Archive for October, 2012

Fighting Wicked, Trying Not to Quit

I’m going to try NaNoWriMo again. Last year, miserable failure, so I needed a new strategy. This year, instead of trying to write masterfully, I will simply write. Can I turn off the inner editor for more than three sentences? Who knows, but I will try to turn off the editor for four weeks.

I’ve taken writing courses in both fiction and poetry recently, and I have found that my classmates have uniformly disliked my material. I’m a modernist sinking in a sea of well-trained crafty dime store novelists. I wish I could craft anything well, but I’ll be damned if I’ll write something that’s been written millions of times.

I’m not a writer, but my heart gets sparked when I write, so damn the people who don’t read the shit. I’m going to write the shit and we’ll see where we go from here.

When I left the mental hospital tonight (thankfully having been there as a visitor trying to share hope rather than floating there as an admitted patient), the staff member told me to watch for deer. The full moon was fogged behind deep purple curtains, so I had to use my bright lights a few times. I was resentful of the clouds while others are dealing with horrible winds and floods. I tried to be a blazing trail of alertness. There were no deer encounters, but there was a dead dog. So sadness pervades my evening, not as severe as the pre-visit crater of terrifying depression, but creating doubt that I have any chance at writing 50K words in November, but here on October 30th, I feel determined to plough through.

Every word I write seems to murder one of the parasitic creatures inside my skull, which temporarily alleviates the pain, so on we go – let’s kill some pain.


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Massive Hole in Street

The orange monkey, stretching,
veins throbbing, pulling thistles
from the brutal tree, and death
is waiting, six souls, arms folded,
safety yellow, fluorescent, alarms
ready, massive Hole in street,
they’ve been working Hole
for weeks, and the black snakes
terrorize my lunch hour as I
wonder when they will be buried,
and when they are buried will
the monkey go on vacation so I can
live undisturbed and enjoy the people?

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The Weather Fucked with me Today

At the beginning of the day, oppressive humidity,
and then as the day progressed from inside
the temperature-controlled chamber of horrors,
the moving subjects on the streets below pulled me in

to the storm, blazing with the dullness of the dark skies, firing
the kilns of aging, and I wonder how do all of these people
become plagued with some portion of my diseases. I become
pestered by the possibility that I may not be the worst

person in the world, which sounds funny, being the worst
anything and in the world, but it’s not funny when you are really it,
when you are king of the worst, and all of these moving
contraptions, you must wonder how they became lucky,
how they were born with an ability to walk life.

But as I pierce the surfaces that are darkened
with honesty by the grimy clouds bearing an abhorrent future,
I detect these horrid fears under the peripheral shark skin.

Does it matter what’s underneath the armor
of crocodiles when they bite so strongly at life,
at helpless pieces of life? Shackled and poisoned, I must look

deeply for those cells that are missing from my survival
process, and as the sun finally arrives, all of the things,
they begin to show joy in life, but I am still searching for one
thing, deep inside, which will push me through the morass.


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Bark Three Times for Freedom

In airport, dog barks, good dog,
barks twice, some silence, security stands
strong, then dog barks three times.
I want to fly with the dog, to be loved
for the entire flight, and I would show that
dog that is he is the most loved being
on earth, but he is meant to stand, do his
work, stop the drug runners. All I want is
his freedom, but you can’t rescue a dog in the
airport; it’s too stilted; the plane’s full.
We can’t steal food forever, so I ride
with the mean humans with no drugs,
and dream about barks of freedom.


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Burning Cotton

at terribly transitional moments,
the smell is an iron which has sat
on the shirt collar too long,
the beginning of burning cotton,
of the oxidizing water and steam,
and these tell me I’m about
to die, to perish, but it doesn’t
happen as my mind is frozen, as
I’m extinguished but breathing.


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Melt into the Stink

Furry monster man in an Everlast
sweatshirt, recalling
the boxing rings with corners
for death, drawing
Mohammed Ali,

“Float like a butterfly,
sting like a bee,”

into the stink
of the canvas,
knowing Everlast
is the opposite
of what the brand suggests.


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Today with the Doctor

I sent her stuff from my hero,
for the example of the truth
of drunks – it’s more authentic
when coming from real drunks,
and I say, It’s always scary looking
at this side from that side – so many stay
on that side.

The elevator smells like fresh diaper.
My brain surfs the grainy side of the home folks art,
art that I wish I could do, especially the green door
with the three windows
reflecting the honest and scary
world, failingly attempting
to block the bad spirits.


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Sundays, Never Lived Right


Some lie about it, some are resistant,
but it seems that we all have it, this carcass
of spirit, so why do we struggle so hard,
fighting the unnatural cycles that come

every Sunday? And it’s every fucking
Sunday, regardless of preparation, how
largely we’ve slept, how consumed with glory
we are about our Saturday. Those who love

their jobs, if they’re honest, yes, they
get poisoned also, and if you look inside,
you’ll see the gray fog made of snakes
crawling in muscular choking motions,

and we act as though we’re fine, as though
church is the activity to save us from our
spiritual deserts, and in the afternoon,
we clean and tighten the yard, we stay

slick, but we know that the only valuable time
spent was in maybe the half hour when we collected
dead grass, dead leaves, and celebrated that
idea that somehow, we’ve survived another week

despite our keen awareness of all the death cycles
around us, we fight knowing that our struggle
is against the real forces, we think we’re winning,
but we do nothing to value this gift of life until

we’re dying, not regretting the Sunday services we’re
soon to be missing, having no sorrow over the ugliness
of our yards that we can’t maintain as we disintegrate,
not knowing why our family walks around with holes

where our spirits should be traveling, should be sealing
with bundles  of infinity, with terminal, unending organs
filled with love.



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Tell Freddy He’s Got No Chance

Tell Freddy everything about how he fails,
push your chin forward, carry your skull high.

When he doesn’t hear, it’s worse than failing;
low grade interference boiling up,
cement in his eyelids, and he sees you
wondering how he manages to live.

Last night, Freddy’s wife told him he’s gross
and disgusting, which may sound mild,
but she told him that when he was in the only place
where he stands a chance of being safe,
where he stands a chance of living and not loving
the strong Oak limb.

Push your face into that phone and be scummy
while all he wanted to do is to read, to learn.

If you tell Freddy he’s a no-good hack, far too short
in the talent tank, where does he go to live?


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