looking for the old days

I miss not writing about me,
becoming a leaf on a lark
and being okay not knowing why
the lark appeared and letting it stay

for it need not be a bird. And if
a period lands where it lands,
well that’s a cute perky titty
for someone somewhere, who knows, maybe

a room silent, dark, an anima
is free to let down her hair, for we
do not in desperation grasp
for wit or wish for decent dance moves.

She could be a cowgirl whose daddy
sternly warns her of poets with blogs.
Or she could be in India,
skin toasty, warm, eyes sticky with sleep.

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another piece of my untitled wip

Many of the colonies sprang so fast
into functional existence because
of allies who donated acreage
though some had trouble accessing comfort
as in slipping smoothly into pleasant
dreams when the night deepened and the crack of
a twig or the sneeze of a wild boar
suggested creepiness, on learning that

the colony on their land was or would
be intended as a segregation
so that repeat masturbators
may not pollinate a decent
society. To be put in
a masturbator colony
for repeat masturbators meant
this was the masturbator’s final chance.

Farmer Phillips offers a prime
example: from his bed he stared
into the late night bedroom ceiling space,
his lips forming the word ‘recalcitrant’.
Recalcitrant masturbators.
Recalcitrant was a dry, legalese
term for they who the colony would house;

meaning the colony presently
occupying the property parcel
Farmer Phillips donated to
the Reverend Jameson’s anti-sex
crusade which became a wave which became
behavioral codes all the citizens
were obliged to obey. The old farmhouse

Farmer Phillips had grown up in and knew
as his only home was now within range
of hundreds of recalcitrant masturbators.
I seem to recall I was led to believe
the colony on my land or what once
was my land would house those who penned
dirty poetry. Figured those

numbers must be few since hardly
anyone anymore reads poetry.
Maybe five or ten who pen indecent
poetry in that colony. Now I learn
soils I tilled on the other side of the hill
make me and my Betsy neighbors
of hundreds of recalcitrant masturbators.”



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warning: you are approaching a post about writing

less about writing actually and maybe more about finding that precious environment to do it in – concentrate – find that thing they call flow.

I seem to recall a vague adage that says if a real writer really wants to write, he or she will not make excuses but will find a way. Whenever I catch hints of this I enter a second-guessing phase – sometimes brief, sometimes long. Especially in recent history.

See, there’s been personal relocation issues, and the place I thought would be the work space turned into a world of constant slogging or a bee trying to butt through a concrete wall. It was because of noise. Another presence also does stuff in the near vicinity. Types. Chatters. And it became impossible to sustain the concentration necessary to get into the words, making the words, finding that sweet mental space that says there is no wrong point to veer off on a meandering tangent.

So maybe it isn’t that one becomes less of a writer or has to wonder if one isn’t a writer/poet, but in continued state where concentration is not able to stretch out – read that as ‘relax’ – one can forget the sheer juicy fun it is to look at empty space and start putting little pieces there and then seeing how they might look if arranged differently. So anyway, I changed the work space to the one I’d never guess would appear to be the solution it is. It is where there is sometimes noise but sometimes quiet. But when there is noise it isn’t the sort that resembles an isolated leaky faucet drip in a room rich in reverb; more like the hum of traffic or like a cafe corner table where the world goes by as a stream that sometimes roars and sometimes whispers – and isn’t a tap-tap-tap hitting you between the eyes.

I went so long without sitting down without much of a plan other than to get into a zone where the words can go wherever and it’ll feel good – forgot how good it feels to let a tangent run all over the place. Made myself laugh. Almost forgot what that’s like too.

if the above is tl;dr:

I’ve yet to find a better place to write than a kitchen table. Don’t want to think how many potential poems and tales it’s cost since forgetting this gem of wisdom.

Well I gotta run – bunch of tangents calling.

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excerpt from this morning’s efforts on a new untitled project

Reverend Jameson’s observation
was proving to be prophetically
spot on. Labeling pleasures ‘forbidden’
only increased interest to taste them.
Should the interest be avid enough
a reader could interpret any text
or an observer a natural scene
as reason enough to seek solitude
or to despise with multiplied passion
purported moral merits of farm work.

Of course farm work and libidinous waves
have always tended to be enemies;
hardly the happy friction variant.
It would also come as no big surprise
that a helpful bulk of the Reverend
Jameson’s fans were those who believed in
purported moral merits of farm work.
It was far better that young men’s nostrils
be filled with smells of horse shit and goat piss
than to chance into airs perfumed by girls.


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is it possible

It appears that I’ve made contact – brief contact – with one of my favorite voices that seemed lost forever – oh it’s been so long since I felt it – though it’s clearly not confident as it once was – here’s a taste – a section of dialog from a new thing I’ll be lucky to finish


I lay no claim to prophetic
abilities, but I can’t help
but sense that in a few years we
will look back and see that we who
lingered on when most of the food
was with great gladness partaken,
except for the green gross jellos,
gross because of all the cabbage
slivers and carrot splinters, but
green jellos made gross because of

cabbage bits and carrot pieces
are part of our inheritance
when we talk about tradition
and rare is the tongue sufficient
in courage or maybe it’s less
an issue of courage and more
the generations who’ve practiced
and passed down basic politeness
that leaves very few brash enough
to ask how in the dickens or

where in the world anyone got
the idea that mixing cabbage bits
and carrot splinters in lime green
jello could produce anything
other than a very gross dish
but I sure did not mean to bend
your ears by talking about how
green jellos full of cabbage bits
and carrot splinters managed to
weasel their way into what was

the usual robust pot roast potluck;
what I intend to express is that if
I ever let my defenses soften
to the dark allure of gambling, I’d be
mighty tempted to wager; heck I might
offer up my prized heifer and maybe my
bull of great worth, on this hunch that stirs
in my gut that down the road we will
look back on this evening, seeing we
witnessed the birth of a history shift.



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haven’t yet a clue what they are

that they wear countenances cute
or that they wear monstrous masks

is irrelevant to this theme;
and saying the name will betray

an addiction to slavery
and not the kind found in sexy

fantasies but the opposite
of that better that these days is

in wither and that is the more
disheartening development.

What matters is that they scatter
at the slimmest glimmer of light.

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for fuck’s sake I just want to write

all I want for my birthday that looms
is a larger more private space
so immersion can happen,
but in lieu of that pipe dream I’d settle
for giving a special someone
a keyboard that types in silence
as I’m not always in the mood
for loud music through headphones

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