tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22244193430544117882023-11-15T09:44:33.778-08:00Black Box TuesdayUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-69342310141938358042014-05-18T12:35:00.000-07:002014-05-18T12:35:03.305-07:00The AlternativeI am trying to slow my breath<br />
Let the moments dissipate<br />
And roll off of me<br />
Trying to avoid the mind of a victim<br />
To avoid my own eyes<br />
Or at least to see beyond<br />
Myself<br />
Beyond<br />
These moments<br />
<br />
The tremor in my hand betrays me<br />
Seems to laugh at me<br />
With hushed breath<br />
In my left ear<br />
Even in my pocket<br />
For fear of others noticing<br />
Fear of my own narrow<br />
Sight<br />
My own<br />
Attention<br />
As sharp as a hair<br />
<br />
I must see you as dirt<br />
Taste you as smoke<br />
Thick black fingers down my throat<br />
I must step with distain<br />
Upon you face<br />
To the train<br />
From the train<br />
Within your valley of glass<br />
And steel<br />
I project a river of fractures<br />
Wrapped around your spine<br />
A reason to run<br />
Before the collapse<br />
<br />
The alternative<br />
Weighs upon me<br />
Would fold me to my knees<br />
If I did not compress it<br />
Hold back the flashes<br />
Memories of a warm hand in mine<br />
The smile of my love<br />
As she sits waiting for me<br />
In the doorway<br />
Locked out again<br />
She wasn’t even angry<br />
Simply trusted I would show up<br />
Eventually<br />
<br />
I have tried to press the memories<br />
Into small photographs<br />
Burned at the edges<br />
Cut in half<br />
So I no longer see<br />
Fingers pointing at the sky<br />
Eyes peering over the ledge<br />
Counting the heads of neighbors<br />
So I no longer feel<br />
Laughter<br />
Wrapped around my entire head<br />
Like a pillow<br />
<br />
Nostalgia can become a well<br />
Built brick by brick<br />
Up around us<br />
Dreams the flip-book of<br />
Absence<br />
<br />
I didn’t even notice<br />
As it crept along<br />
Day by day<br />
Like moss<br />
<br />
I slow my breath again<br />
Try to pretend I do not miss her face<br />
Do not miss my love<br />
My heart<br />
She does cartwheels in the sand<br />
Every time I close my eyes<br />
<br />
I can only exhale slowly<br />
Until this purgatory ends<br />
The alternative<br />
Doesn’t care<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-19504358050343985422012-04-25T12:20:00.001-07:002012-04-25T12:20:33.565-07:00Drawn<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
she was just a spit</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
past pretty, but her</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
eyes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
were sharp and</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
her shoulders</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
strong</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I curled around her neck for 3</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
months</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
watching the water</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
waiting</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for a light</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
knowing I would eventually</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
crawl back</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to myself</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
or the loss of my self</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
either one</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the same</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
direction</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
part of the same horizon</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hidden behind the same</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
loose sail</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
devoid of push</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
lacking of pull</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
home</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
unfortunately</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for both of us.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-26938158097888760752011-08-04T15:06:00.000-07:002011-08-05T16:37:28.468-07:00Train Marshal Diary - Entry One"____________ Shoot! ____________ Shoot! Shoot! ____________ Shoot! ____________ Shoot! Shoot!!" DOT DOT fucking DOT.<br /><br />It went on like that for 17 minutes and 32 seconds. Yes. I did time it. Call it a compulsion. Whatever. I could tell from the first "Sh–" that I would not enjoy waiting it out. So, I started counting.<br /><br />Numbers reveal many things. 5 minutes until the next Red Line train, 4 fingers on the left hand of the man quietly sitting across from you, 3 mirrors reflecting your mug as you shave at 5:26 am, or -$2.22 in your damn bank account. Some practical, some depressing, some a measure of decline. Like 17 minutes and 32 seconds of listening to "shoot shoot" rhymes second hand.<br /><br />I couldn't even hear the kid's iPod. Between the sound of his feet shuffling and stepping to the beat and his punctuated leaps to join in, I couldn't tell if he was actually listening to anything at all. At best, he's off his meds. At worst, a stupid punk fuck who thinks that gyrating and yelling on a public train somehow makes him cool.<br /><br />"Shoot! Shoot!"<br /><br />The people around him are no better. They pretend he is no bother or ignore him altogether. They scatter as best they can on the crowded car. They make a dance floor. They grant him center ring. But I see their eyes twitch – their teeth grind. I see between their robotic smiles and the skin under their fingertips. At 5 minutes in, I know they are cowards. I would have to involve myself.<br /><br />What rubs me is this is below my station. This is not why I am here – not the job. Anyone else could open their mouth and ask. Bitch at him. I am here for the bigger picture.<br /><br />Being a federal train marshal is a thankless position. The people who volunteer know that up front. We do not need or really want a pat on the back. Most of us begin out of a sense of duty, imagining days of quiet satisfaction. Being a silent protector. The unseen hand over the shoulder. At some point, duty rolls over and becomes nauseating inertia. I still believe in the job. I just don't know about the people we are protecting.<br /><br />I start to hear the music that seemed imaginary. "Boom tick-a-chick splash boom chick-a-splash SHOOT! Boom tick-a-chick splash boom chick-a-SHOOT SHOOT!" This takes me right to the edge of my seat. I am staring directly at his face as he lobs it from side to side. He throws his head back and lets out a high pitched "Whooo!" Mistake. I take the book I have been trying to read (<span style="font-style: italic;">Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life</span>), lean forward about a foot and swiftly tap it's spine across his Adam’s apple.<br /><br />He is on his ass before someone can catch him. Following protocol, I swiftly stand up and walk off the train right before the doors close. No need to engage the public with details they don't need to know. Not for something like this. I see faces pressed against the windows as the train pulls out of Francisco. Everyone looks shocked. An old Asian lady is pointing at me, tapping her fingernail on the plastic coated glass. Her lips mouth the word "asshole".<br /><br />Hrmph I think as it begins to disappear.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-20434490265102387972011-07-21T07:10:00.000-07:002011-07-21T07:11:33.102-07:00LiquidationUnder the shadow of<br />Empty boxes<br />This heat<br />This damn heat<br />Makes me smile<br />Legs and arms<br />Arms and legs<br />Kicking and punching<br />To hold up nothing more than air<br />Wrinkled coupons<br />And sun bleached posters<br />Promising bliss<br />At 30 to 40 percent off<br />All this concrete could have been<br />Could have<br />Been<br />The glass however<br />Will take care of itself<br />Crawling back to the beaches<br />And deserts<br />When we least stand watchUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-82305109208099687952010-09-29T10:18:00.001-07:002010-09-29T10:18:47.737-07:00The ThingThis is not the thing<br />That exists<br />Between grains of sand<br />Silently preventing<br />Their escape upward<br />Upward and far away<br />No<br />This is the wedge<br />The knife<br />Pressed slowly beside<br />The lock<br />Waiting<br />For the inevitable twist<br />Then kick<br /><br />Now, it is before you<br />Watching<br />Before you<br />On the table<br />Like a fat, untrained cat<br />With a taste for whiskey<br />Waiting to pounce on the eye<br />You’ll eventually<br />Roll across the floor<br /><br />Its patience is numbingUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-21329184876422112722010-07-06T08:00:00.001-07:002010-07-06T08:00:50.031-07:00insomniaIn a place where sleep is more valuable<br />Than self respect, I sit up to wind thoughts<br />Around my forearm<br />Counting the loops<br />Each a little shorter than the previous<br /><br />It is not long before I am lost<br />Distracted from where I am<br />So instead, I trace a heart<br />Over your left eyebrow<br />With a blue fingertipUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-89144446687315899092010-06-10T08:13:00.000-07:002010-06-10T08:14:04.597-07:00SynesthesiaToo bound to accord the metaphor<br />Too taciturn to find other words<br />Too myopic to see our touching noses<br />Too addled to taste our own breathUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-30351399200625287732010-05-10T08:17:00.000-07:002010-05-10T08:22:16.424-07:00Reversal<pre>Mildly past due for an adjustment<br />Partially concerned<br />All I need is a razorblade<br /> And 5 minutes<br /> To slice open the sun<br />Watch it run out like fresh eggs<br />The yolk falling upon the<br />Attached and the Dis-<br /> connected<br /> Equally<br />When all is done, I shall sell raincoats<br /> And skillets</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-30861922692612954082010-02-25T10:45:00.001-08:002010-02-25T10:45:57.436-08:00CollarSometimes I forget that the belt<br />Around my neck<br />Is reversible<br />A trick in black or tan<br />I must be<br />Too busy lunging ahead<br />For things<br />Not quite there<br />A dog with cataracts<br />Snapping at rain<br />Distracted<br /><br />A slow turn to the left should release me<br />Just tilt your head for good measureUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-46158363770247562242010-02-15T11:29:00.000-08:002010-02-15T11:32:18.253-08:00tremor<pre>The shake<br />The slight shake<br /> Of my hand<br /> Can be hidden<br /> Disguised<br /> Folded up in an envelope<br />If need be<br />Or held at bay<br /> By a wall of bricks<br /> As fake as my smile<br />But these days<br /> I more often forget<br /> To notice<br /> Even use my pockets<br />The simplest of things falling<br /> Behind<br /> The taste of plaster<br /> In my mouth<br />Perhaps soon<br />I shall sit center<br />Facing all eyes<br /> As I inflate<br /> Paper boxes<br /> To juggle<br /> Behind my back<br /><br />The twitch in my left eye<br />Is another matter</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-71716752341475238592010-02-12T12:54:00.000-08:002010-10-09T08:56:49.757-07:00Cap'n - Part OneThe Ray Bans you brought all the way from California spread the sun out in front of you like a knife. The Chicago snow appears to melt around your feet as the Wrigley Building itself bends over to suck you off. Let loose that bomber jacket “Top-Gun”. This is going to be one to remember. Let fate top it off with a heart attack or scurvy at the very least. I’m bored and a daydreamer. But of course, you already know that, Cap’n.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-66765998033047520182010-02-10T10:26:00.000-08:002010-02-10T10:28:33.700-08:0002/08/10If only I were just three sheets<br />I might laugh at this wind<br />Might lay down next to this bus<br />And piss in the air<br />Nothing of concern or consequence<br />At least not on a MondayUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-80681262468743402422010-01-22T14:23:00.000-08:002010-01-22T14:24:03.531-08:00PracticeI wrote these words to get paid<br />But it didn't pan out<br />I forgot to sell-out<br />Forgot to wear a suit to the meeting<br />I slept through<br /><br />I spent this paper to build ships<br />But all I have are hats<br />I wear in the rain<br />As I wipe ink from my eyes<br />Plans like water<br /><br />I held out my arms to embrace you<br />But I've been grasping trees<br />While you hide laughing<br />I'm getting a little closer though<br />Moving backwards in measured steps<br /><br />Practice helpsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-64737153685386694642010-01-22T07:51:00.000-08:002010-01-22T07:53:09.333-08:00Distraction6 Becomes five becomes 3 more days<br />12 and counting<br />With more over the horizon<br />A stampede of boredom<br /><br />Thoughts<br />Drawn out thin as a reed<br />Time too<br />Dissolved<br />While I reach for my own tail<br /><br />Just a twist and a lunge<br />Just a pathetic flick<br />For anything larger than a finger<br />A poor man's anchor<br />An excuse to get behind myself<br /><br />I will self-actualize in my own<br />Good time<br />Thank you<br />So<br />Get used to your own cock in you<br />Mouth<br />Dangling your shoes in the air<br /><br />Turn your head and cough when your done<br />Just keep it off my shelfUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-68591770357364148182009-12-10T13:07:00.000-08:002009-12-10T13:08:42.890-08:00Center PathI thought I'd try walking the Center Path, but discovered I'd already stepped off the curb. A swim in traffic before a breath confirming the assistance of the benign intersection signal, my foot jumped ahead of my brain. Angry cabs, old-time horse-drawn carriages, fixed-gear bicycle messengers whistling the theme from <span style="font-style: italic;">Breaking Away</span> and the CTA eco-bus all skim the back of my coat. Surely the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shall ride fixed-gear bicycles. Hopefully, the eco-bus runs on the fresh remains of messengers or cabbies. One must never stop dreaming. However, one who is not ready may wish to stay on the sidewalk. The Center Path is not going anywhere. Besides, Thursdays are street cleaning days. If the odds of one being assaulted by a city street cleaning vehicle are high, one might consider staying home to watch the View. It won't relax you, but you will have fulfilled the obligatory terms of your social contract with big media – at least for the next two weeks.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-23578868391128844322009-12-06T10:18:00.001-08:002009-12-06T10:18:38.313-08:00moment<pre>If I had the urge to set aside<br /> Thoughts<br /> About you<br />I<br /> Might<br /> Start<br /> Here<br />Far far away from you or your world of<br />Cheap crooks<br />Thought-fuck derelicts<br /> and<br /> Stage-Mothers<br />I<br /> Might<br /> Return<br /> To myself<br /> Midstream<br /> Wearing<br /> You<br />As a puppet<br />Half-swollen<br />Gas-mask brigade in tow<br /> Left<br /> Full-forgotten in<br /> a<br /> Shoebox<br />Wet, falling back upon itself<br /> Curled out around our faces<br /> Closer than<br /> the<br /> Hand<br /> on<br /> Your ass<br />All without mention the moment when<br /> I laid<br /> A revolution<br /> on<br /> Your belly<br /> Dressed as<br /> a Teddy bear<br /><br />pull me around beat me by the ears all the blood returns to<br /> The<br /> Same<br /> Redundant<br /> Moment</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-79085553031825328172009-10-05T10:00:00.000-07:002009-10-05T10:05:53.727-07:00The VergeA chrysalis or a catacomb<br />Either way time spins darkness<br />Like a child traces their hand<br />With chalk<br /><br />In a room that smells like the memory<br />Of whiskey<br />Slow hopeful gasps for rebirth<br />Fight the urge to sleep<br />Long drawn out puffs of air and dust<br />Coat the lead glass of the floor<br /><br />There is no time left<br />For the dream of water<br />No space besides<br /><br />There is no laughter<br />But my own, echoing<br />Back at myself<br /><br />A chrysalis or a catacomb<br />Either way darkness spins time<br />As my feet trace a pathUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-59521920999026768372009-09-01T13:53:00.000-07:002009-09-01T13:55:11.501-07:00Ink and Water<pre>The answer was printed<br />As answers often are<br />On the inside brim<br />Of a paper hat<br />Long since overturned<br />In the desert sand<br />Collecting rain<br /><br />Some things are just like that<br /> Waiting<br />For the right thirst<br /> The right boot<br /> To fall against<br />Some deceptions hide that way<br /> Reaching silently<br />For a small moment<br /> Of attention<br /> To pass by<br /><br />The cure is still a ruse<br />The ink and water shall still<br />Run down our arms<br /> Away from revelation<br />It's just woven with a bit more<br /> Patience<br /> Than you or I<br /> Have set aside</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-78169836625384385402009-08-11T11:52:00.000-07:002009-08-11T11:53:20.158-07:00Breath<pre>I have been holding my breath<br />Behind my teeth<br />Looking for a simple corner<br />Of undiscovered openness<br />I may as well<br />Blow it back into my hand<br />Get to work<br /> Move on<br /><br />This street is narrow<br /> Desolate<br />Nothing to be found in potholes<br />Save the dried saliva of wolves<br /> Or blood<br />Either one of little use to me<br />Being anything but<br /> A magician<br /> An aerialist<br /> Or anchorman<br /> <br />I crack my neck<br />And stumble ahead.</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-83965918842301171682009-06-22T10:05:00.000-07:002009-06-22T10:07:26.588-07:00Yesterday was "that" day.I look down at the phone. "Long and hard" would be a shit description and a lie. A glance is enough. Photographs of other people's lives. Children littered around their feet or crammed upon their laps. "Happy Father's Day!" Again...again...and again. I am not disturbed, disgusted or envious. In fact, I am pleased some of the "breeders" out there are my friends...people I have a genuine respect and affection for. I am, however, detached. Full up in this moment with a bewildering nothingness. I have stopped wishing others a happy Father's (Fathers'?) Day. I make an exception for my Father-in-law and actually look forward to calling each time this Sunday rolls around. He has earned it. I do not spend time doubting others' worthiness, but I do wonder if I have earned it.<br /><br />My father died when I was two years old in my Mother's arms. If asked, she would tell you she was grateful for having that last moment. That's not an extraordinary sentiment for a widow...just something I am grateful I was too young to remember. I am told I stood day after day by the front door waiting for him to return from delivering the mail.<br /><br />I'll pause here to keep this from being overly sentimental. See, this "memory" has yet to belong to me. I doubt it ever will. It is a fabrication woven from snippets and crumbs I have gathered over the years. The child by the door is nothing more that a Norman Rockwell creation with a skinned knee and a red wagon. Most days, I keep that issue lying face-down on the table.<br /><br />Perhaps he would have taught me how to avoid getting beaned while playing T-ball. There’s trauma for you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-32867293624309537592009-06-18T08:31:00.000-07:002009-06-18T08:32:07.229-07:00Voluntary Benefits Market History: A PowerPoint Presentation in More Slides than I Care to Count<pre>I showed up late.<br />Ten minutes, to be exact.<br />The suit sucking wind by the microphone<br />may just be what Mary Shelley<br />was warning us about,<br />though I suspect this guy also frightens<br /> children.<br />A goatee in place of scars…<br />Hair plugs in place of neck bolts…<br />The Men’s Warehouse in place of fur and rags…<br /> ALL<br /> CONNECTED<br /> BY A<br />circle (BLAH BLAH)<br /> --><br />square (BLAH BLAH BLAH)<br /> --><br />triangle (BLAH)<br /> --><br />the word “benefits” in magical friendly font<br /> (Comic Sans?)<br /><br />In between the words<br />“Security”<br />“Savings”<br />“Cancer”<br />“Voluntary”<br />“Disability”,<br /> I begin to feel Nauseous.<br /> Sick, in fact.<br /> Ill.<br />So much, I wonder, “did he put on too much Brut?<br /> Old Spice?”<br />Perhaps that tie combined with<br />my failing eyes<br />is fatal.<br /><br />“Guidelines”<br /> “Waiver”<br /> “Open Enrollment”<br />Is this a last lunge forward?<br />A deathbed gasp wrapped in A4 paper<br /> and stamped 13 times<br /> “PRODUCT”<br /> “PRODUCT”<br /> “PRODUCT”…?<br />Did I actually hear the words “love” and “corporate”<br /> in the same sentence?<br /><br />Sorry pal.<br />Today, I’m just here<br /> for a respite.<br />At most,<br />3 tri-fold pamphlets<br /> that someone else<br />will have to clear from my desk<br />after I am gone.</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-24172277824842160242009-06-09T21:53:00.001-07:002009-06-09T21:53:41.009-07:00Beast"That's the best part of School--<br />The social events,"<br />She drones in between<br />Flips of her skirt.<br />"Christ!" I think as I<br />Move just enough to allow<br />Some blood back into my testicles.<br />The best part of school for me<br />Was getting away from<br />All the dumb-ass yokel twats<br />I grew up with.<br />The best part of leaving school...<br />Getting away from all the dumb-ass<br />Pretentious fucks that littered<br />The campus like lice in cotton panties.<br />I'm not so confident in my escape though.<br />I still have to deal with the mirror<br />At least once a day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-16541535811693423702009-05-13T12:23:00.000-07:002009-05-13T12:24:49.766-07:00PrisonAny situation from which you fear for your escape.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-63031874735048982812009-05-13T11:14:00.000-07:002009-05-13T11:21:44.065-07:00red pen<pre>Standing against a wall<br />Will stiffen your back<br />Straighten your thoughts<br />Pressing upon your neck<br />Will distract your fears<br />Slow the blood to a trickle<br />Reaching below the heart<br />Reveals your lover's spine<br />You never gave it back<br /> Did you?<br />Starting with a red pen<br /> Among fools<br />Usually leads back to the corner<br /> Of the room<br />One stool... one cap... and time.</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224419343054411788.post-63547098715286739682009-04-23T11:24:00.000-07:002009-04-23T11:26:48.636-07:00Shred It AllShred everything. I mean it. Don't leave anything behind that could be used against you. And I'm not talking about a court of law or the court of public opinion. I am talking about the judge on the other side of the desk. Don't give them an "out", an opportunity to ask why you wrote a three page diatribe extolling the virtues of pissing with your balls out. See, they might not get it. Don't wait for them to ask about the medication you are on or why you fantasize about setting all of the motivational wall art aflame. Don't show them the smirk you have growing inside of you day after day. Don't let them infer how you must feel about their leadership. Never mind the fact they are hardly mentioned in the first place. Odds are they wouldn't recognize themselves as the "twat" mentioned half way down page seven. Try your best not to give up names, aliases, passport photos, or doctor's addresses. Insist on keeping the tales of your last bad trip close to the vest. Protect your identity. Become the wall. Dream of hallways of nothingness painted plaid. And by all means, pick up this notebook, rip out these pages, and drop them in the shred-bin by the freight elevator. Don't be a fucking idiot. Take precautions. Hell, they already paid for it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com