
understanding.
i have this ailment which
desires comprehension,
comprehensibility,
honesty.
it's a sickness to need to
spread these colors from my face,
from my fingertips,
tie knots with strings just to tie knots with strings
because doing so allows for much more than
a string with a knot in it.
but this is too basic.
however, this is my pre-existing condition
and i've been denied.
lmao.

Poem - "Headlines"

Headlines

Two              Towers of Babel             Topple.

The battles            for Babylon               wage

and,                                              standing by,

                                             Sacrificial Lamb.

'Sigh' for that big bang,

           charged       by a storm      of   trouble.

There  is a  martyr  atop  some   hill,       who

   once was     a baby   floating   downstream.

                                   Blah, blah, blah, then,

"Let's           to        the   chess            match!"

                                                He later leads

a   million   people   to        the Guggenheim.

Hands                      get                     washed

in        mounds           of            fossils;

the   mantel   is   swept   by   Texas candles.

The corpse,  refurbished

                with    an  empty   milk   jug.

Attempts are made to reap the spoils of a 

                                                     hurricane.

They succeed.

                             Refugees sit in traffic

on the way                     to evacuation routes,

    three    days        after the storm.

  Chariots    throwing     bows   and   arrows,

drunk   soldiers     throwing        elbows.

                  Angry fans throw tomatoes

and poor  sports   play cheap.     Meanwhile,

ice cream is  savored on the curb

                                         outside the prison,

where Springtime's sparrows

                                                galavant.

The    day's    parades                 are watched

       at 9 o'clock.                 Ticker-tape fails -

cars dented

                                               "Keep an eye

on the mountains and valleys."

                                          "Get out of the red

and stay in the black."

          "We have already been on the bad side.

We don't want to go back."

Heads shaved before church - beards in choir

Behind screen doors, Secrets shared with Secrets

Money offered to 'thimble'

Pitas split, passed

Rugs lay down facing God - Prayers flung

Prophets fast together

Editorials

Lay down your rug,

face God.

Now kneel.

All the ancient profits

hold hands in the shadows.

Thrown dirt 

can get in your eyes,

and we all know about specks and splinters.

Smile like a Mormon. Dance like a Hindu.

Play like a Buddhist.                 

                                                    Love.

Heightened and Enlightened

Out There, In the Real World

Check the news like it’s a Muslim prayer schedule, only to find panic, hopes, frustration. Yet you’re no nearer the headlines tomorrow that read:
Truth Beyond Politics
“This is an historic day.”
Headlines roar through printers, quicker, for faster news, not better. Say:
Life Beyond What We Print
Yet seasons are forgotten unless it’s baseball, football, or political and Christmas is become elections that begin earlier each year,
    grow brighter each year,
    increase grander each year,
    and people cheer:
Red! White! Blue!
And the papers roll, black ink over pages, and all any of it reads:
These Are Untruths
Hands passing secrets under fine table tops hoist in their other hands cables, then, Hark! The herald papers roll:
Stocks Fall, Money Meaningless!
And buses disappear around vine-covered high-rises, sidewalks crack by seedlings, newspapers compost for tree roots, and words claim:
[Your Line Here]
but the article never draws a conclusion,
so everyone waits to see how their favorite cartoon considers the idea.

help me remember

The Southern US

The Dangers of a Pint (of Ice Cream)

The dangers of starting in on a pint of ice cream is a matter of temperature.
The pint is too small to actually scoop a portion into a bowl - that would be silly - so the individual is left eating from the container.
This in itself is not a problem, but as the he with the spoon peels back a layer of ice cream, he reveals for himself the chunks of chocolate, ribbons of peanut butter, and nuts.
Now, for one who carries with him a level of self-control, this is no problem. The individual will take what he preemptively deemed acceptable, and leave the rest.
However, as he slowly lips the spoon, changing the chunk of ice cream from crystalized stone into a damp, slightly warmer river stone of bliss, that which is left in the container begins to form for itself an outer rim of lightly melted cream.
The individual now finishes what was supposed to be his last bite, and says to himself, "I'll just scrape off that little melted part." After all, once melted, ice cream is never the same again.
In this unfortunate realization, he glides the spoon along the edge, scrapes just a small bite, but reveals to himself and God more delicious chunks of nuts or chocolate or a perfect ribbon of peanut butter. "I'll finish with one last taste of that," he tells himself.
Alas, that bit of peanut butter is, every time, too rich, and must be cooled down with another small bite of ice cream.
By this time, there is a new rim of melted ice cream, mocking him, on top of the, now, half-pint that remains.
Just, be careful with your pints of ice cream. That's all.

Heightened and Enlightened

“This is a huh-storic day.”

Check the news like it’s a Muslim prayer schedule only to find panic, fear, frustration, yet you’re no nearer the headlines tomorrow that read:

None of This Matters – Truth Beyond Governments

Events are recorded. The whole is ignored.

Headlines roar through rollers spinning pages quicker to create demand for faster news, not better, saying:

Life Beyond What We Print

Weathermen watch numbers. Meanwhile, winds bring cold air south, but the seeds she carries are said:

CHANGE.

Seasons are forgotten unless it’s baseball, football, or political and Christmas is become elections that begin earlier each year, grow brighter each year, increase grander each year and people cheer:

Red! White! Blue!

And the papers keep rolling black ink over tree pulp pages and people pick up the one that fits their views, like doctrine, and all any of it reads:

These Are Untruths

Hands pass secrets under fine table tops hoisting brandy and cigars and then, Hark! The herald papers roll:

Stocks Fall, Money Meaningless

And buses disappear around crumbling high-rises, sidewalks crack by mighty, rumbling seedlings, newspapers compost for tree roots. Finally, it is agreed.

Before Christmas

This is It

What is the problem with socialism anyway? Policy driven by society's needs against policy driven by banks. If we're all Americans, all neighbors, why do we refuse to live for each other, the common good? The idea has been tainted by propaganda, ever so cleverly camouflaged.

of Expectations and the Delimma of Personal Exchange

Walking into Tom Thumb and, before anything else, I approached the cart collector walking out for a round of baskets. Before our shoulders passed, our eyes met, and stuck, and he asked me, "What do you say?"
I said, "I'm, alright?"
I then wondered, What'd he ask? Following, I said what? and, Did I ask, You alright?
As the backs of our heads walked further from each other, I realized he had not asked me, "How are you?"
All he said was, "What do you say?"

Sirens

All day looked like rain and I felt the dew point drop. Yet the sky remained fickle and shined enough to keep me wondering, When?

The winds picked up and brought the storms rapping on my windows, flashing like paparazzi at the disco - enough for the sensitive type to convulse into seizures - and mocking me with laughter.

Kao hid away, tucked tail and whimpers. I introduced him to the storm outside, but he quickly hid where he could - close to me and defended from the onslaught.

The storm faded, then grew. Lightning bolted pulses like a MIG welder and thunder cracked, burst, or fell across the clouds like gravel. The rain lightened. The hail subsided. Someone switched the flip and the storm finished.

Ten minutes later, Dallas' tornado sirens went off.

Frida Kahlo

I can look at this picture and decide she's beyond Feminism.

A Realization is the Solution

The Problem isn't the Banks, but us wanting to look like we have money we don't. Concerning ourselves with the items in which we wrap ourselves. Banks give us money to do what we're told, reaping rewards all the way to the safe-house. And we do what we're told.

Scapegoats, however, are nice to have.

Easter, '88

At Easter, when I was much younger, I had trouble spotting the eggs hidden in Papa and Granny's backyard. Despite my head start, I wound up with the least, thereupon whimpering and crying that I had not discovered the eggs as well as my older cousins, and brother. The tears usually worked. Several more eggs were placed in my basket.
One particular Easter, I was given my head start, found a handful - well, one egg was a handful back then - I found two handfuls and the older cousins bolted from the doorway like rabbits. Searching frantically, under tall grasses and shrubs, around and down, I finally decided to tilt my head back, and look up.
I found it! A whopper of an egg. I bet then there was a big old Reese's peanut butter egg inside. Or better yet, one of those old sugar eggs, probably from last year, yet still questionably edible. Oh, I couldn't wait to get my hands on that egg. Yet, it sat pompously mocking me atop the brick sill of the bathroom window.
From nowhere, my eldest cousin came up and I beamed! He'll get it for me!
He looked at me, and I looked at him, then we both looked at the egg. Already pushing thirteen, towering over me, he reached for the egg, and ran off.
At that moment I was shocked, tortured, that what I expected had not panned. Only recently did I recognize the lesson presented, that I should have learned.

Thunderstorm in the Suburbs

Storm's coming in. Kao's
(Think Koa, then switch the a and o.)
hiding.
Kao's unfamiliar with
Texas thunderstorms.

Crotch rockets buzz where
  alarms whine while
  sirens twirl
 and mosquitoes swarm

FLASH

rain that won't fall
shatters together
becomes bolistic
cloudquake.
Cars cry like babies,
  temperamental and afraid.

Music and Comedy

It started with a Steve Earl song,
"F the FCC"
wherein he mentions "Dirty Lenny."
Curious, I discovered "Dirty Lenny" is
Lenny Bruce,
famed and controversial comedian
notorious for obscenity cases in the 60s
and self proclaimed
"Lenny Bruce."
("I am not a comedian. I am Lenny Bruce.")
Following his acts on YouTube,
I came across Andy Kaufman in the queue
on the right side
and therein
found myself enjoying, quite heartily, his famous
Carnegie Hall performance
all the way from Tony Clifton's National Anthem
to the cafeteria line for milk and cookies.

What a day.

Yesterday was so good

Yesterday was so good.

The day began with a rant on my blog. Then I hopped on the motorcycle in the wonderful weather and headed West toward 35, waiting briefly at the second stoplight, the one at the tollway, and thereafter making my way through every green light between the tollway and the highway. I rode north in no haste, exited in Denton, and made every green light between the highway and Austin's house where I stopped briefly. Then, to Cups and Crepes.

I arrived around 11:20 and ordered a cappuccino, the tastiest cappuccino I have ever had. Shortly after finishing, my friends arrived, Keenan, Karen, and Jon. We sat and talked away about whatever the breeze brought in. I ordered two crepes. The salmon crepe with spinach and almonds and a ricotta cheese and berries. Divine.

We talked more and Karen, then Jon left and when 3 O'clock rolled around, Keenan and I got on the motorcycle and went to the square. We borrowed the internet at Jupiter House to call Austin, who was just around the corner, and who joined us shortly after we hung up. Keenan left with Austin on the tandem bicycle, I got back on the moto, and we rode to Fry Street for a game of pool at Riprocks. Two games, a beer, and half a match of chess later, we left for Austin's to see his chinchilla. Austin then left for Garland. Keenan left to help his friend plant a garden. And Ryan returned from Corinth.

We talked slowly in his apartment about education, camping, work, and so on, hydrating ourselves with water, then we stepped out for a walk to the square. We had a couple beers at Hooligans, then went back to his apartment, and home.

Who Benefits, National Security

What

     is National Security?

What risks terrorize my country?

2,977 people died on September 11. This resulted in two wars, bringing to date nearly 4,500 troop casualties in Iraq and 1,530 fatalities in Afghanistan. Citizens are subject to invasive searches (from the refusal of a bottle of water to explicit scanners) and diminished privacy rights (PATRIOT Act) in the United States. These are under the banner of National Security.
Troops in Libya are there in the name of National Security or National Interest. Whose interest is that?

This is in my personal interest: "[M]ore than 910,000 Americans still die of heart disease annually," more than 300 times the number of casualties on 9/11. Yet, there has been minimal assistance for those who cannot afford their own health care.
It is in my interest that I can afford to visit the doctor, that I can then also afford the prescribed medicine, much more than my peers going around the world to hold the US thumb over dictators that pose a risk to so-called National Security.

I have never been convinced of what is being made secure. Over 311,000,000 people in my country live day-to-day, most of us doing what we can to scrape by, especially in this "economic crisis." And in this crisis there has surfaced much talk about budget cuts at the cost of schools, teachers, union workers, and benefits for those giving their time daily to the progression of this nation. These people must be made secure.

"Unless we act soon, government spending on health and retirement programs will crowd out spending on everything else, including national security." Senator Paul Ryan, Republican, Wisconsin.

I contend that the health and retirement of US citizens is National Security. The problem falls in that politicians hold the Nation and the citizens who are the nation, who build the nation, who turn the wheels of this nation, separate. The problem is that US funds are spent on international endeavors, rather than beneficial programs (alternative fuels, health care for citizens, schools and libraries, et al) at home. The problem may even be this country's lack of neighborly patriotism, the fact flags go up on Flag Day and at war time, but that when schools are funded, medicine is paid for, libraries get new books, the nation does not celebrate.

This is a challenge for Americans to celebrate each other, not the politicians who dress nicely, pass out gratuitous handshakes, and spend our money on "National Security." This is a call to recognize that we are the nation and want to be secure here in our own welfare. This must change, this distraction called National Security that our taxes pay for while we slowly die at home from things we could prevent if we could afford them. I don't want a government that stands up for me as though I have made friends with the class bully. I want a government that stands with me, like a best friend who waits with me at the hospital when I break my arm after a spill on my bike. But as long as National Security is separate from We the People, my government is not for me.

Glenn Beck, What the Heck? 2012!

Glenn Beck is officially no longer with Fox "News". I think it's because he's preparing to run for president.


(This post was posted specifically for the purposes of Philip the Elder.)

PAC your money away

It was brought to my attention recently what a PAC is. You've seen these three letters hugging close to political talking-heads such as Sarah Palin (SarahPAC), Mike Huckabee (HuckPAC), and others. The source from where I received the following information is now Colbert PAC, recently established.

If you did not know, a PAC is an instrument for political funding. As individuals can donate only so much to a candidate, a PAC allows individuals and companies to donate to a common cause, whether it is for a candidate or against another. Through a PAC, politicians have the support of extraordinarily large dollar amounts from supporters.

Is this the most current way to keep you and me out of the electoral process? The Electoral College wasn't enough, now corporations, those in energy, those in media, those sitting fat on cash sending our jobs abroad, and the extremely rich, are PAC-ing for their own interests. Where do you and I come in?

Tax Breaks and A Day Off

Did You Know General Electric Pays No Taxes?

"I Wish I'd Thought to Say"

When Jorge` told me, "You're white. You're supposed to have money,"

I wish I said, "That's just it, George. That's what they want you to think, that white people have all the money - just like Mexicans are taking our jobs, gays are destroying marriage, Muslims are sinisterly infiltrating our country, unions are greedy. It's the distractions they create and present as your scapegoat for your problems. This way we argue at each other, rather than keeping an eye on them fat cats. In reality, well, they don't need "Casual Friday," because they can still afford their business suits.

Poem from back sometime

Laid That Love

It rushes back.

You remember how sweet she is;

you recall smiling

through mid-evenings cooking;

late nights sipping wine and painting

before taking off your splattered clothes

to lay down for bed,

her nose on your neck,

her breath down your chest

*        *               *

you forget

and wonder

Why am I doing this?

Her lips – 

you long to comfort with a kiss –

will never forgive you.

Her eyes,

pricked by tears,

search yours to discover why,

but you have no reason why.

Those words slip off –

wine becomes vinegar

                             Rakes the cheeks,

                             burns in the throat.

*        *               *

What, then, can be said

of what is laid to rest?

How can one ever forget

quivering lips and a heaving breast;

the watering eyes beneath furrowed brows

when he laid that love to rest?

*        *               *

She goes to her closet,

returns to her seat,

hands you that cherished paper bag

of wine corks and keepsakes.

Question 1

If you could lose once sense,
which would you choose?

His Labors

I cut bamboo and the leaves slipped through my skin. Cedar branches
grabbed and raked red lines
through my arms.

Thorns pierced my wrists and hands. I burned, hauling brush across the lawn, 

torn by vines, and licked

by poison ivy.

Dirt crouched under my fingernails and blisters formed on my palms. My hands
were chewed by stones, then sweat
dripped from my nose.

I shoveled clay and carried rocks. My blisters opened. Blood smeared
on my tools. The open wounds filled
with grit.

My eyes cried saw dust. Mosquitoes fed on me. Gnats stuck to my flesh
by the Texas Summer-drawn sweat. My
bones ached, ground, and snapped.

By day's end, my wounds stung, my skin pulled taut. I cooled in the shower,
dried on the balcony, then slept
on the wooden floor.

Favorites, pt. 2

Artist: Egon Schiele

Writer: Jack Kerouac

Did I tell you about meeting the Armenian couple in Amsterdam?

During an hours-long stroll through the wonky city, I came to a large plaza area where a man with headset and a big circus ball gathered a large audience. At a corner of this plaza stood a bank, beside one wall of which stooped a thin man playing accordion. He wore tan pants, a heavy coat, and a scarf. His narrow face stood from his collar with a knit beanie holding his head.

From a distance he looked young and I slowed my pace to get a better hear of his music, Armenian traditionals. I hesitated to pass as he finished a song and a girl went up to give him change and chat, about what I will never know. I approached as she walked away.


We talked about where he is from and his wife appeared from nowhere. We talked and he and she spoke to only each other at one point in a language I had never heard. They disagreed, I only imagined about her invitation for me to join them with my guitar. During their subtle exchange, he lifted one pant leg to reveal bright red cotton pants underneath with yellow, pink, blue and white polka dots. "Do you think he would understand this?" I imagined the man saying.

"Do you want coffee?" the woman asked me.

"Sure, I would love some," for the day kept very cold and gray.

She gestured for me to follow. We rounded the corner of the bank and through the doors. On the far side of the only clerk and several customers, a coffee machine sat on a counter. The clerk watched the Armenian woman and me approach the sign claiming "Coffee for customers only" and us ignoring it. The woman ignored also the sign that said "Out of order". The clerk ignored her customer and kept her eyes on us, my leader working to get a coffee to realize it doesn't work.

"It doesn't work," she told me and we walked back out without looking at the clerk. The woman gave a flippant flick of her hand as she led me back outside, as if to say, "It's that simple."

We stood a distance from her husband playing from his spot. She encouraged me to return with my guitar and I went off.

Today's Thought

"Did you know Exxon pays no taxes?"

we're vetted against each other as if we're not in this together.
we're all hoping for that shining end of the tunnel, aren't we?
we work.
we labor.
we cold-call.
we fold clothes.
we door-to-door.
we answer phones.
we categorize, organize, clean, and design.
yet, we have been distracted by brilliant politics telling us to concern ourselves with
who gets married
who dies
who fights
who has weapons
who we're going after
who's more loyal
who's the bigger patriot.
we are distracted by this swarm of gnats, missing the hawk attacking our vulnerability.
we all love, don't we?
we all die.
we're all fighting something.
we're all prepared for disaster, as best we can be.
i don't see any benedict arnold's where i roam.
and patriotism is pointless
when what we're proud of is not working for us who work.

violent polar snow dunes

accidental birth certified.
demonic eyes fell ghastly hosts,
interrupting juvenile kisses;
lamenting moments not offered passively,
quietly rewarded;
systematically traumatized
under vehement, watchful, xenophobic, yelling
zastrugas.

favorites

Favorites of all Time:


Song: Visions of Johanna, Bob Dylan

Painting: The Old Guitarist, Pablo Picasso

Architecture: The Chrysler Building

high and dry

a massive wreck, cars scattered throughout the highway, and I approached peering through a box-hole. swerving left, i corrected right, over a lane, watching the cars grow bigger in my way and pass through a box hole. my foot never lightened on the gas, i jerked left, and wrecked. the squad car hit sand bags, tail-end upraised, then fell. the hood popped open and i got out.
are you okay?
i'm frustrated. i'm usually great at dealing with stuff like this. i looked around. passengers wandered between cars with flats, busted radiators, banged and bruised bumpers, accordion fronts.
i moseyed away from my car and carnage leaving it behind and unresolved.

If it's illegal for people to come and work without the proper papers,
why is it not illegal to send our factories to where these people are coming from?
Papers or no, stop the debate regarding "Taking our jobs" and set up some parameters
for these people closing factories here because it's cheaper to open there.

The Race is On!

Who will give in to protests first?

Governor Scott Walker, or, Moammar Gadhafi?

Let Democracy Ring it's Liberty Bell

Suburban Kids with Biblical Names

Today's discovery

My neck and face are red. My hands are sore. My muscles ache in my arms and legs.

Wes, whom I met at Anne Frank Elementary's playground has two dogs. No matter how many dogs are at the park, they hang together to the side in their own brotherly wrestling match.
Wes works as a contract pilot, taking business execs and families where they need or want to go. He flies Hawkers and gets bored when work is slow, which is increasingly so in the current economy.
"Where does that road go?" I asked. "Do you know?"
"Yeah, it's a great neighborhood. Lots of cool houses. There's a great park in there. Plenty of space to throw the frisbee."
"Oh, cool. Does it go to the other side? To Preston?"
"It goes through, then turns left and lets out at, uh, at Beltline."
We sat on the bench talking while his dogs walked around the playground and my dog, Kao, sat beside me, all of us doing little, for little needed to be done to enjoy the day.
The sun shined almost hot, except that a consistent breeze kept the slightest of chills on my bare arms.
"I never asked your name," I declared, feeling funny that I knew his dogs' names and he knew Kao, but we had yet to introduce ourselves.
"Wes," he answered. "And yours?"
"Wes, I'm Brian." We shook hands, sat a while longer. "Well, I think Kao and I are gonna head through that neighborhood."
"Alright. Yeah, there's a lot of cool houses in there." We looked at the street that led into the neighborhood as a trio of people exited. "See, a lot of people walk through there."
"Great. Well, nice to meet you, Wes."
"Brian, nice to meet you too. Maybe I'll see you again."
I took Kao to the neighborhood and walked past enormous house after enormous house, dejected by the size, ignoring the splendor. Finally, as I made a point to divert my eyes, I decided I had no reason to feel the way I did. I had no idea what the houses looked like; that, in looking away, I was not giving the time to the efforts that went into building each home, the money made to afford it, the design drawn out by an architect, the sweat and calloused hands that made it look how each family wanted their home to look.
I lifted my eyes and saw something I had never seen before. A chimney made of stacked bricks and stones, an aesthetic to make it appear like an old European or New England smoke stack that had fallen over time and was rebuilt by available materials. A mix match of red, white, pale yellow, stacked to  the vent on top and I was blown away. This was excellent and the pattern repeated itself elsewhere, in slightly different fashion, on the facade of the house.
Kao stood patient beside me as I looked on. "Pretty cool, isn't it, Kao?" He looked up at me. I looked down at him, back to the chimney, back to Kao. "Well, nous allez."

I felt alive

*This post is not intended for everyone. If you're a worrier, go here .



I came up to the access ramp but saw brake lights on the highway and decided, "Rather than dealing with traffic, I'll go straight. It's the next exit anyway."
Fifty-five miles per hour on the motorcycle, I should have slowed down for the busy intersection regulated only by stop signs. I let off the throttle slightly for the train tracks. A car slowed to turn right. I stayed straight in the left lane. A car waited on my left. The 4x4 bright red Ford pickup didn't see me.
Dropped the gas -
Grabbed the clutch -
Pulled the break -
Fish tailed around his bumper -
Over-corrected -
Tumbled, motorcycle on top, and slid to a stop.

"Wow. It happened. I've fallen." Adrenaline rushed through me. I squeezed my leg out from under the bike. Traffic stopped, but I didn't notice anyone but a guy who pulled over and got out to check on me. I gave him an "OK" sign and started to lift the motorcycle. "No no, just wait," he told me, then grabbed the handle bars and lifted it up. The red pickup parked and the driver came over to help. The brake was jammed, so three of us had to pull or push on the bike to get it off the road, out of the puddle of spilt gasoline. Hoyt, the driver of the Ford, was noticeably shaken. I removed my helmet. I told him and the other man, and a third who came over, that I was fine. "No worries," I said. Hoyt disagreed. "Yes, worries. I can't believe that. Are you okay?" I assured him and the other men. Hoyt and I talked slowly about what happened, checked to make sure the motorcycle was fine. As I thought it, Hoyt said, "It's nice to meet you. Not in these circumstances, though!" We laughed and agreed. He gave me his number in case anything was wrong with me or the bike, then he watched me drive away, just to make sure.

Organics

i believe that in attempts to stay as clean as possible
sterilized
we rid ourselves of the ability to cope with bacteria.
 therefore, i wash my hands every time i go to the bathroom,
 bathe occasionally, and reuse dishes.
i could eat raw chicken and come out with a bellyache
i don't often buy organic for two reasons:
 1) if it's in an organic specialty store,
     it's meant for those with money.
 2) if it's in a grocery store,
     standards have been lowered to allow
    long-standing companies of Whatever's Cheapest
       into the market.
This lowering standards is also why now I am confused when shopping for peanut butter,
  deciphering for myself the difference between Organic and Natural. This is a great
game. Jokes on us.

I think the fellas with the syringe mixed formulas
 when they made this red apple that tastes like a Granny Smith.

My sliced tomatoes look like open wounds and the leaves of
Spring Mix
in January
are a bit under the weather.
But, they say it's organic.

Race, Revisited

In the spirit of NewSouth Books, who removed the words 'Nigger' and 'Injun' from Mark Twain's Huck Finn, here's a short story

The cat that led the other behind the bushes
fifty three minutes later
lays in the cool dewy grass and looks up for cars
and relaxes as the black school boy walks home,
passing him.
A scruffy white guy cuts glances at the school boy as they start to pass each other on the sidewalk.
They look at each other quickly. Scruff gives a nervous nod, thinking, 'I'd do it if he was white,' and looks away.
Jack, carrying the book bag, looks away, thinking, 'He thinks I'm black.'

 

Dry Pinto Beans

Four days ago I set out to make dry beans.
I washed them, rinsed them, and soaked them over night. The following afternoon, I loaded my beans into a crock pot, added garlic, chili powder, pepper, and salt, and turned them on high.
I never made dry beans before.
They were ready by 4:30 in the morning. Then, I was ready to sleep.
I woke up the next day and had them for lunch.  I added onion, chilis, and cauliflower,
then ate them again for dinner.
The next day, I ate them again. That evening I added tomatoes,
and ate them again.
Now by this time, you might say, "Brian, aren't you tired of beans yet?"
And I might say, "Naw."
You just keep adding stuff to them.
For example, the beans are so soft they could be dip. So I've added cheese, salsa
and some chips.
Now I got myself a Frito Pie!
But they're nearly finished now.

Jane Again

There ain't many nights like this
when I've been betrayed by my closest misses
I'm sittin' alone beneath this black sky.
Sittin' alone 'neath this black sky.
Unfortunately this ain't the first
time I felt like this and she's to  blame.

Last night we spent together,
but tonight there's been a drastic change in weather!
Yesterday was sunny but tonight my eyes are rainin'.
My eyes were beamin' yesterday but now
they're just rainin'.
Well yesterday I said,
She's with me!
but now I'm just rainy
and she's to blame!

This ain't no kinda Texas storm
that leaves you in awe and beggin' for more!
She tore down my house and now I ain't got nothin'.
She took everything I had now boy ain't that somethin'!
Now I'm in debt and I'm wet and I'm outta cigarettes
got nothin' but Jack and regrets!
and she's to blame.

Friends let me tell you what I'll do.
I'm gonna find me a girl,
or maybe TWO!
and swap 'em around
and just play games.

Aw Hell. I just ain't that way.

Just gotta find me a girl to hold my hand
let me be her ONLY man
and her name ain't Jane!

Now I ain't picky, she's just gotta be kind,
pretty and smart, knows a good time,
likes art, music, poetry too,
knows a good conversation or when silence will do;
likes to take a walk or sit and touch
play Nintendo together, or cook lunch,
she lays awake, she keeps me sane!
She kisses my forehead and
her name ain't
JANE!

Welcome

Listen to the song on youtube

hey ya
 hey ya
haahh

hah
hee
hee, hi-lee how

do you do?

say,
can you say
what's the weather out today?
 is it right for a kite?

see i see why he
with dirt on his knees
 is bowing
and i see why she
 keeps busy with doubting
but if three's a crowd and no room for four
then i don't wanna be there no more.

My New Song

Music at .. . here

Riverside

jumpin jumpin jumpin  in the bathtub!
given given given me  a scrub down
cutting cutting cutting hairs from my chin
snip snip snip and part my hair on the side

set me up,  with a soft tie
take me out, riverside
put me down, into the cool flow
and baptize me and let my spirit roam

wash me out, clean my insides
bring me back, i'll walk by your side
sit me down, i may not do as i'm told
but this i swear, i'll look good wherever i go

Nondualism

The blog I link here has taken one of my past stories and used it for itself. This discovery, a year after the fact, brings me to revisit the time of when I posted my original story (at the beginning of 2010 for a review of 2009), the experience that led to the story (a day spent with dear friend and co-conspirator Ryan Hochstatter), and my feelings regarding Nondualism in general, which follow.

According to Jerry Katz, writer of Nonduality Blog, "Nonduality means 'not two' or 'nonseparation.'" This idea says that while everything is individually its own, everything is simultaneously linked, connected.
I believe this can be described several ways. For example, the Bhaghavad-gita quotes Krishna to say "All paths of worship lead to God." Therefore, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Buddhist, so forth, it matters not to whom one worships, but that one worships, and by this, we are connected like spokes on a wheel leading to the central point. We are all connected by the theme of what I call "that which is beyond us" (what others call God, Allah, Yahweh...), which we celebrate.
Another view of this idea of Nonduality is a universal energy that connects everyone. While we each have our own energy of emotions, we are connected in that others share these emotions and, whereas each has his own reason and circumstances for feeling, we have all felt sadness, joy, anger, fear, and are therefore one great body. This is a basic explanation, I realize, as nondualism connects us to all things, not only people. Perhaps it is better to say that while we are individuals, we are not remote. We are, when aware, part of the whole, humanity, animals, plants, water, sky, deeper and beyond.
Nonduality: a never-ending existence that depends on each of it's innumerable parts. Everything in existence is a linchpin.

For a long while I have believed that things are not segregated as religions and leaders might have us believe. This is what saddens me when I hear of conflict in political, religious, social, environmental, domestic, and other facets of life. This conflict comes from overlooking the connection we share with one another and all.
I am reminded of something I heard on the Colbert Report: "If we lose all our bananas, in office break rooms, what will we reach past to get to the Doritos?"
Nondualism is the bananas so many pass the opportunity to savor, thereby submitting to conflict.
Then again, according to nondualism, conflict exists with, or because of, stillness or peace. That without one the other cannot exist. Long cannot exist without short, light cannot exist without shadow. Like colors on a color wheel, when colors are opposites, they are complimentary. In fact, this is the exact reason I am in love with colors. They illustrate the idea of coexistence by conflict, which is harmony.

Where does this bring me? To the extent that I believe in nonduality, we all exist so that we may not exist. We are connected universally with the atoms of each others bodies and the atoms in and beyond the far reaches of our known universe. Existence is a fractal, never ending, which therefore never begins. And within this are we.
How do we reconcile the differences between us? Acknowledge they exist and acknowledge they are few. We are each other.

six.

 the devil tried to use me for evil.

thoughts scared me to pass the opportunity; constant fear that god may not approve.
i fought, then ran to Bible. i thought maria would be glad to know how her man solves problems.
she came to my room.
i sat alone after the scolding.


 'get by' is fine.

cable television, internet flash ads - buy something.
see it and see it again, then again. well goddamn.
this continues for a while.


 indecision. travel stories. uncertainty.

lack of confidence increases with indecisiveness
and is fed by peers who know what they want.
so what's next? what are your plans?
i plan for amazing
and people will want to be part of it.


 success is not a fear of assurances.

you do nothing. you've nothing to fear.


 step on the cracks, break mama's back.

maria, forgive me.
i can no longer watch my feet.
pray for me.
look here. and there. you will see something.


 empty empty promises empty goals empty attempts

stagnant sitting, stagnant motion because
the mind does not itself turn over ideas;
the heart does not burn, instead wheezes;
the lungs are made of papier-mâché and crinkle as they heave.


 out of it.

the palm reader knows your fate.
hook one bracelet on a nail.
now the other.
don't think about your deeply crevaced palm.
a feather sticks through your ribs.
left foot out.
then the right foot.