there is a doorway in the middle of nowhere
an object in white space

the jester has his back to the only solid
point of reference –
and that door has just
come ajar

unexpectedly it would seem
because
the jester is falling
backwards
into utter darkness

he doesn’t have his footing
but that’s alright

at least
he’s
laughing

i can’t write anything
my brain won’t slow down to the point where any one thing
can come to clarity
in my consciousness

i’m standing in the middle of a field
butterflies all around my head
and i don’t know which one
i want to catch

i don’t really know if i want to catch any of them,
butterflies have already been through
one profound metamorphosis
and seem primed to turn into something else entirely
once they have been gathered by my net

is there anything of value that can be taken from my actions friday evening; the ones i can remember that is . . .

well, i do have these stories . . . bits and pieces of strangely cushioned reflections that i’ve cross-referenced with the friend who witnessed my behavior that evening

i remember taking a guy-wire to the face as i ran, right across the jaw,
puffed my lip up all to hell, my upper gum was black and blue the next morning

It always surprises me how nice it is
to sleep outside
and wake with the earth

and last night was cold
to say it lightly

eight hours of dream filled sleep
and having the birds as an alarm clock
make coffee a needless thing

feet wet with dew
and eyes bright with the morning sun
I was even able to beat the kids out of bed
which is never an easy task of late

today was a wonderful day
a day filled with rain

today was a day filled with the wonder
of a small child exploring the endless opportunities
of an automatic umbrella
and the angles that water makes
when it is stomped on

today was a day in which i really was a toys r us kid
as if i never grew up
and peered in each puddle
searching for worms
and other marvels

sometimes you look out at the world
and you see a trade-off that can be made
a bargain that can be struck . . .

my apologies if this
- pregnant pause -
seems diabolical

that’s your own fault
(somewhat mine now)

but what else is it really . . .
to be living?

and understand that i’m not prepared to -
(uncertain if i’ll ever bother to - )
attempt a refutation of the influence
of fate
but your life is a series of choices

my grandfather was resurrected today,
in all manner of momentarily, a whole string of instants
he stood behind me as i stared at the tangible remnant
of my firmest memory of that old man

the night before i had been out late, making an ass out of myself in a circle of people composed primarily of those whom i know in too many ways to quickly explain, there was a bottle of mescal making slow rotations and i had a drum in my lap; i’m certain that i sang, perhaps even well enough to frighten away the less foolish people whom i did not know

walking across a slight patch of earth
that interrupted all this concrete,

watching a robin’s sudden
spread-winged swoop
into the heart of a nearby tree,

his boot heel freed a sliver of mirror
from the clutches of grass blades
and sent it skittering out onto sidewalk
where it rested against a stone

the angle caught the contents
of his left hand,
fingers loosely grasping
the brown paper sack

I have a large messianic ego
it took me quite some time to come to grips with
after many years of being beaten down by public education
and self doubt
i was finaly able to confine it

i keep my godlike ego in a box
and since i am not a cruel keeper
it is a plexiglas box

there are air holes
and a small slot in the door to
pass its sustinance

wrapped around some hidden curve in the road, behind an old tree stump and under the moss is where you will find it

the pixie bordello

a place where wood nymphs sell their pleasures
and a faerie with a cheshire grin
will sell you a small brick of opium
for a hand job or some gin

most common folk would fear to enter
the dark depths of this hidden place
most mortals can not match or near
the debauchery of this faerie race

it is there even now
peaking out from its winter shelter
still waiting in most cases
but primed for action
life does not care about
the calendars of men
the world doesn’t work that way
for all their striving

most no longer hear the sap bubbling up
or really see the buds swell
their concerns have moved on
to other ‘greater’ things
they have forgotten the melody of life
and call what they now hear noise

she had a pinched face
pretty
yet tight from too much recent worry
red hair
a nice body
poured into overly large sweat pants
and a puffy nylon coat
hair pulled back
no makeup
and this slightly dazed expression

the fact that the woman in front of her
was having problems with the computer
not liking her bridge card
was adding to the stress

this world she -
because i have to call it she
in order that my lust for
and occasional annoyance at,
can be properly expressed -
is a far stranger place
than we can imagine

even faced with the physical
manifestations of her oddities,
finding a face long unseen
on a walk in the snow,
finding a new possibility,
laid without asking
at your feet
even in the midst of her wonders

we cannot understand

i’ve heard wise men say
that your dreams can tell you things
that they speak of the stuff
your unconscious mind is coming to grips with

dreams are the manifestation
of your worries
and your fears
they also speak to your hopes and longings

when i was younger i found
that i could have lucid dreams quite easily
and tune the story
sometimes even fly like superman

When you’ve decided to quit smoking and are working on writing a novel that encourages you to peer into all the strange corners of your psyche; it’s nice to think the process is getting you somewhere.

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” T.S. Eliot

humanity has stared at the stars for countless years
wandered around and explored what we would on the ground
bumped into each other, gotten into fights, learned how to hate

all these years striving, and reaching and pulling
and we’ve put ourselves places that would amaze almost every soul
who’s experienced this earth

we’ve seen the bottom of the ocean
been all manner of places
we’ve even sent men to the moon

today a man in a wheel-chair…
i suppose the term would be…
jay-rolled
across a busy street
met me halfway
cigarette clenched
between his teeth
small puffs of smoke
blooming from his cheeks,
from his wide and easy grin
as he exerted himself
to beat the traffic

there was a wildness in his eyes
and in that moment
when he was at
the proper distance
for me to see every line
on his worn face clearly
he looked completely free

Just came across this fascinating, and very well written op-ed piece in the New York Times about the surge in popularity of memoirs. In many ways it’s a response to the controversy stirred up by James Frey and his ‘autobiography’ that The Smoking Gun discovered was mostly made up.

I’ve also recently had the joy of a number of intelligent discussions about this topic, and I think the New York Times piece does an exceptional job of cutting through the circus surrounding this instance of someone masquerading fiction as fact.

I’ve always been a fan of quotes, the good ones are either small nuggets of wisdom expressed from an angle you had yet to consider, or simply function as an affirmation that others feel the same way you do.