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Posts Tagged Pixie

My Day in Tricky Bullets I

  • Empty mind, the goal, but interference.
    • Dog man, dog man, listen to that shitty music, don’t listen to that shitty music, just let that shitty music float through and cause you to vibrate, dog man.
    • What would guru guy think about how empty my mind is, but if I wonder that, it, the globby mind not my wonder, is filled with egotistical motives and pollution swarms, blowing circuits.
  • For a moment, as smart as the five dogs, but Harry looks at me.
    • Get your shit together, he says. I’m hungry and you need to quit fucking around.
    • Pixie loves me, but she’s only looking for a surprise for her breakfast.
      • No surprise, she toys with the others because dog food sucks.
      • Gracie does not chew Pixie’s head off. I don’t know why.
  • Idea for poem trickles in as I am busy feeling ashamed for not emptying the mind, feeling dizzy with the wheels of insanity trying to trick me into losing my place in the world, threatening to make me forget who or what I am, threatening to remove my sense of the calendar, threatening to incapacitate me and bend me over the edge of the sink under the rag infested with the rottenness of old kitchen mess. I am ashamed of my diseased self.
    • An unbearably sweet girl on the roof downtown throwing rocks.
    • Maybe 20 stories.
    • Maybe pebbles, but more rock-like because they have mass, power to alter the world,
    • and she throws and throws, and all the people in the streets are joyful.
    • The people do not protest.
    • The people strive for acquiring all of the free rocks.
    • I see why my poems suck so badly when I have ideas like this, but my editor earns his pay, and he says, You quit even thinking about writing until you have a brain that might understand what art is supposed to be.
  • Mozart for lunch. I did not eat Mozart.
    • There are times, listening to Mozart, and I am sure I’m listening to God. I wish I could understand this.
    • The odd phrase “could not be more perfect” comes to mind.
      • A guy talking politics on LinkedIn the other day said it’s rude to bring in things which come to mind. I suppose it is too spontaneous for politics.
        • Reduce your time with politics, news, silly strings of comments about art which somehow make you feel contentious.
        • Reduce these and do something worthwhile.
  • I’m a fucking toad sitting in a meeting.
    • New guy. doesn’t understand. You don’t know what we know.
    • Some guy says he likes Carl’s idea and I feel less like jumping out the window.
    • Jumping out windows is tough on the 16th floor because the glass is very strong in order to resist those things that buildings tend to run into.
  • For a short time, I reflected on the last 8 years of being a father as opposed to the years before that, and I had an immensely good feeling, a rare sense of worthiness, and I thought about the last time my daughter told me she loved me. Yesterday. Oh, there might not be better goodness, and I hope that is okay.

 

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Spring Breezes Bring Fear

Black and white, furry mess, alerting all to her toughness,
three octaves too high, tensely rearing for retreat.
Five-pound Pixie makes her way into the day. Anxiety.
Leaves from fall blow around her and she is paralyzed
by fear of a storm that is the breeze of a March day.
Birds are flying now, flying low, and Pixie sees B-52’s.

I am who she is as we tear ourselves from winter into new life.
I am fearful of all that moves, especially beings who fly disguised.
She has Harry, Gracie, Buddy, and even Daisy, bitchy Daisy,
sibling pups who find her obnoxious but who would save her.
My siblings don’t protect, they wait for my barking and biting.

Pixie and I fear that we will not survive the next rip at our hearts.
She can hide behind a sibling. She is full of loving outlets.
Perhaps a human will hold her carefully. I need outlets.

 

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