Take my ass to the lake and let me shed my heavier thread counts.
Let me tip in, at a rock-free area below, where I can act like I’m making an accident on purpose.
I’d like to free-fall long enough to lose the contents of my pockets and watch my burdensome responsibilities flutter to the sandy ground, but not too long where I cause concern to any would-be-witnesses.
I need a moment of purity, where there is an opportunity for the natural world to reclaim me from the topical static that’s grown a halo around my skin, and redirect me then, after said cool dip- to my original purpose. Can this water be arranged to flood my head with a vision of my next painting? And can this water be managed where it is ensured that once I arrive home, or perhaps even along the way home- I can have waves of motivation surging through me, like before- where I am deposited back on the path to my creativity? This is not the standard nature of water, I know…
…but is it possible to nurture a modern day lifestyle of technological over-reliance and maintain a healthy relationship with imagination and cleverness, and if the answer is yes- can this truth please fall right on my very own head, like a bucket of green slime on the old Nickelodeon show, or the oversized strawberry dropping from the ceiling in the 80’s Bonker’s commercial for gum that packed a larger than life size punch? Something mega?
Must I submerge my devices and get free, or is there a simpler, less expensive way to come back to self, or is this the question of our times- that no one is quite sure of either?
Take my ass to the lake and call my bluff. Take me there and force a sketch pad at me.
Take me to the lake and hallelujah let there be no signal, so everything else can come through.
Posted in creativity, fiction, mindfulness, musings, ordinary madness, photography, Uncategorized | 3 Comments »
The swamp has eyes, which are overfilled with diamonds.
Insects, amphibians, reptile’s optics- set a shimmer in hazy, humid, thick, repeating nights.
In one square foot of space we could be looking and remain unsurprised to see firefly flash, raccoon skittering, slug slime trailing on. To see moth bodies hostage to dusty milk-glass sconces, to see hornet mounds uncomfortably close to every place a hand may need to touch, to see the last second of a frog jumping- webbed toes swallowed by blackness.
At large- the sounds in this marshland are in concert.
The unsuspecting, shy operatic beginning of a solo winged one- slow; increasing. Adding of other like players; building. Swelling to crescendo. Carrying on and on. Cracking through the night, sounds bumping across crawfish towers, and sliding around kudzu vine and ornamental privet gone wild.
Until inky silence comes a creeping, cutting one off at the ear with a sudden stopper- plunging into the lull til’ it’s just a couple of humans breathing easy, sleeping birds, gently swaying whisky, weary nutria, sweet tea, awake snakes, sweating ice-cubes, and nearly still water below.
And then another wave, and another, and another- of boisterous, irrepressible bugs.
To know the swamp is to do so by being here, only.
No stories stand to tell better than experience. Tale tellers, find some Spanish moss and take some rest.
It’s an entire entity, a grouping, a package deal unlike any other, surmise-able as a whole, but breakdown-able with all sorts of moving, squirming pieces. Requiring gentle attention and a tendency toward pacific neutrality.
The land can be surrounded by skimmer boats; a wayward dock rotting and a float, propped by repurposed plastics; neighborhood children venturing bravely into muddy rivers with fingers crossed; strangers becoming friends faster, on average, and often with the assist of sugary spirits in single-use forever-cups; someone, or 2, or 4, or 5- being responsible for the greasy, alluring smells of deep-fried daily-catch.
All these senses- alight. Brightly so. Incandescent due to sun-packed days, bringing hot, stocky air. Incandescent due to outsiders so quickly being welcomed in; enveloped and full-bellied. Incandescent due to the nowhere-else-like-it factor. Crowded with accompanying oohs’ and ahhs’.
The swamp has eyes and they’re overflowing with diamonds.
Some spilling right across the ground. Some dangling around in branches. Some peering placidly from the damp beyond. You can count these lucky land-stars, as they twinkle all around you. You can make them yours just by thinking it so.
Because, hello tortoise, you’re moving like molasses here anyway- so it’s best advised to gather momentary gems and learn the local slither, fill your diamond shaped holes and watch the night shine, let the breeze take its subtle toll, and observe .
Posted in beat poetry, Deep South, nature, travel | Tagged Bayou, calm, swamp life | 4 Comments »
Picture me- an explorer voyaging the chopping, sailor, mermaid, school-of-fish, sunken-ship, Jacques Cousteau-eat-your-heart-out spaces in between places where feet have their solid, favored terrain so far from their bodies, traded,
searching new full flavor seasoning, adrift- in the name of it,
seeking to sprinkle more than pepper or turmeric or saffron upon my pallet anew; kindling tastebuds unknown
by my own hand
from my own glory, salt of sea and evolving flavor,
ever-lasting-gobstopper, unraveling in first, second, third, fourth course
all French and sophisticated, all cobweb and torment, all fresh tortilla, all squirrel feed, all bursting contentment, all raspberry-velvet-ganache, all sweaty panties, all hyphen, too many commas, all “surprise- look who’s here for dinner”, all stumbly wino, all exquisite, all vile, all gutter grease-straw-sipping, all gravely voice, all angel’s bells, all hammer of justice, all swift motion with arm-fulls overloaded of fragrant, pillowy, white blossoms that ring of early Spring nights festooned in bare-bulb-strung-lights, trailing behind me and scented of subtle jasmine in the warm, lit, dark,
whilst stirring and stirring to amend
my own soil where-which I will plant these gleaned exotic seeds of 15 year blooms, annuals, noninvasives, and perennials, brilliant orange pink yams from Southern bioregions, original dates of the Fertile Crescent, rubble with some green sprouts interspersed from Palestine and hope hope hope to raise a tree to a forest, strawberry juicy Hawaiian papaya, tall sugar cane groves to run amongst, 3 sister’s silky corn, plump beans, striped squash,
and bleed
into surrounding soil and imagine
and contribute,
and discover
what delicate monster bounding bony, spined hills, straddling trickle creeks of sodden zygote or embryo fresh possibility of holding black floral, private scarlet intoxicating emergence promise that maybe/ might/ would occur as a result of this witch’s brew. Chocolate reminiscence in the floral world. Over loaded arm fulls of the blossoms. Amalgamating. Tumbling behind my flight.
When you must write to stoke.
When you must type on and on to provoke.
Stream of consciousness.
String of theory
tied
from tree to tree.
Limbs full swing and purpose. Petals on fleek.
All in mercurial motion that you can’t place a bet on.
I’ll go high and low for it. The buzz I’m constantly chasing.
Help me find my way to God’s contract; never need to write one more ode to writer’s block.
Posted in beat poetry, poetry, prose, random, Uncategorized, writers block | 2 Comments »
The thing about poetry is that it can live anywhere.
Like reindeer moss deprived of rain or light still flourishing after years of neglect.
It can hide in plain sight.
It can be on the tip of your toe as you kick a stone off the sidewalk.
It can be tucked up some country road with countless potholes leading up to a seemingly forgotten, stumpy clear-cut that just about wrenches your gut, as it should; and ends you up snapping photos of yourself there, envisioning saplings strengthening.
It could be in the way that you catch your own eyes reflecting off your own red blouse, this poetry- and how it echoes your anger, your passions, or your effortlessly coursing, very alive and platelet rich blood.
It can surprise you, while you peek back upon someone else’s story in your mind, & find the tale ready to be regurgitated in reflective fashion, touched with artistic licensure.
It can be in the seagull that approaches you & makes you feel shame for having the sense of being slighted with its head cocked all judgy like. *What dude?*
There’s this rampant ambivalence that’s sure to be the leading cause of fruitless pages & stilled pens.
You must show up for yourself.
Give yourself time in this land.
You are the gardener. And it is not an easy harvest.
Some poem trails lay fallow or demand of you to over step those washed-out, cliche illuminations like a biblical plague of frogs raining sideways, causing hairline fractures in the south-facing, sun-emitting windows of your concept collecting place.
We must use refrain from once more addressing the grandiose of the moon or sky or rose blooms or lovers eyes that tug for yet another cameo as it’s so damn easy to include, but would demand space like kudzu or catnip, choking out the roots of other gentle flower thoughts yet to be planted. New growth.
Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.
So throw your ass in your car. Drive out to the coast in the rain. Sit in your mobile monsoon box, eat your leftovers on a perch overlooking the great sea, & write something new. Listen to the whispers beyond the waves.
Our words await us. And the time is wow.
Posted in beat poetry, poetry, prose, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »
We spent days in mist. Ocean dust.
My hair looked like a $90 job. A 10 rating.
I was training myself to walk backwards, parallel to the shore without looking behind or falling in. All core, hope, imagination, determination.
Seagulls crested in unison; scattering sporadically like the response to a secret boom or big bear sneeze; returning to formation like an answer to lots of questions unasked.
You’d rolled up your pants and still got soaked, just like every time we’d come before
Submitting our tarnished souls
To our repetitive salt water baptism.
In the small beach-town little matted dogs’d do erratic dances behind worn, corroded fences of tetanus-threatening rust. Do not touch. Beware of dog.
They’d bark their heads off ruthless, and untrustworthy.
4 legged Napoleons. Land piranhas.
My mutt wasn’t having it.
Beneath the bridge connecting coastal access to sleepy commerce center, congregated the bums, whoopin’ and slipping around, catching alarmed crawdads, drinking Old Grand Dad, having a helluvatime.
It’s important to share booze with strangers. The spirits encircle. Your lips are the same lips. Kiss purified by alcohol, don’t fret and the more road-wary the better. They give you pause and ease your mind with uncharted thoughts, though I’d nonetheless really liked to have spared the crawdad.
A furtive pocket-full of notes I fumbled to extract a poet’s name to match our moment to their word-song. Income the spirit of Mary Oliver as the breeze picked up, whispering wild and precious, wild and precious, wild and precious life, what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life… knocking cattail’s hollow sound and grass-scratch blades joining in.
Everything is coated in a filmy dew of sea and the world there feels small and briny; the longshore men sure look longingly back from a decent woman and forth to the empty possible space aboard their barnacle-scraped boats. What man you walkin’ with? Don’t see none.
One can fantasize right quick about sending off to another land with warmer breezes and new poets to ponder. Making love in the hull with inescapable sand inbetween the buns, hun. Clams for currency. Hundreds of nautical miles.
But the breeze- a melody of crashing waves and the maritime’s half-full loneliness all surf-stretched, and you’re simply incapable of good decision making in wet dungarees, so on we shuffled through the sand and kept watch of the birds.
Posted in maritime, musings, photography, poetry, prose, Uncategorized | Tagged random | 10 Comments »
When I start to think
In haiku form and fashion~
Man, is stopping hard.
I want to keep on
Packaging my words to fit
Five seven five forms
But then the sillies
Start kicking in and I can’t
Not be a pervet
So I must give up
The illusion of respect
And drag you down with me
…………
Next time’s sexy time
Shout “Holy! It’s colossal!”
Make the man feel good.
As the dusk decends
I walk streets hoping to see
Sex through lit windows
It’s crazy how much
My fantasies constantly
Beg my attention
Sex is like pizza?
Even if it’s bad it’s good?
Not down with frozen.
He grabbed my tit like
Trying to pop the brain out
A baby bunny ):
Capable I am
As well at reigning it in
And writing soft-core
…………..
Is there a better
Smell than dried eucalyptus?
Daphne in the spring?
When the petals fall
On my head and in my hair
That’s where I want them.
The common cricket
Rivals refrigerator’s
High, resonant sound.
When I hear sitars
I am just like Pavlov’s dogs.
Hungry! For curry.
Sometimes I wonder.
And it gets the best of me.
Presence. It’s a gift.
True art never sleeps
Continuum unperturbed.
There is no shelf life.
One day I’ll travel
The world in the name of sweet
Poetry. Just wait.
Getting off the plane
Walking down the hall to you
Standing with flowers
I can hear the guy
On the wall’s other side of
My condo farting.
Posted in musings, photography, poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged for a laugh, haiku, levity, random, silly | 7 Comments »
To walk the same ground. Different shoes. Different paces. Different people throughout time to walk beside. But, same ground- for too long? Those years’ll oftentimes revolt- real threats to start rubbing together. Melting, one into the next- funneling memories heads into memories asses, making an undecipherable, lumpy chain. Or maybe the times’ll chafe. Summer thighs. Hot without room to give. Furthering from comfort. Friction. Pillaging an Eagle Scout’s deep pocket to find flint and steel.
A spark.
Approaching the apex, to ignite embers to a great flame. After all that time- dreaming of the big burn. The big burn, after all that time- made manifest.
To use these flames to propel forward motion. Call to action. Impetus to blast off.
Mobilizing 4 tires to black-top. Passing marbled fields, flecked with still cattle. Passing beneath dragged out cotton-candy clouds becoming moon-washed-white before soft, passive eyes. Intercepting lines of human lives of some with thumbs stuck out in the air, shadows growing tall against the dawn, and an eased pull of the wheel and a slowed roll to the right shoulder for a gambled rider. Obliterating stranger danger. Or being plum in the muck of it. Forms and figures.
In forms of different lovers in different beds in different counties, across state-lines, in different ways they call me baby, and hold my face, in different love lusts. Different starchy, faded flower print sheets to tangle in. Different bed springs poking my neck.
In forms of country-side, moment-determined-marvels rewarded only to few witnesses. In forms of passing pickups- brimming with hay bundles, stinkin’ onions, dirty coal, unknowns unnamed, shit-splattered damned livestock, pink weeping lumber, fresh watermelons threatening to tumble out and create ruckus. Imagine losing your life to a melon flying out at your windshield. (Six million ways to die.) Someone somewhere must’ve been this victim. Did you hear about old Josephine..
Highways: full of location-specific vices. Distinctly pertinent to mile pile upon mile of mostly smoothed concrete, stretching out like uncoiling arms in the longest known gravely hug, releasing. Warmth evaporating, forming snake like, peripheral heat dances, fuzzing sights of road sides with the forward world zooming bye. Tumble weed. Abandoned cars, restless, unseen, tadpole filled ponds, far off trailers, ghost stories, squats of tin, the feel of someone’s stare, dust dust dust. Nothing to see, everything to see. Don’t bother time with your has-been-metaphors, we’re here now. Just stay awake with frequent stops to fill up with the kind of coffee that sits snugly between quotation marks, stuffed in scolded-vanilla field flavors- strangled and spanked in hydrogenated ingredients. Settling right into the paunch. Yes, vices. Or glory holes in $4 truck stop showers, good glory leave it be, but entertain curiosity if you must. Life is art.
To travel is the judicious way to live for the writer. For the story teller. For the profane or profound seeker. To be sleepy while at it: the bi-product; the battle; the menace.
To give way and sleep roadside, pitching tents in quarries, behind lean-to’s, forgotten, untended structures, or weedy, wildflower meadows. Or geothermal magic pools.
To wake to the smell of uva ursi, wet earth, and piñon wood-fed-fire’s sourceless smoke. To light the Coleman burner and have tea time surrounded by cricket song and new rays of sun in splendor. To hitch a hammock between the Ponderosas and rub cheek to bark, waking up the nose to the knowledge of consistent presence of that phenomenal albite subtle scent of root beer. My goodness. Or the desert plants that smell of rain a long while of time away from watering. The peace of morning; the cool bite of it. No other life can know the cumulative sense of freedom. Can’t I show you what my heart has known? I’ve hitchhiked across the divide before.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged on the road, photography, prose, road trip, travel | 8 Comments »
You sun-spot you
you bright-but-tempered
you worn soul.
You don’t hug your path, do you know
you cling to the gutters?
In one place?
You need more butter. To slide you along.
Can an aura be sideways?
Because you radiate different.
Your colors interupted
by the cover you wear.
You deny your brilliance to the people
by coloring yourself with dull, dollar-store crayons
with a Prisma-set just beside you.
You sun-spot you
more deflected than refracted,
pierced and pocked
It’s all beneath your shell
That hides your bed sores.
That’s very heavy.
You are a frightful site
You make a terrible crustacean.
With just one life
When will you be ready to bask in your own light?
Posted in love, poetry, prose, random, relationships, Uncategorized | Tagged love, musings, observations, poetry, prose, relationships | 9 Comments »