Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Vincent van Gogh, The Starry Night (1889)

Monday, May 29, 2006


I created this blog to share my poetry, but tonight I write to be writing, to be talking. I have a lot to say. At the top of my morning is a star, my brother's first child. I cry now at the mere mention of the word child. But today it is a *smilecry that I have on my face. I read that word in a poem today while thinking of the child. I cry again. But you know, "I thought I'd something more to say." And indeed I do.

I hope my brother will take our legacy of violence and insanity, crumble it up, toss it in the backseat like a mad man tosses a speeding ticket written by an intimidated Georgia state trooper. And speeds away. Far away never to look back. Teach him a better way. Better than we have been taught. Teach him that the shame not lie in crying, but in not feeling, not knowing all that is beautiful in this world. Teach him that sadness, oh the sadness, doesn't have to tower over him. It doesn't have to love him in that strange way that sadness has loved us.

I guess the point is I love my brother. I like to think we are special. Not because we're better than someone else, or could harm them, or are more talented than others, but because we made it. We made it through that shithole life. We stand here proud men, today with YOUR son. I will protect him the way an angel's flaming sword might protect Eden.

I've switched zig zag my tenses here. But that's how I am right now. Raw. Sniffling. A true zig zag man for sure. The other fucking thing that on my mind is a terrible fucked up fucking wrong that has occurred to my friend Joe. Joe's a big mother fucker. 6' 8" or so. 260. Been my nearly my best friend through my teens and twenties. We were really something. Stupid. The cops were afraid of us. I digress. Anyway, my friend Joe is feuding with his dad's renters. The state police has been poking around, busting meth. That god damn evil fucked up shit. But Joe doesn’t fuck around. He drinks beer. Acts goofy. Is fun to be around. So joe knows his rights. He tells the mother fuckers (or officers) to leave. They don't like the words he used, so he cracks Joe in the shin. Joe goes inside. Four Kentucky State Police officers follow him into the house. Mace him. Beat him. And take him to jail. ALL in front of his children and wife. His son nearly got his head taken off by one the cops flashlights. There were witness. tHEY SHOULD LOSS their fucking jobs. But who knows in this crooked fucked up town., AHHHHHHHHHH!!

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Puddles of Perception

Heaven booms
cracks, splits apart
and rain scatters, leaks

from the gaping wound in the sky

an eye belonging
to God, an eye
for an eye, but I

hear him cry

he sounds
like me in a darkened
smokey room

listening to the boom

underneath, where rain gathers, in puddles of perception

Friday, May 19, 2006

Promise of Light Publications

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

The Lunatic Is On the Grass

"And when the cloud bursts
thunder in your ear
you shout, but no one seems to hear

And when the band you're in
starts playing different tunes

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon"

~ Pink Floyd

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

The Lunar Companion

Here In This Silence

In all these days
these souls soaring
in cloud-white and
sky-blue affection that
touch could never comprehend

life seems to continue, roll on

But I remain
here, in this silence
rolling over and again
in my sadness, in my loss
in loss that has become my loss

My imagination weeps
bleeds. But no one hears me
here, in this silence
not lovers, nor friends
nor the innocent

only heros I’ve traded for ghosts

Saturday, May 06, 2006

A Thought Empire

"The empires of the future are the empires of the mind."



Friday, May 05, 2006

About A Bird

I have the most amazing story

about a bird

You see I am

always listening

am always watching

the birds, whispering to them
whistling to them, talking

And they usually sing back
to one another, to me. We appear
to have an understanding, a communication

beyond words

But today, I was funneled into surrealism, realism
and was awed to be breathing that very moment when
I began to walk down this gravel road and I must have walked
through the separation of this world and that one, but I was clear
more clear than water. I am more capable now than ever before

of seeing

But the story, the literal story is this
I saw a bird, black with deep orange on each wing
he saw me, tan with cheap sunglasses , whistling and
slightly jumping to him. He hovered and circled
returned to see me seeing him, talking to him.
He was intrigued, and I was amazed. I gently
motioned and called him. He fluttered and followed
until we both realized we were not like the rest

we were cursed

to truly see
one another

seeing what we're about

  • Promise of Light

  • moon phase info
    My Photo
    Location: Far Side of Sanity

    And the iguanas dance in the desert/a thousand miles away from this place/and this face: stoned immaculate.

    "Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both." Christian Wiman, Editor of "POETRY" "Hang on to your hopes my friend; That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away, simply pretend that you can build them again." ~ Paul Simon

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    "Imagination is more important than knowledge." ~ Albert Einstein