Who am I if I don’t have the energy to be who I want to be.
Applied focus and engagement is an important step in having the energy it takes to be a parent.
How many times have I not had the energy enough to have the patience to listen?
(fuzzy keyboard droning.)
I saw myself finally,
I was really high,
(looping guitar riff.)
I watched from the sky
draping the atmosphere
like a weather balloon
I saw my story;
an American TV reality drama
And I’m the one (strumming acoustic guitar.)
who played the fool, (female vocalists.) played the fool played the foo-ool, he played the fool.
( unaccompanied.) and how do you come back down from this,
from this life lived with remiss.
(looping acoustic guitar.)
Well, I saw myself beneath a patch of bitter grey,
where everything seemed in dismay,
and I began to laugh,
it’s hard to take yourself seriously, when you’re only as big as a pinhead.
He played the foo-hool, played the fool.
life from up here can get pretty strange,
everything gets rearranged (female vocalists humming.) I let myself go further on the tether.
(looping guitar, acoustic strum, harmonize.)
Up here in the stratosphere, I feel just like a feather,
No ignorance, no pain, not even shame.
(musical interlude, tempo mezzo.)
It’s about then I realize I’m completely outta my head
and I put all introspection to bed.
Just like that I come back down, falling on the ground,
nothing is clear, except misery and fear.
Now all I can do is continue to live my story,
even if it means being stuck
in an American reality TV drama.
First let me apologize for my poor attempt at turning this into a song. I had it in my head, but realize that it would not sound the same in yours. Although I will admit I do like this about poetry, or art in general, that its subjective, hit or miss, however it makes the act of writing feel like it’s all for naught.
Either way I’ve ruined the art of poetry either through my lack of music notation, or my inability to relate the rhythm through silence (pause) and word. I realized in writing this that I need to learn musical notation much better in order to pull this off the way I want and so consider this just practice.
thanks so much for your patience and of course for reading!
Here on earth
we’re spinning ’round
Oh whoa ho
sometimes I catch myself
and everything goes streaming
by this is where I see
I’m a part of it.
which can’t be touched
We’re spinning ’round
into the endless mirror chasm
Oh whoa ho-o
back into myself
the mirroring of images.
Stuck on a loop
it keeps repeating
when I stop
it’s then I hear the sound.
Can’t stop me now.
Oh whoa-oh ho
Can you feel the flow?
it brings you closer
to the hole
inside the mirror.
I talked a lot on our way up the 6,500 ft peak. I talked and taught until I realized that the mountain said more than I ever could. The wind through the pines and birch, rushing water from a distance, the bird’s song, our shoes on the dirt trail, the clouds, the sky, sun breaks, light mist in our face, trickling streams running across the trail, the struggle to climb and keep climbing, the silence in between laughter. I wasn’t doing the teaching at all, my words were far inferior to that of the beginningless change of the forested mountain.
As foreigners, who’ve lost their way from home,
here to travel and explore,
To conquer and accomplish,
We found only exactly what we were looking for
A world of immediate wonder
Telling us that we are not foreign at all.
You sit in your suburban castle,
out of touch with reality.
Glued to your screens, life is such a hassle.
Maintain your ego through the fallacy
of free will. Subscriptions, deadlines, and headlines. Rewind.
Disheveled hair and yesterdays sweats.
You’re too busy to be kind,
I’ll never learn to live like you, where life is just cleaning up one big mess
after another. Now I sit in a castle of my own,
make the coffee, fire off a few emails, drop the kids off at school.
An expansive, hollow place, hardly a home
just a place to breed while staking our claim.
Time passes us by,
in our castle in the sky.
To be read in the voice of Charlie Sheen:
I’ve given up the writ-
ten word, given in to
the limitations and mirrored
reality. so that i can focus
on the art of conversation.
like me it leaves no trace
at least no paper trail
no more trying to be
no more trying to be
what i think They want.
Is there any other art form
in this day and age that could
have a more profound effect?
A conversation can’t be
commercialized, and sold,
it’s not profitable, unless
you’re in on it.
A conversation is love
an art form that is
the truest expression of life.
“Jesus is Just Alright,” by the Moody Blues plays overhead from the drop off parking area of the casino. The Beachside Resort and Casino.
My wife and I were blazed as fuck, I mean tore up, when we walked out to meet our shuttle driver for the satellite hotel, who was waiting to take us back down the main strip. His name was Stan, Stan the man, “Ok here we geaux folks,” the music is drowned out as the double doors to the van shut, the brakes squeeze, sqwoosh, and we head out. Stan is a nice guy, a good ‘ole fashioned kind of gay, never realized it, kept repressing it, for the longest time until he had a daughter, with his ex wife, Sherry. moved out, got divorced. Now he drives the Beachside shuttle at nights and waits tables at a breakfast diner down the strip. It’s not exactly a gay Haven out here, so it’s kind of a lonely existence if it weren’t for his daughter, which is exactly why he has no regrets.
We’re here celebrating my 36th. We got a whole day before the kids meet us, so we’re doing it right, just like the old days, smokin’, drinkin’, fuckin’, we plan on being the seediest couple in the motel tonight, we won’t be.
Terry Ann catches a ride with Stan the man, she sits in the way back, in the shadows, with her thirteen y/o granddaughter, who sits, mortified, looking bored like a real sweetheart, “ch’ya ri ight, chhh’ this little sweetheart right here won’t do her chores, won’t do her homework, and I know she’s stealin’ my rum.”
Anyway Terry Ann tells us we’re a real sweet couple, she starts talking us up, like she done any night a young couple is in town, plenty of em pass through, that’s all this town is anyway, passers through, drunks, lovers, sunsetters, and Terry Ann.
Moxie doesn’t like Terry Ann, well she doesn’t not like her, she just kinda can’t stand being around her, it’s a constant reminder of how her mother left her, and her daddy, who’d been leaving both of them since she can remember.
Terry Ann’d been following booze all her life. Grew up about an hour south of Coeur d’Alene Idaho, followed her first drunk husband to Spokane, settled down, got beat, had her only daughter. After the last time she got beat she took her daughter and left, continued on to the coast. “Hey, we drove through Coeur d’Alene once on our way to Montana.” Her daughter did about the same as she did, married a drunk and an abuser, though she was smart, “‘cause he was native.” When her daughter left Terry Ann took in Moxie and they been doin’ the best they could ever since.
“Did’ya get to spin the wheel?” she said under a half buried smile. She knows we spun the wheel, they all spin the wheel.
Stan the Man sure was being quiet, and that silence made me feel isolated, watched. How did I get this way anyway, so separated from anyone else, where does that come from? now it all starts to sink in, the quietude of space. I’m an asshole. How will Moxie remember this interaction? probably not much in the long term, but it’ll probably be thrown in with the other late night shuttle ride conversations, people being fake, distant, polite, but acting like they’re on some kind of pedestal, what makes me better than them? cause I live in a bigger town, cause I have other addictions that I think are ‘better’. Goddamn I’m an asshole. now this karma shit starts to hangover my head, like ‘cause I’m responsible for contributing to Moxie’s fucked up outlook on life, and furthering her alienation from people. Aren’t we all just furthering our alienation from people. We pull up to the motel, the brakes squeeze and Stan opens the door at the same time the shuttle comes to a stop. Thank cod. we stand up and I, trying to make up for my previous self, turn to Terry Ann and Moxie and say, “Well it was real nice to meet you,” and shake her hand. But that doesn’t do anything to make me feel better, because that’s exactly it, I was trying to make myself feel better.
We get into the motel room and my wife disappears to put on her new bra and panties she bought just for tonight. in order to get myself in the mood I turn on reruns of Seinfeld,
Kramer: I still don’t understand what the problem is having her in the building.
Jerry: Let me explain something to you. You see, you’re not normal. You’re a great guy, I love you, but – – you’re a pod.
“Oh. My. God. this is disgusting, I can’t believe it! There is a stain in my new panties!”
“Do you think someone tried them on and…”
“Could you go look at them?” sure enough slug trail down the crotch.
“That’s like a dude trying on underwear and starting to jerk it and like precumming in them and putting them back. Ooh maybe that’s what happened…”
“Cause women aren’t perverts right? if it was a woman then people need to know, we can’t just have everyone thinking that only guys are perverts that precum in the dressing room at a department store and put the underwear back on a shelf… Where’s my phone?”
“Oh, I can’t believe it!”
“I,” Seinfeld continues, “on the other hand am a human being, I sometimes feel awkward, uncomfortable, even inhibited in certain situations with the other human beings…”
“Terry Ann and Moxie were really sweet,” I say distractedly. “I can’t believe I forgot to introduce us.”
“Who the fuck is Terry Ann and Moxie?”
“From the shuttle,”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, they never even said their names. And plus she was drunk.”
crags of coral
the diaphragm contracts and pushes,
room for further expansion. weightless.
the entire world melts away into pleasant joy.
the belly, like a tide
lapping on the shore
if we can be aware of our insides
what else can we be aware of?
loosen the grip. is there a beginning?
where does it begin?
i try to draw the line
between out and in,
but if i were wise,
that there is no difference.
once you start to breath out, you’ve already started to breath in.
who am i?
loosen the grip
no one here controlling
it just flows like a river, it watches.
what makes me so special?
why is it
that i look for
a single narrative to make the difference,
as if that narrative doesn’t hold all others.
in a single moment of expansion,
the whole universe breathes in.
an explosion of conditions
a flowers bloom
is made possible by the death
of last seasons fruit.
what kind of flower did you just picture?
the earth opens
there is no one experiencing
and nothing to
the universe opens up,
there is no heroes journey,
it’s all here in this moment
all of history
all right now.
i breathe and the universe breathes with me
not right now anyway
we manifest new each moment and everything and everyone in history
is with us, again and again
and again and
again and again