breath made visible

Improv Dance, Trillium Performing Arts, Friday Night Alive! 10/21/11

2011-10-26T14:44:00.000-04:00

Improv dance with Samara Michaelson, Tim Armentrout, Katie Roper, and Daniel Honaker. Music by Jeremiah Hatfield.

4 Paintings/ Acrylic on Canvas

2011-08-18T23:36:00.000-04:00

So I haven't really painted much since high school, short of a few landscape paintings during our collaborative parties at Naropa, but for the last month that is where my creative energies have pushed themselves out. Here they are:

"Just Before, Their Eyes Met"

"Cross My Heart and Hope"

"Bird's Eye View"

"Fire Dancers"

as the road began to dry

2011-06-03T01:47:00.000-04:00

she had to have looked down
laughing from whatever perimeter
she now makes residence
as i sliced my hand
against the attic door
trying to muscle her sony trinitron
up there alone

i made space for everything
that was left after her
sweat and several trips
success
before finally collapsing
bloody in the living room floor
the television having been
a terrible mistake

without question
the heaviest piece of furniture
i have ever held
and nearly dropped

and in some sad way
it has to make up
for the last time i saw you
and forgot to take enough time
to give the genuine hello
you deserved
before you left us

what there is

2011-05-09T22:03:00.001-04:00

enough in the air to wreck the respiratory system of an entire family
clouds of dust calculated before being removed from the evening news
hum of the dryer, business as usual
hands opening to give, pulling back to receive
funny how the words "just breath" keep replaying
despite such stuffy noses
desire
alone it seems like another world

say two things

2011-04-26T22:40:00.000-04:00

open day upon thought of hands
scars tell truth stranger than lies

same blue green spirit
behind human and animal eyes

almost meditated to sleep
during bullet hole tattoo

100 miles an hour
won't slow down the anger

dark doesn't say or hear
i'm sorry

silent resurrection

2011-04-25T00:59:00.000-04:00

computer hums close of day quiet
after another round of beers
two mornings mimosa
flashback memories across continent
stayed home instead of heading to farm
dug ramps and talked with neighbor father
sons drift toward sleep
in the hours following marriage
thinking of black eyes
broken noses
handshakes to dislocate sketchy knuckles
in the dark
to face the part
about how much memory
will never find a word
and how much saying anything
can hold open

that time of night again

2011-04-15T01:27:00.000-04:00

when the fan starts to become the only sound

beside random messages lingering late night noises

elbows tense against table

backspace look down

question

can you see past the frost melting off the top?

or is it that much farther before we get to other

things you share with no one

never

mind

my accidental correlation with hardwood floor

they do more than i do

how we love

like nothing ever known before

the four or five or six

or numberless

goon nation

now and growing two turns three

j sees j and a sees me and j moved here and

because we all learned to see from 3020

distance never felt too far to calculate

nostlagia something created

instantaneous cixous show down

slowly digest names various

blooming flowers

it is time

to recognize

how

pattern behavior pretzels

purrrrhhhhAHHHHHgotive

virtue seeming less valued

than one might expect

to be prospected

like an unintentional journal snoop turned

teaching moment sometimes sounds like

you treat people like shit everyday

and walk off like nothing happened

some old fencepost stands distant

looking at the same spot for years at each end

a lot different than you or me

our fatted five thousands

always fed or feeding

dying or being murdered

myth of your son

sold such as prophets are

we call upon no one but memory

now and then to come

swear under the same

son of all that anyone ever was

still the scene unfolds incomplete

and it seems as if

you all

are needed

The Strange or True Reality

2011-03-30T00:42:00.000-04:00

Is there such a thing
as story
without resolution?

Conflict
Crisis
Repeat
separated by sex
and shared secrets

The universe becoming aware of its
own shadow?
self?

Presence of Other
a weight distributed
across the back
of three decades
just learnig to dance

One cigarette ends
where another begins
leaving two
to decide
just how to go about the rest of the evening

Alone in a bed of no apologies
or the quiet solitude of smoke?

Neither a fitting point of closure
nor a new perspective
will settle
the chopped shallots
sitting in the gut
of that
last lost word

Burping and stumbling through purgatory
like the late night steps toward
that ashtray
hidden in the leaves
of the perimeter
where a train rumbles just off
in the distance

air through one side leads to a length if imbalance

2011-01-26T22:49:00.000-05:00

shifted
though only recently recognized
settled no less
left from last night's visitor
without question
the rain turns to snow
as roads seem to
snag the wheels
and control becomes
just another symptom
of so many days
spent doing the same thing
without so much
as a threat of interruption
Patterns mark our shared rivers
clogged with ice
or some infested shit
settling on the sides
we only half listen
or write off mass casualty
as something set off
like a lame firecracker
on a smalltown saturday night
This is more than just a dream
despite how you question
the slight wobble of the top
just before everything went black
we were left to ask things of ourselves
when suddenly statements
infected
the tongue has a way
of making up for itself
like it might
tonight
if someone
could become something
which is to say
that sometimes the buzzer
is meant to indicate
that we recognize specificity
in due time

Trillium Performing Arts Theatre: Friday Night Alive 12/3/10

2010-12-05T14:00:00.001-05:00

Conspiracy Theories

spent the last week reliving the memory of kurt's death to get ready for this
i was in 8th grade
travelling with my parents in ohio
i had been listening to Incesticide in the car
because they could tolerate Nirvana
when the tape was over
and the radio came back on
they made the announcement
i've felt the presence of ghosts ever since
like a song
stuck in my head

West Virginia Writers Podcast Episode 44

2010-11-08T22:15:00.001-05:00

West Virginia Writers Podcast Episode 44

2010-10-06T00:25:00.000-04:00

there are corners

time twists around

somehow the doorway remains open

2010-10-05T00:43:00.000-04:00

LEt
CopulATion
ThRIVe!!1!11!!

--wILLY "THe NinJA" ShAKEs

(tonight, let that mean art and experience rekindle old flames) xxooxxx

Poem From an Unused Day Planner 12/1/07, found 8/29/10

2010-08-29T21:56:00.003-04:00

She says she's going to
write the longest book ever
about the pages he's sweeping
but not today...

Why do pickles give you nightmares?
I have no
answer
past
suggestion
not to eat them
before going to sleep

We'll haul hollow logs
to a pile in front of
the back yard
watch one another smile
as breath escapes lips

Shifting patterns to listen
frozen leaves crunch to fallen heels
music driven semiotic illusion
She dances down the hallway
once the drawer slammed shut

Routine ghost chases
quickened footsteps
lost thoughts hours back
inspired by return of open flame
to wood stove

But no such luck with memory
bodily drive of language
exited garage like
a saab with 14 year olds
behind the wheel
with music
and
places to go

after the silent closures

2010-07-06T23:26:00.004-04:00

nothing escaping the eventual
you returned to bed twice before sleeping
sound of bugs still stir in ear
ere the dawn come again
and wake me with a hand
somehow like the way
headed and braced for the end
each day of the moment is under pressure
you press her head against the pillow
gently going toward the dark
we turned the other way and said goodbye
good morning over so many times again
dragging at feet already forced to the porch
no walk throughs
posted
passing by a third round of
checking all the noises outside
looking to see if something appears through
the pattern of the screen

but it doesn't
never see it coming
just drive to holiday picnic
and crash with the whole family
or make it
that question of fate, timing, circumstance
the runway into nothing
no answer ever for the secret experience
only the feeling
of never wanting to let go again
but doing it anyway

and still nothing
no sign of light or dark
awake
asleep
drinking
not thirsty
drinking
movement becomes more predictable
the smaller your surroundings
starving on the same foods
you eat thee
holiest of empty voids
where the eyes close themselves
and the rest carries out

the balancing act, or, what it is to write

2010-04-24T21:29:00.004-04:00

it was when i was younger
and suicidal
that the words dove
out from the edge
or i pushed them over
and stood there
looking down into
the abyss
as it slowly filled up

and now at some sense of peace
the words are slower
planting themselves
just beneath the skin
so that when footing
slips
they extend the stronger finger
already there to catch what is
always reaching out

(the hand extended, to convey)

between the sheets

2010-03-07T02:06:00.003-05:00

open the possibility with a string and put on a song so sad you absorb things that don't belong at first until you force yourself to listen close when you're alone with dreams you can't seem to live or let go of and the situation gets worse when eyes begin to blur over and start again to say something only audible in a song a word repeated for emphasis a whisper beside what's spoken pauses to consider what next as the night lightens without the loaded tongue and sometimes staring at the phone won't make it ring so you breath and regret the way you left when you didn't have to but here and there a vision comes out clear as the white birds over ice melting in all the driveways and i don't want to stop talking but my heaad gets heavy and i watch as i waste my way through time that should have been like this room with a fresh coat of paint over memories too dark to recall in language less sensitive than cracked fingers passed over holes left unfilled after the posters came down and your voice grew stronger but not enough to pinch a resultless arm before the sun comes up and you still haven't taken a chance and placed that feeling into the air to see who breathes at just the right moment and we'll share those lost sounds so it becomes part of that forever unamable note and both of our souless half lives will find communion leaving a numb mouth and a ghost you choose to see each time you need to remember how waking impressed its delicate signature in a place our hands all feel toward slowly like the shift from indifference to forgiveness

talking to joe cooper on the telephone is one of my favorite things in the universe

2010-02-18T22:45:00.005-05:00

after an entire day of
difficult phone calls
dealing with addiction
and the struggle
between children
and their parents
and a friend
claiming to know
the taste
of each pistol he owns
the phone rings

and it is joe cooper
on the other end
of the line

he can never know the blessing
of his timing
how much i needed
a phone call
that would take my mind
into different
and more favorable
territory

what it means to confirm
that while one friend suffers
another
opens the page
of a new text

and we don't have short
conversations
joe and i
they extend beyond
translatable time

into something
that we both know
is a perfect solution
to the things that
bind us from true experience

tonight
we talked about
his newest poetic novel
and what he can do
to finish

about my friend
and what he (or any of us) may
or may not be able to do
in order
to survive

A Method for Considering January

2010-01-21T22:59:00.006-05:00

The following poems were composed between December 30 and January 21 in a small leather journal. The intent was to create a text appropriate to the size of the journal (apprx. a thumb by a thumb and a half). What emerged were single, though sometimes stitched, moments. Poetic pauses of recognition. A play between space and the substance that fills it in.

* * * *

A thing
stolen for a
brief purpose
An act made
visible
by perfect
horizons
making contact

Nothing from
here
out
will last
very
long

There are
moments to
be spent
in the kitchen
standing
with sounds of
Bonnie Prince Billy
and dishwater

The
urge
to
shit

A factory
for
eruptions

(Each little
page
absorbs
the
overflow)

I'd like to
stop eating
like a
late-night
garbage disposal

Uh-ohing
what we love
amid the
flutter of
dusty
wings

Never a memory
of the potential
to cough in flight
or talk
about why everyone
went to sharpen
dad's tools
growing up

All the great
Mysteries
answered here:

Dear Ayrella,
what a beautiful
little mind
you have...
love
dad

Our bodies
the shape
around
language's
true form

A blue pen
with a blue word
for a
blue moon
(Happy New Year!)

A thought
expressed
before
its
proper time

Deeper than
this
there are
darker
words

I don't think
I put enough
"little something"
in my
lemonade

The subject is
a small square
the object is
to language
what reject is
to the recipient

Just
enough room
left
to...

Nails
a darker red
creeps through
gasoline hoocheekoo
especially alone
on a night like
now

This is me
what i was
when
everyone else
existed elsewhere

Burned edges may
indicate a scrap
just this side
of valued
to be held
like breath
(long enough to be recognized
as something to let go of)

It gets
better
the more you
recognize

Honestly?
This again?

What did
you expect
to find
in this place
you find yourself
searching?

There's
still
time
yet...

Evidence of
looking backward

Nodding off
sent an ink
blot back
through
six pages
(making the last
poem literal)

Intent on
being
sound
soon enough
the pen puts
a poet
to work

Today will be
filled with
rituals
worth
keeping

Wait
what just happened?

How seriously
do you consider
the occupation
of space?

This is the best possible
transformation/ from
emptiness
to the thought of
a space being held
(Poetry has gravity)

Surely,
you could have
said this much
better but the
thing is always
that you didn't

Like reading between
the lines of history
something here
keeps
bleeding
through

Your name
filling in
this space
fills too all
the places it
can pass

Sudden
Quantum
Ulcers
Abscess
Radiant
Exits

If you stumbled
into a shape
would you
appear better
dressed?

This evening
two ingredients
to balance
or cancel
production

Give
substance
to
nothing!

If I were a
poetic image
I would be the
SUV left running
while the driver
does recyclables

I remember
the way i met
my neighbor and
the lifetime
we remained
friends

I remember
playing Olympic long
jump and Scotty
running face first
into the ground wire
of the powerlines
beside our house

I remember
Ryan breaking
his finger during
a volleyball match
and no one volunteering
to go with him
to the hospital

Caught in
the middle
of something
unspeakable

On the other side
of the margins
we trimmed thin
our smiles to
match the hardened
edge of our opposite
and keep an
impossible center

A different
message might
require more
page

The crystal skull
is almost
empty

Having been given
a gift capable of
capturing words
I have deemed it
reasonable
to
speak

At some point
beyond the present
this might not
be enough...
but for now
a slow
unravelling...

Is this
something
you'd care
to repeat?

Would the numbers
matter
a second time
through?

One stops
measuring
or counting
so
far
in

If every word could
make you return
to a conjured moment
where would we
walk
together?

Among the questions
and statements
another preposition
capable of
starting
over

Over the clanking
ice cubes
3 channels of laughter
course
down
dim
hallway

That
means
something

Whatever
it is
only makes it
to ghost
before
disappearing

Certain
letters
made more
obvious
contributions

Night
a quiet gesture
of head to hand
to eye
in the solitary light
of the living room
after you left

To resign
toward what
dreams
might seep up
to the surface
of a sleeping dialogue

You just
overlooked
enlightenment
back there

What part of
your body
is the
most poetic?

I had
intended
to
finish

West Virginia's
first good
winter
in
10 years

What Chicago
poetry
could (is)
become (ing)

Confused
and
short
on
cash

A place
to
stretch
the
spine
a while

If privilege
is audible
it is the sound
of me
eating

Where the words
will not
come down
I will place
my hand

Triangulated
by
three
dark screens

When I leave
your work
to finish
my own

Part of me
is
stitched
in ink

Any thread
of stability
in these
fabricated
times

The question
of how
much
farther? more?
longer? did you drink?
ignored

A feeling in the
back of the
tongue
when it
rains

No marks
to indicate
what is
necessary

Another
impending
storm
a stirring to
the anticipation
of action

No form
or shape
to fill
just an arrangement
between
capable
surfaces

The one
being designed
to receive
the other

Rhododendron leaves
wrapped in a
thick
layer
of ice

White sky
behind
leafless
branches

Noticing
slight
variations
in
temperature

Bones and time
develop
a language
of their
own

Feeling
where it is
impossible to see
past the present

The rain has a
way of
being recognized

A
frozen
porch

A cold
shoulder

Palms
outstretched,
up-turned
waiting
to receive

run-on

2010-01-02T23:04:00.001-05:00

you could be something hidden but no one would calculate an impact and one must be sure these days just how the subject will be a/effected otherwise all this checking of e-mail would be futile which would certainly lead to a collapse of all that is fair and just in the world of contact established or maintained by the spirit of the season whether taking shape as fat red men or see-through skulls seems only partially relevant when considering that such films are best left to the viewing experience they were intended for which is only partially possible beneath such a pale shade of lamplight beside an otherwise crowded desk and the question of an evening spent to standard missing a space not yet abandoned but soon to be determined like something crossed off a to-do list two days later than planned panic where it would explain the absence of chicken and the urgency to get him in before the time comes that can't be handled alone to cry or console the loss of material objection to paternal care nascent as though suddenly a different solution grew from a problem rooted in dirty soil such that a dangling fear floats above pillows where one would normally find sleep in a seventh year since sorry became such a cliche that everyone was afraid to say anything where light still lingered as a positive sign that someone out there was with you to say, "yes, i have seen it too and find myself unsure of how to continue..." but there remains the effort to keep doing this even when questions of intent become incessant and replies supply only rolled eyes you still saunter into the next room and dream of another outcome or else all the notes drifting off into the wind would wander aimless toward a tomorrow we would never hear of and no matter how cruel it seems to carry on sometimes you do because the lessons we absorb at a particular state of solidity make the difference between the water we drink or drown in down the road less travelled when we come to some fork no one has ever seen before...

poem driving to work

2009-12-29T14:18:00.001-05:00

this
morning
the
sun
over the
river
too beautiful
to look at
without
dying

sand slipping through fingers sequence

2009-11-19T21:55:00.002-05:00

cloves and lemonheads
flashback moment
time and space
warped with thought
faster than breathing
can tolerate
and for a split
chaos
you
headlights
distraction
calm
a doorway
toward a sleeping dog
songs to consider
recommendations to write
a kiss that leaves one
holding open
when no one else
is around
dead voices
lose no life
an empty bottle
quiet telephone
music absorbs
the moment where reality
almost caught up
in the shadow conversation
the third year tally faded
before the ink ever set in
sunrises over severed ties
a word ahead of the notion
to write it down

burnt down house/ warm up (for ken waldman, alaska's fiddling poet)

2009-11-17T13:59:00.003-05:00

jubilation and renewal
excavating ashes
this strange spell
of naming
a tragedy
transcended
by song
voices
fingers
in
collaboration
what matters always
remains

yesterday's driveway

2009-11-17T13:58:00.001-05:00

willow's yellow leaves
the only thing left
above the pavement
to absorb this strange
november sun

events that defined october

2009-11-05T21:33:00.003-05:00

anticipation
travel
found an abandoned journal
in the trunk of the car
a return to discipline

telephone calls
lists of things to discuss in person
"professional development"
a hysterical scenario
both obnoxious
and absolutely applicable
the best packing job
ever
then
realizing the tickets
booked in september
had the wrong return date
the day before departure

how easy it was
to suppress the panic

the living art of cityscapes
at night
from the window seat
of a small plane
how dc is a series of
sentient whirlpools
lit and extinguished like stars
but buffalo
is a hard grid
a city in check
forced into an
intricate limitation of movement

from the air
the capital
of west virginia
looks almost uninhabited
by comparison

the value of those images

degrees of separation
closer than
numerical pillars of indifference
warrant sharing blizzard provisions
laughter
the permanent rainbow above niagara
bar room shuffleboard
and now
and now
and now
meeting cara benson and jen karmin
so many voices
books with pleasantly despicable titles
snow
minor head injury
goodbyes
4 am cab ride
home
reading
sushi party
ryan's flame retardant clothing
sharpie handle bar mustache
late night and crushingly early morning

packing
blowing up the sidekick
planes again

a very nice virginia state trooper
no ticket, just a friendly warning
first flight for the kids
garren asleep during take off
ayrella my flying buddy
looking down at the bayou
billy
new orleans
angel
the causeway bridge anxiety
beads in trees
gold and silver people
a gorilla
nola halloween
the 4am moon over lake pontchartrain
the charlotte airport for 7 hours
home
a beautiful sunrise
dogs
another beautiful sunrise
and the slow return to routine
comfortable
all the leaves finally down
to the ground
opening the backyard view
to new thoughts and inspirations

events defining the day

2009-10-26T23:27:00.002-04:00

slept till 7:30
frantic morning
ayrella late for school
garren happy w/ day care
dogs & sidekick
to farm to grab justin
daisy and grendel played w/ farm dogs
i scrubbed the water bucket foir the pigs
daisy caught a chicken
by the tail feathers
let go upon reprimand
coughed out feathers & looked innocent
a moment lifted from looney tunes
good hard laugh
on to shady to drop dogs
to mom and dad/ justin to his truck
sandstone mountain
noticed battery light on
suspect alternator belt
climb warily
towards top
lost 4th gear
lost 3rd gear
2nd struggled to summit
stop
smoke and spewing radiator fluid
shaking heads
and wagging tongues
phone calls
serdoz to the rescue
briarwood
dad to the rescue
back to lewisburg
halloween costumes
me & ayrella did homework
w/out arguing
angie sleepy
phone call from mexico
e-mail to boston
m. ward
here
calm to what comes
through the curious stitch
indicating a center
that opens and closes
like a mouth making words

lines composed before sleep

2009-10-26T00:13:00.001-04:00

still possible to be
on back porch barefoot
chasing old habits

out in the dark
leaves crackle
in cold air

a directive: away from the kitchen

2009-10-23T23:45:00.003-04:00

question
the body
the relationship
2 bavarian pretzels
a bowl of ice cream
cheez-its
wine
habit
the wind
gaining momentum
body
distant from action
as from memory
simulation
the same argument
an exchange of sides
fries with that
not a burned out option
after years
of craving the same
spicy stability
in the face
of total mutation

a beautiful moment with spicer

2009-10-10T22:23:00.001-04:00

naropa poem 38 (for joe, for the goons)

2009-10-08T23:15:00.003-04:00

i remember
finding a fabulous
walking stick
in the free box
jared and joe and me
and the stick
walking past the apartment
complex just before
that babrbecue joint
on the corner of Arapahoe
and some drunk
asshole started
blathering at me
about how i thought
i could just walk around
with a stick
and he started to get
aggressive

I remember his girlfriend
bent down to a water spigot
telling me to ignore him
and i saw the look in his eyes
and knew
that might not be
a viable option

I remember thinking
that things were
about to get ugly
because i had
a very big stick
and two crazy poet friends
and I don't remember what I said
or what he said
but we walked away into a beautiful summer
where all the lawnmowers
were broken

the slow acceptance of a question

2009-10-08T19:44:00.004-04:00

smoke
permanently occupies
a summation of
years snared beneath skin
something impossible to let go

memory
stakes claim
in the chest
passageway to the between
where we converge and dissolve

you
and i
temporarily bind time
for better or worse
engaged to an infinite mystery

dreams
half-remembered
days half-forgotten
a line that refuses
space that wants to hold

this
is not
a delicate unravelling
but a fabric woven
for certain kinds of light

reasons to be apprehensive about drowning

2009-09-30T22:54:00.003-04:00

like sound
you creep into a room
and alter the pulse

new machine
staggering toward
october precipice

the question of a river
balance between water
and air

how bright
to be in a
similar location

without a hat
or a boot
to stare into

only the
horizon
in high definition

when we realized that the years didn't make any difference

2009-08-11T21:23:00.002-04:00

an attempt to start over every time
the blankness of opportunity
comes knocking you around
like a beer can whizzed from
canoe twenty opposite feet away
straight to the face we
laughed into the river until
apology sought its own delivery
back to separate valleys
where we'll congregate to
rafts less slimy than where
we began and turn the water
over before anything gets
lost like the alpaca pinata
after the ride erased the idea
of mini liquor bottles
that would have been scavenged
during the dry hours before
we crawled back towards
that place we always come to
with surprised windows

white lights black tar

2009-08-04T22:57:00.004-04:00

cold wind from fan blows against my bare back noticing the slow atrophy of muscle and the additional tug afforded by skin surrounding the stomach. there has been a recent wave of inactivity, following a weekend long inspiration to run...several weeks ago. time evades slow passing. there must be an effort to send each word forward to the next. a decision based on breath or something more to decide where things begin and end. perhaps there is no use to distinguish after all. the look from the dog upon reprimand is the same as the look from the daughter. what do you get when you create a map of inspiration beginning at Pound pausing briefly for Faulkner and resting finally at Hemingway? a circle. a piece of evidence suggesting, like all the writing in between, that it is all desperately knitted together. no one seems to say much about anything beyond the capacity of F for greatness. a point of influence for many, a point of despair for others. for me a place of not really giving a fuck about it either way. a name on a list of things yet to be properly discovered. a list on a list of things to be dropped from lists. to be abandoned altogether by pure fatalistic circumstance. haven't met you yet and don't care to. goodbye.
but. contrary to popular opinion, this is a time of great swelling, not tightening of belts. just think how many other people are responsible for bringing food to your plate. how many aren't sure enough to even get an accurate number? exactly. there was something answered for you. no going back now. the feeling of extra letters beneath fingertips not unlike the feeling of unwanted attractions. helpless. the situation of forgetting and remembering at inconvenient intervals. the body refuses to cooperate with the mind, or the mind refuses to cooperate with the body? perpetual glass lacking inspection. an uneccesary discrepancy of hair. you remembered today even though nothing special jumped from behind the curtain to curtail your progress toward willful disintegration. what if that really does mean something? who will be around to answer it?

on the other side of the fog

2009-07-17T02:54:00.002-04:00

green monster after much ado about nothing wrong after getting used to the sway of the van across the lanes of the interstate. 13 teenage girls singing every song on the radio as loud as they can. 3am. perhaps no sleep at all and back to work on delusion for new half day friday schedule. a controlled experiment. civics of sleeping. in class dream journals. beside a book of true lies certificates of insurance. two cameras. where were cracking ankles to introduce your medium-rare surprise, a calmer tongue to taste the bloody center of this unravelled stimulus?

"drivin fast on a holiday/ I fought the law and I won"/ A Play In One Act (of defiance)

2009-07-05T23:46:00.001-04:00

Scene--Shabby SUV on interstate highway, thursday afternoon, july 2
Characters-- West Virginia State Police, Poet

(The speed limit on the interstate system in WV is 70. The vehicle's speedometer is broken.

The vehicle has a standard transmission, and the speed is divided in ten mile increments up to fourth gear. Given the wider range of 5th gear, the speed becomes relative to the other cars the driver cruises by before a State Trooper in the other lane turns and follows with his lights on)

POET: (looking into rear view mirror) Shit.

TROOPER: (looking startled as he sees the driver, clears throat) Afternoon. Got your license and registration?

POET: Yes sir.

TROOPER: Do you live in Elkins or Ronceverte?

POET: Ronceverte.

TROOPER: How long have you lived there?

POET: A little over two years sir.

TROOPER: Why haven't you notified the DMV about your change of address?

POET: Honestly, I wasn't aware I needed to sir.

TROOPER: Supposed to do that within 30 days.

POET: I apologize sir, I'll be sure to take care of that.

TROOPER: Where you headed now?

POET: To my parents' house for the weekend.

TROOPER: I pulled you over because you were speeding.

POET: I...

TROOPER: Roll your window up about halfway for me.

POET: Okay.

TROOPER: (removes obscure device from utility belt) What's the tint on this vehicle?

POET: I have no idea sir, it was like this when I bought it.

TROOPER: (Places obscure device on window glass) Well, you're supposed to have a 35, and this is a 33, but I guess that's alright. I'll be right back with you...

(goes to cruiser and returns with driver's information, looks close around inside of car, sees something he doesn't like, pauses)

Son, why do you have an upside down American flag on your car?

POET: Well sir, it's my belief that this country has been in distress for a very long time and that's what is represented by placing the flag upside down. It certainly isn't unpatriotic, and I'm proud of my country.

TROOPER: Well that's entirely disrespectful to those of us who have fought for this country.

POET: I apologize if you feel disrespected by that sir.

TROOPER: It is disrespectful. And not just because it's Fourth of July weekend. There are people traveling on this road with you, there were people two hundred years ago fighting for our freedom and that flag, and, well, you're entitled to feel distressed but there's just other ways to show that.

POET: Sir, I'm a college graduate and a college professor. I know full well the sacrifices you and other soldiers have made for this country and for the sake of freedom, and I honor them, I respect them. But part of what you fought for is my right to express my feelings about the operation of our government and you can look around and see that we are in distress.

TROOPER: (frustrated at a difference of opinion) Well. I wrote you a warning ticket. Get that address taken care of, slow down, and be safe.

POET: I will sir. Thank you.

ayrella's profound phonetics

2009-06-23T00:13:00.000-04:00

four dry lips find the fountain

2009-05-28T00:42:00.003-04:00

too long since the last thing said
said things too quick
sweating through the afternoon
public voices meander from
apprehensive mouths
has it really been that long?
a sense of the night growing quieter
bugs abandon screen door
no sound of wings
our legs perched on top of
one another
like cups clanking together
carried down a dark hallway
into some broader light
navigating the way between water and tongue

revolving components of manipulation

2009-04-09T23:00:00.002-04:00

the negative value of absolute parent function if one is anatomical and one is pharmaceutical with four basic rules: if you effect anything where letters are confused about the hard part to explain, the same spot of zero works ambiguously. if, however, my issue is upside down from all the mapped points attempting to figure out where the initial letter is, what is it revolving around problems succinct in description about the highest degree of positive function?

rising and falling, twisting and turning one less than determining what leads power between points. a feel for what numbers do to things desperately tried in the off hours where all things are basic, repeated, ignorant of key components doing something that looks like learning.

how to use it well, the question of starting and/or understanding trends within the ease of making mistakes. period. where you're not sure whether to work through and feel smart or debate about the necessity of beginnings.

of every excited struggle toward the abstract proof of. mathematical biting of nails regardless of how one sounds over the telephone discussing financial merit of tuition. the location: between desire and existence.

it used to be fire we looked for

2009-03-23T11:46:00.009-04:00

prior to shadows along a calmer path

everything sectioned off for navigation

mapping out those borders between

the natural ceiling and the elemental

steps away from woven skylines of bramble

a strange curvature toward light

guided by animals

to a place where size fluctuates

but the jagged line is walkable

horizon outlasting fascinated eyes

until the message enters songless
in the roaring wind

surrounded in various frames

at the relative top of it all

still some sick fruit forcing its season

roots tangled surface into oblivion

something missed in the distance of entrances
always obvious when turning away

In Memory...

2009-03-16T20:42:00.001-04:00

On Thursday March 5 I was driving home from work and as I came around a curve a white sports car was fully in my lane. I pulled off onto a turn out spot that I never would have made it into if anything had happened any faster. The gravel in the turn out spun me sideways back into the road, as you can see by my skidmarks in the photo above. I drive a 95 Suzuki Sidekick and the wheel base is dangerously short, so I was trying to correct without flipping. I didn't haev time to do that and I ended up carreening into the ditch on the opposite side of the road.

It's difficult to see the angles in the photographs, but you can see where my tires went into the dirt. The large rock in the path sent me just slightly airborn, enough to save me from damaging the underside of the car. I came to a crashing halt on the cross commemorating the death of one Brian Cornette Sr. You can see to the left of the memorial where the driver's side tire was. If the cross hadn't been there I would have flipped. I can only specualte that this is what happened to Brian.

The driver who was in my lane kept driving. I had the baby with me, and luckily he and I both came out unharmed. I am forever in debt to Brian's ghost for keeping Garren and I among the living.

2009-02-24T00:08:00.002-05:00

and everywhere

before and after

was empty

there was nothing

else to say

so they sat

on opposite sides

of the gas tank

dropping matches

relief: what we leave behind to follow later

2009-02-24T00:01:00.000-05:00

constantly calculating compatibility

2009-02-08T23:03:00.002-05:00

the product of the day and age
he felt languid after three days of heavy drinking
somwhere between sleeping and doing nothing
there were instructions not to sleep
given implicitly
by the only other person in the room

a shadow where the lamp doesn't reach
symbolizes something you can't quite put your finger on

she puts her headphones back in
he makes a sandwich

the only sound she makes is breathing
the only thing he does is chew

looking back is just as blurry as looking forward when the carnival parade leads to windshields caked in sun

2009-02-02T22:48:00.007-05:00

when the dream stopped and the day started the distance between them disintegrated

2009-01-21T10:45:00.004-05:00

birds gather above mall entrance
watch over empty cars in parking lot
finally a treeless sacrifice
as the ground shifts and our raw hands join
in applause
their eyes return us to a rising gyre
keepers of legacy bless this ascent
let our tongues curl around the overlap
of time to shape the uncertain
the birds return to the sky so as
to keep their vantage point
while we look to the horizon
under the last rays of sun and
breath in the icy january air

Days With Little Sleep/ Fear and Loathing in Shady Springs/ A Fantastic Experience Holding a Hideous Christmas Tree

2008-12-13T22:38:00.005-05:00

Preface

Dear Reader,

Not knowing or seeing the lands I scoured and people I've known growing up, this story will hardly do justice to the overall experience I've had this cold December evening. West Virginia breeds strange beauty. A land of distorted heroes. Tree climbing shoes and diabetic streams of subconscious babble. Somewhere glory is hidden among these hollowed out hills and exposed soil/ souls/ soles.

Part I: Where uninterrupted sleep has become a memory and Shady Springs leaves me dried up

Quick breakfast and long morning. Thursday night Garren was up twice before 3 am and after that decided that he couldn’t rest anywhere but on my shoulder so long as I was standing. Attempting to lay him down equaled screaming. Sitting on the couch holding him equaled screaming. Friday morning to the doctor to get antibiotics for ear infection and horrendous diaper rash, hence the screams. Friday night was mildly improved. When he woke up at 4 he slept with Angie while I crashed out on the couch until Little lady woke up early as usual (6:30). Pounced me, sent me waking breathless out of the only solid hours of sleep all night. Said she wanted to watch a movie to pass the time before heading up the mountain to grandma and grandpa's house. (Grandma and grandpa will further be referred to proper as, "Bup and Paw-Paw.") Too much coffee and not enough time to do laundry. Angie left early and spent the morning in anatomy lab, asking me to wait until she came home before we left. We is me, Ayrella and Garren. 28, 6 (7 "in 5 days") and 7 1/2 months. Wall-E. Better than I anticipated. Second viewing this morning. Angie home and we slowly muster out the door. There is something about leaving the house with children that makes all previous efforts to be efficient, on time, and minimalist completely negated. Is the diaper bag packed? Did you brush your hair? Your teeth? Where is your coat? Do I have enough food for him? Did you bring a change of clothes just in case? Is the car warming up? (Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.) I'm leaving today to pick up gifts from Bup and Paw-paw’s house that should be delivered to Ayrella on her birthday next week, as opposed to Christmas. Angie needs time to study. I need to travel to more “reliable” habitats. A three fold purpose.

I make phone calls. People try. Nothing. I know this will end with me being grouchy about the state of things I won’t mention specifically. We pull off the Grandview Road exit and Ayrella wakes up from a nap and asks, "are we in Beckley yet?" as she opens her eyes. The specificity of her question prompted a longer explanation. No we are not in Beckley yet. We are on the road to Bup and Paw -paw's. “How do you know?” Signs. Not to mention this is where I grew up. “But I thought they lived in Beckley?” Well hon, it's like this. Shady Springs is where Bup and Paw-paw live. Beckley is the closest city. It's like we live in Ronceverte and Lewisburg is just down the road...because that's where things are. “Okay,” she says.

She doesn’t have the capacity yet to understand the vast difference between the two places. I am still trying to figure it out.

Shady is a magical hell just on the edge of the southern West Virginia coal belt. As mentioned, close to Beckley, but NOT Beckley any more than bacon is good for cholesterol. It’s a raucous place where a veil of normalcy rests over the otherwise depraved lot of folks who call it home. There is just enough right wing bible thumping local football enthusiasm to give the impression that it’s a peaceful place to raise your children. Calm on the surface like a lake filled with piranhas. Even after living away for so many years, my teeth are still sharp enough feel at ease here.

Fucking animals. I don’t know how I made it out alive. Perhaps that is the saving grace of my ability to pass out mid sentence after drinking. All that unintentional sleep probably kept me out of a lot more than I managed to get into.

3 weeks ago the local paper covered a story about what they described as a road rage incident. Two guys passed each other on route 19, the main road through Shady. One of them swerved and began to follow the other. The story explained that they had a history. Fights don’t die easy in Shady. It’s a small enough place that if you stick around, your nemesis from high school will remain the same, causing scenes, which could be anything from crude language to fists to weapons, everywhere you run into each other. Forever. That was these two guys. Despite that each of them had their girlfriend’s in the car with them, they continued in a high speed chase, often slamming into each other until eventually one of the dumb fucks lost control and came to a screeching halt. At this point, the kid in the other vehicle walks up to the window and shoots the guy in the fucking head with a shotgun. This is the kind of lunatic that doesn’t bother fleeing the scene. He shoulders the gun and walks back to his car, enjoys a cigarette and waits on the police to show up. When they do, he admits to shooting the other guy, who, for the sake of the story, was not fatally wounded. The shooter is arrested on SEPARATE charges. What does that say about the god damned local justice system that a stark raving angry redneck can take a shotgun to someone’s head after a high speed chase…with witnesses…and get arrested on separate charges?! Here’s to moonshine and Oxycontin as the staples of commerce. Yee fuckin haw ya’ll. Dive in. The water is wide.

Part 2: Where home is always warm and conversations with the neighbors are guaranteed to get interesting

This is the house that I grew up in. Ayrella plays with her cousins in the bedroom I had when I was her age. My dad’s office takes the space of the bedroom that housed more adolescent debauchery than his business efforts can ever cover up. Not that this business seeks to cover up my debauchery, just to say that if his stacked papers were a conscious effort to transform the room it still wouldn’t work completely. But here we are. Hitting the coffee again. The one substance my parents imbibe. Despite my hands shaking I’m tired. The lack of sleep always catches up here. I keep anticipating phone calls that don’t come, and when it’s time to pack it up and go home I am disgruntled. However, I am coming home with a fine little djembe to give Ayrella for her birthday, and some blocks that will occupy her a little while on Saturday mornings when she wakes up at 6am and expects us to immediately provide her with something to do. These things are of great value to the experience of my life as a parent…and I am a creature of habit.

Before we leave though, I remember that my favorite sweater is at Justin’s house two doors down. This is where things get interesting. I know that I won’t be able to get in and out with any kind of speed because Justin isn’t there. Just his parents. They are bound to suck you into conversation, or in this case, something far more entertaining. I tell my mom where I’m going and she offers to call in a few minutes and say the baby is screaming and that I needed to rush home. I decline what is otherwise a very generous offer and go in search o f my sweater.

The Pack household is one of those places permanently embedded into my memory. They moved into our neighborhood when I was in first grade. I distinctly remember Shane, Justin’s older brother, riding down the street on a big wheel. I stopped and talked to him a minute, ran into my house and put on a pair of sunglasses I had dug from a box of Fruity Pebbles earlier that morning, went back outside and when he came by again I acted like I was not the person he had just met. I said I was a twin or something. I have no idea what motivated me to concoct such a ridiculous scheme, but I did. I didn’t work of course. Shane is a smart bastard, always has been. We’ve remained friends ever since, despite the period during adolescence when his mother attempted to prevent us from hanging out because she felt that I was “lost.” As we’ve grown older, Shane’s younger siblings are part of our circle of reprobates. Shane moved off to Tennessee and only comes home a few times a year. Justin has just returned from a 6 month tour fighting wild fires out west, Jesalynn has graduated college and works in North Carolina, and Evan, the youngest has started college and recently moved back into the neighborhood because his roommates were too degenerate. He takes his work seriously. All of them do. Which is how exactly what I got pulled into when I dropped by.

Janet, their mother, was on the front porch dusting off the bed where Kirby the coonhound sleeps during the day. She invited me in, and on the way explained what an awful Christmas tree they had this year. When I walked inside, Tom, the family “partridge,” greeted me from somewhere inside the monstrosity they had dragged into their living room. Janet explains how they had been trying to get this thing into the house for two days, and Tom is in the middle of trying to tie the top the tree to the curtain rod with fishing line so it doesn’t lean to one side. I walk passed this, knowing that I should have taken my mom’s offer. I would find my sweater and wind up buried in the tree with him. It almost didn’t happen that way. I found my sweater as Janet explained that the tree was really the fault of her children, all of whom complained about the tree last year. As I am headed for the door saying, “Well, I have to grab my kids and drive back to Lewisburg,” Tom calls from the belly of the beast, “Timmy, come hold this tree a minute.” I do. As I stand there I notice that Tom has trimmed this tree the way a cross-eyed 3 year old might give a Barbie a haircut. The tip of the tree is easily the size of my entire forearm, elbow to wrist, with no branches. I mean to say that if my arm was wood and my hand had been gruesomely removed with a dull hand saw that is what the tip of this tree looked like. A fucking decorative constellation wouldn’t fit on top of this tree.

Tom moves to the other side of the tree and continues tying fishing line to the curtain rod. He keeps fumbling the line and breathing heavier. Janet walks over and turns the light on so that Tom can see well. “I’m too old for this,” he says to me. “I’m not doing this next year. My eyes is gotten too bad where I’m a diabetic. Hold still now Tim.”
In my perfect stillness, Tom moves his foot and nudges the lamp Janet has just turned on. There is a bursting sound and sparks shower the ground. Janet enters the beginning stages of hysteria. “Oh my word. My goodness. There were sparks everywhere. Tom, there were sparks everywhere.” Tom says nothing and continues fumbling the line. “Did you see that Tim?” she asks me. Her voice is growing more desperate. I acknowledge that I saw the sparks and she asks Tom again what happened. “There’s a naked wire on that thing honey. I probably kicked it. Unplug it honey.” Janet begins to speak softer, mostly to herself. “Oh. Oh. I use that lamp all the time.” And now louder, with more conviction, “thank the good lord nothing caught on fire.” And that is it. Nothing else is said about the lamp in my presence. Janet walks into the kitchen to find the wedges she swears they used last year while Tom finally secures the line. He doesn’t even look at the lamp as he passes it. He comes around and tells me to let go. The tree waves slightly and levels off. He looks at it in disgust. Comments on how awful it looks. I back up and agree, but I don’ say so out loud. You could’ve ended up with the same kind of trimming job by just standing and taking aim with a high powered shotgun. There was a hole to the right side bigger than my head. The branches were all different lengths and their bare ends stuck out like…like severed limbs. I finally had to ask Tom why he didn’t wait on Justin to help him. Justin was house sitting for a friend and would be back in the morning. Justin is also a professional arborist and runs his own tree business. Tom ignores my question and continues badmouthing his handiwork. Despite its grotesque appearance, the tree is level. And despite this, when Janet emerges from the kitchen with the wedges and I am headed toward the door, Tom calls me back over and asks me to hold the tree again. He crawls underneath it, placing the wedges and I can feel all sturdiness abandon. I am afraid that if I let go when he tells me to the tree will pull the curtain rod out of the wall as it crashes. It doesn’t, but it is only being supported by the fishing line. Tom decides the wedges aren’t going to work, so I hold the tree a final time as he removes them. He and Janet both stand back, markedly frustrated and gawk sadly at their hideous progeny. I take the opportunity to leave while I can. I look at my watch as I walk back over to my mom’s. I’ve been gone almost an hour. In a sadistic kind of way it was completely worth it. I packed up the kids, the drum and the blocks and drove home.

Part 3: Epilogue: Where a phone call makes it that much better

I get home and cook breakfast for dinner because that’s what we had. Put the kids to bed and start hitting the wine because that’s what there is to hit. Justin calls me and I tell him about the whole event with his parents and he’s laughing his ass off. He tells me how they interrupted him in the middle of cleaning up a tree job a few days before demanding his truck so they could go and get a tree. He tries to explain that he has to finish, he can get a tree the next day, but to no avail. When he brings the truck, Janet decides it is too dirty for her to ride in, so she and Tom take her car and make Justin follow. He talks them out of spending $50 on a tree at Clark’s Produce. He mentions a few local tree farms but before he can offer to go there in the morning they are gone with his truck. He heads home, planning to cook dinner for them so his parents can get to Wednesday evening church on time. He gets home to realize that his house keys are in the truck and he waits in the cold for over an hour before they come home, bringing the monster tree with them. Justin never saw the tree indoors because he worked the next morning and started his stint as a house sitter for someone he had just done a tree job for. Between out respective drunken cackling he says, “Ah shit man it gets even better. Evan just called to tell me that when he came home from work tonight he took one look at the tree and threw the fucking thing outside.” Justin explains how particular his mom is about things touching the walls, how she’s kind of OCD, and points out that Evan surely carried the tree haphazardly, no doubt brushing against the door as he wrestled the mammoth back into the freezing night. “And I know somehow I’m gonna be the one that gets blamed for this shit,” Justin says. And I ask him what happened after the tree was outside again and apparently, like me, Evan asks why no one bothered to wait for Justin to take care of this. In an angry, diabetic fit Tom’s only response is, “well it’s not my fault when Justin marries a drunken whore!” and he storms back inside. As Evan stands baffled in the cold he laughs to himself and says, “What the FUCK does anything have to do with Vietnam, Walter?”

2008-12-12T23:20:00.002-05:00

today. face marked purple. obsession. squeezing. through the middle of the night. awake at 3 am holding a baby until the sun rises. broken car. ear infection. the rain. this is not my normal voice. this is not my hand moving. this is your eyes. it is something i already did. perception distorted on purpose. has the feeling of elation passed? sleep. antibiotics. hum of breast pump. wine. shakespeare stands on eyelids. erasure becoming an unpleasant task. so god damned unorganized. how to write the narrative proper? how to divide the voice? how to maintain direction. swarming. memory in images. not words. living at an incredible distance from reality. problems. apathy. communication skills. dwindle. the stars are invisible. temporary. she screamed into the pillow because she didn't know what else to do. we taught each other how to breath. their faces so much alike. combination spectrum of emotional intensity. a lecture on the penis with play-doh as visual aid. flex. sleep. eat. condemn. get up. eat. coffee.monster.water. wine. the tongue dirty enough to. as in, the driveway is empty. as in, tomorrow will produce less sun. as in, isolation of first time parents. economic crisis. i want to hope. to keep heart open. to look with confidence at the slaughterhouse and know that the blood will drain away. the man in the purple robe and combat boots told me that there are colors one does not associate with grieving. the taste of blood used to inspire a glance around the room to see if anyone noticed. baba yaga's teeth of iron. his fingertips yellow. how we used to blow smoke through the bottoms of t-shirts to watch it change color. what difference in the end? in winter, the sun's perfect arc over the house. comfortable dictates everything. hierarchy of desire. dead musicians. when the music's over. the light switch broken from outset.

because she had the camera/ her eyes like gravity... for AKP

2008-12-07T22:01:00.005-05:00

local heroes, local foes

2008-11-20T21:58:00.002-05:00

I'd like to start adding a little more depth to this space. Commenting more frequently on local events and culture, as well as the continuing drive for a new poetic space. I need to say more though, need to document more and I think this is a good place to do it. I'd like to thank my friend John Sakkis for a slight hit of inspiration from his blog BothBoth (see the link list to the side if you aren't familiar) wherein John comments on poetry and all things bay area. There is no true underground voice for West Virginia. And perhaps, in the case of a state driven by a coal economy, a voice above ground is more to the point. Let this be the beginning.

When I was in Boulder in the summer of...hmmm...not sure now if it was 04 or 05. I was there both summers, but during one of the two I read and someone in the audience heard in my introduction that I was from West Virginia. As I was walking through the parking lot at the end of the night someone asked me to wait up, and started asking where in West Virginia I was from. They asked me if I knew a poet named Robert Head from Lewisburg and he gave me a copy of The Nola Express. (Actually, it was a recently printed "best of" of sorts. The original zine was published in the 60's). I grew up about 45 minutes away from Lewisburg, and at the time of being asked if I knew him I had been living in Elkins, several hours north, for years. I did not know him at the time, but I hung on to the magazine, a fantastic revolutionary publication. A few years later as I was preparing to move to Lewisburg so that my wife could begin medical school; I dug out my copy of The Nola Express to jog my memory of exactly who it was I needed to look up. I asked another WV poet, Doug Van Gundy, if he knew how to find him and he told me to look for a place called, The Bookstore. I found it, on Jefferson Ave. downtown. A very eclectic little shop piled to the ceiling with new and used books. A wonderful selection. It's full of character...no pun intended. Robert knows his merchandise though. Recently I've taken to spending time with him on Wednesday afternoons while my daughter is in an after school drama program just down the street. By 4 o'clock when I drop her off, Robert and one of his compatriots are enjoying a bottle of red wine, listening to jazz or Irish folk music. When i came in this past Wednesday, I sat down to a full glass and felt an official regular. Robert was in a good mood, having just received the copies of his latest book of poetry, Comanche Moon and Mexican War (to be reviewed soon, now that I think of expanding my boundaries). He told me a story that will forever make him one of my heroes. He explained how he had come out from the bathroom earlier in the day to find two women with an enormous stack of books in their hands. He said, "excuse me but what do you think you are doing?" They explained they were interior designers for The Greenbrier (a large, elite hotel/ resort/ gated community)and were purchasing books to decorate a new condo for sale. He looks at me and says, "they had all my Faulkner, and a whole stack of great books. I told them to get the hell out of my store." They said, "but we have over a $1000 worth of merchandise." He said, "that's not the kind of store I run. This is an intellectual bookstore and my books are for people who are going to read them." He explains how they left confused and flustered. The smile on his face was victorious. He goes on to say how they probably wanted to pay with a credit card, which he refuses to accept, and that even if he did he wouldn't have let them walk out with the books. He says that he's not ordering again until the spring and these books (he poinrts widely around the store) have to last his regular customers. Two things of note at this point, 1. his store is literally floor to ceiling with books, no more books could possibly fit into the tiny space, and 2. His friend, whose name I can't recall, laughs and says that his regular customers wouldn't spend that much money in the store in 6 months. He (the friend) says those are the kind of customers you hope for, they come in once, spend a shit load of money and never come back. Robert says, "you're right. They will never come back. Good." He laughs. We all drink to his thwarting of the elite. It was a grand moment to be present for. Here's to Robert Head, another WV guerrilla poet.

And in other news, Massey Energy head Don Blankenship is being forced to pay two widows who lost their husbands in the Aracoma Alma Mine Fire, just after the Sago disaster. In the Charleston Gazette Wednesday morning, Blankenship commented that the undisclosed amount his company was sued for was, "fair by West Virginia standards." He went on to note the unfairness of a liberal court system here, and that the two miners probably just panicked when their exit tunnel became filled with smoke, suggesting that it was not any real fault of the mine. He did acknowledge, however, that had a ventilation wall been in place, the situation would not have happened. The widows are also trying to hold Blankenship personally responsible, citing that he willingly avoided safety measures that would have prevented the accident. For those less familiar, Blankenship has recently been seen punching a 20/20 reporter who tried to interview him, as well as taking state Supreme Court Judge Spike Maynard on several lush vacations in the French Riviera while suits against Massey Energy were yet to be settled by the courts.
In the name of all that have suffered under the financial power of Don Blankenship, I want to offer a standing invitation/ challenge for a fist fight. Guerrilla Mountain Poet vs. Land Raping Corporate Swine. We can televise it. Proceeds go to Larry Gibson and The Keepers of the Mountains if I win, and if Don wins, he can continue bribing government officials, ignoring the safety if his workers and being the self-absorbed piece of detritus that he already is. Any time, anywhere motherfucker. You deserve to have a West Virginian stomp your ass, and even better that it be a skinny little dreadlocked poet. I'm waiting...

Greenbrier Valley Theatre Reading

2008-11-13T23:30:00.002-05:00

the last line of the last poem on this video gets cut off; for the sake of it being represented in some way it is:

but forgiveness will still be
the most difficult part

like digging the glass from wounded hands

pendletrout press back in action

2008-11-12T22:36:00.004-05:00

so after a lengthy sabbatical from printing books, i'm back in the game. i've printed 60 books in the last few days...20 copies of each...(thank you jared for the formatting talk) and i'll be pushing them on the local reading public tomorrow night at the annual literary tea series open poetry reading at the greenbrier valley theatre. after that, they'll be coming in the mail to goons across the country.

pursued by fruit flies nesting under the lampshade

2008-10-22T23:47:00.002-04:00

forcing out something more
after raised fists let guard down
and the house has gone quiet again

can't let it end that way
who is this
speaking in declaratives?

this is a place for questions to arise without answer
lines to draw out beyond meaning
anything you say can and will

be used
admit it
let it happen and it will be okay

not like we aren't all
perpetraitors
seeking targets

feel good about yourself
act like you don't
want to smash the fucking coffee table

but real thesbians don't come cheap
and there is a fine line
between acting and living

outside your dreams
there is the life you lead
and that is as obscured as it gets

unless of course
you find yourself sleepwalking
in broad daylight

memorial

2008-10-05T22:22:00.005-04:00

small puddles of water followed elbows

all day

air moving past ear at shifting volume

the idea

that someone

carved out their own heart

next to a name

to make the laws of nature bend around

the insatiable desire

not for permanence

but to make a lasting impression

impotent warnings

linger at frame's edge

where

were

that time

none of us

could think of anything

to say

(h)our outside of time

2008-10-01T21:59:00.013-04:00

further thoughts on place and time after reading bhanu's blog

2008-09-09T00:54:00.002-04:00

her i am. meant here. but the typo speaks from the consciousness trying to come through. spent the evening looking at photographs from another life. mine in earlier years. hers in times barely remembered. images of a childhood sought after. hidden from memory. how do we find ourselves? are we these people we see in the picture? this is something we were. a distance so far from present reality, it only makes sense to look at and wonder about evolution. i'll bring the picture of me as a senior to my senior english class tomorrow for the sake of the conversation i've asked my students to engage in. who am i? how do i know who i am? how do i know what i am? this is something i purposely ask in my classroom each day as i carry my son to class with me, quietly wondering how my own sense of identity slips in and out of comprehension. someone brought us a box of that had been stored in an attic. things considered to be committed to flames now. but what is the memory worth holding on to?

what place did we inhabit? at that point in time my father used to write us notes instead of talking openly. the one just discovered said, "i'm glad we don't have to pass notes anymore. this was born from a time when my wife, then girlfriend didn't talk much to anyone but me, at least in the house. my father has always been more outgoing than i am. it takes someone to pull me out of silence. like jared on the first day of graduate school. (thank you). we all sat there. quiet in worlds of personal language. and he picked us up and moved us out into the people we are now. how to put that into writing from the memory of sitting there. i told lisa this evening that i have never left boulder, or rather, that boulder has never left me. this much is true. and it has brought me now to consider the places that i have left. the person i used to be. it is only perfect that the pictures come out of the box tonight. there we are at 17. prom before the mushrooms took hold of our thoughts. (i can't enjoy portabellas to the day because of the liquid of from those purple caps). but parts of it are like yesterday, which is both literally the day before today, and symbolically, the day before today. the time we have lived through. the time we don't care to go further back toward than memory can transport us.

you've left your chair now and i'm outside listening to the crickets communicate. am i one of them because i have chosen to type outside? what facet of personality will i choose for the morning? if i carry a picture of myself from 11 years ago, will i become him again? i don't want to. but the looking creates an opening. making coherent sense seems to evade me, so i do my best to follow the movement of the thoughts these images inspire.

where am i? outside in west virginia. a place i will always be, whether i make the decision to leave or fulfill the duty to stay. bhanu asked marlon if staying put was a choice or a restriction. to be accurate, she didn't use the word restriction, but going back to check the accuracy would throw me off right now. i think it is a fitting synonym. for me, the feeling of restriction comes and goes. to be certain, certain opportunities are more abundant elsewhere, but i am not. i am here. i have, actively and inactively, made this place part of who i am. or at best, who i consider myself to be. i'm pushing myself to think harder about this.allowing narrative to become more apparent, less abstract for the time being,

growing up, i fell in love with a woman. she is my wife now. and this evening is the first time i have ever seen pictures of her as a baby. we met her father together when we were teenagers. he left when she was...young. maybe two. maybe four. she went on to live with grandparents, not knowing who she was. left as many of us are, to seek out those answers when age provided freedoms not afforded during adolescence. we see these pictures now. pull them from a box mixed with other years of self that are...
whatever else i wrote here was lost as my internet connection momentarily failed. i am at once deeply angry, and resolved to acknowledge that is is fitting for things so fleeting as what has already been mentioned to be partly lost. it's irritatingly perfect. i wish i could conjure enough memory to rewrite what closed this post off originally, but it's just gone. i do know that i quoted cs giscombe saying that we are in "an endless invisible present." that i understand when he wrote it originally in his book "giscombe road" that he meant it as it regards time. here, i wanted to focus on its reference to a gift we are given. i closed by saying that i do not want the answer(s). i want to dwell. to open this over and over again...

2008-08-31T22:46:00.002-04:00

just trying to find a reason. the music mentions names on the mind all night. there is no such thing as coincidence. so, we set ourselves to make the best of everything. instead of shit, sugar hit the fan. the mess lasted longer than bad smells would've. it is possible to infest a restaurant with enough ants to call the attention of those powerful enough to close doors. (we open them most of the time, whether realized or not). this seems like shit so far. and sugar. smells poorly and attracts pesky life forms that often get squashed before any consideration is given. i've spent the last few nights watching the first and only season of Starved, which was on FX for a brief period of time a few years ago. it pissed people off because it offered a brutally realistic picture of a group of people with severe eating disorders.i read that critics and network execs felt it glorified the conditions of the characters, but you'd have to have the mental capacity of an amoeba to come up with an interpretation like that. a god damned wonderful show, and a god damned tragedy that it was pulled from the air. you tube has all seven episodes now. towards the end of the show, one of the main characters is dating a yoga instructor who won't fuck him if he kills the water bugs in his apartment. he does it in secret when he gets angry. has epiphanies that leave him huddled over a table of nemo's chocolate brownies late at night. i think they pulled it because it makes us all realize how indulgent and selfish we can be. tv isn't allowed to do that. that's against the rules. where is the escape in that? where is the numbness?
what direction is this going? i'm not sure that i even have a preconceived notion, no matter how many people i've heard say that there is no more original thought. it can be twisted into artistic positivity, but the first time it was meant to be flat out condescending. a room full of teenagers who had just lost a truck load of their friends told by an otherwise inspirational teacher that nothing they ever thought was new. at 16, that translates to "your thoughts aren't worth shit." and even though he apologized days later, explaining that his wife has threatened him for his compassionless statement, it was too late. concrete. i still think of it every time i think of anything. and here, it is rooted in my own questions about the validity of posting anything here. and to some extent, rooted in my efforts to make this a place where thoughts just happen. if they go to something more, wonderful. if they don't, wonderful. here they are. recycled from the minds of all before me. and fittingly, on the headphones comes dylan singing "song to woody." i would strike up conversation with ghosts just as quickly. they know exactly what i'm saying. (after all, it's their words i'm using).
now on to faster thinking before the idea comes the word precedes. it's hard to keep up that way. keeps me on sore toes and bum knees. in the backdrop milk is the source of it all, not language. the most natural has become the most complicated method of eating. our days extended further than hours were meant to calculate. is it possible to be unaware of what one is saying? i think that i used to believe it was, but i'm not sure after learning about the subconscious. everyone screams for a time about being free but none of us can fully define what it is we're after, at least not in that regard.
i don't belong to the blank generation, but i dig the song. i go so far as to say that i understand that. not freedom. i understand blankness though. the empty ever present.
in new orleans, again, the water becomes a threat. my friend's father refuses to leave for the second time. his choice, sure, but that is not freedom. what the fuck is there worth proving? his son says what the fuck is the point of praying (his grandma's advice) as he feels no god would do this. there is nothing to pray for. he will sit in a chair in front of the television half a coastline away and drink beer as he watches the devastation unfold and waits for a satellite phone call that may or may not come from his father. there is no freedom there.
i'm searching for something more, and i won't fight until i know what i'm fighting for. that's a decent rule of thumb for those of us opposable enough to oppose one another.
i'd rather love you, like the guy in Starved. His girl makes him say "thank you, i love you" to everyone that annoys him in an effort to get him to recognize that everyone that he encounters and everything he experiences is a lesson in progress. he does it, but doesn't believe himself , so it comes of as rude. I don't mean it that way. I do love you. I don't care if I know you or not. I am willing to love you first. (is that true? i'm a real bastard sometimes). i want to love. i want to forgive. i want to move forward. i want to think of some other direction to move language. tonight, this is where the cartography stops.

vomit on the sidewalk

2008-08-28T22:37:00.002-04:00

the horrendous blisters on my index, ring and pinkie fingers are finally gone. i tightened my drum and ended up unable to play for a week. bending my fingers was excruciating. i haven't had rope burn like that since i was in preschool and for some reason thought it would be fun to see how far i could run with my forehead to the ground. that left the largest scab my forehead would wear until i was in 9th grade gym class. down in the locker room before Mr. Gross came in to make sure no one was smoking, i was smoking. there was a door at the top of five steps leading out to the driveway of the school and it afforded otherwise nervy adolescent boys the chance to calm themselves. only at the time they didn't see this as counterproductive, the rush it created when you knew you were just about to get caught. maybe that is what we find settling at times. at that time, i was morbidly afraid of getting caught smoking at school, as my willingness not to do this was the only conditional factor in my mom's willingness to buy me smokes. it still amazes me that she did that. she's a drug counselor and hates cigarettes. but back to the point. Mr. Gross was coming. It would be pertinent at this time to mention that in the locker room there was a large water pipe running the length of the ceiling, and where it went through the wall portions of the block had been chiseled away allowing the boys and girls to peer into one another's room. as an adult now, it amazes me that this was never spackled, as it would have been an easy fix. i had looked through the wall many times and was very well aware of the pipe. however, in my panic i forgot, and i jumped off of the top step as the door was closing behind me and Mr. Gross' footsteps were audibly close. the height of my lunge and the pipe were parallel until my forehead smashed into the pipe, knocking me horizontal. i landed flat on my back on the concrete and knocked myself unconscious. as Mr. Gross entered, I can only imagine that he was concerned. i came too as he was leaned over me saying my name. there was blood trickling down my face. As this was an older pipe (the school was built in the 30's) it was not smooth, hence the blood, and i had a definitive imprint of the pipe on my forehead for quite some time. i did not get caught smoking though. now that i think about it i have suffered multiple head injuries. i still have a scar from being drunk in college and twisting mark mustah's nipples hard enough for him to instinctively shove me away. we were in the stairwell and mark was mammoth in comparison to me. he was remarkably docile though for someone of his stature, which i always found to be very polite. and he felt terrible when he had to pick me up, blood trickling down my face and explain to my wife hours later when she finally found me in the bathroom being doctored up by drunken college boys that when he shoved me away i lost my balance and fell into the handrail, forehead first. i should've had stitches. and there's more, but i had no intention of writing about any of this when i sat down. the title of this post refers to something that happened today as i was headed into carnegie hall to drop off a proposal form for a writing workshop i would like to lead there. i was filling out the last portion of paperwork i needed before handing it in while garren was napping in the back. he'd been in the car with me all day and desperately needed a good nap, so i was trying not to finish writing. he felt the car sitting still though and woke up screaming, at which point i hurried my way out the door to get him. as i opened my door a peculiar smell hit my nose and i wondered why the streets smelled to bizarre, having noticed a scent i could not place after the rain two nights prior. as my foot hit the pavement though, i realized this had no greater connection to previously mysterious odors. i landed in an enormous pile of vomit. oatmeal consistency, with a wash rag haphazardly dropped just off center. given the size of this upchuck the wash rag was about as useful as a salad fork is for soup. as anyone who knows me will understand, i am a person who does not regularly wear close toed shoes unless it is winter. such was the case today and i ended up with some stranger's half digested muck between my toes. i did feel that my proposal was well received, and thanks to the rain these last few days i was able to properly wash my foot in the grass before entering the building. garren puked on me less than three hours later after i gave him his 5 o'clock bottle. i didn't eat anything today until 6 this evening, which apparently was not a bad decision after all.

awe them, dry era

2008-08-24T20:56:00.001-04:00

fever appears
muscles
ignore
functionality
and perhaps
the stain
you bled
circled
first

a photograph i have never seen

2008-08-23T01:20:00.000-04:00

“Do you want me to take your picture with him?”

I hadn’t seen my Aunt Sharon in two and a half years and this is the first thing she says to me. The decision to say yes or no was a perfectly stereotypical lapse in time. A frozen moment thawed by the friction of a nodding head.

Uncle Bill had moved to Florida before I was born. I met him once, when I was four. And
now I’m standing at his coffin wondering whether or not I should try and smile for the camera.

He came back to West Virginia in March so that he could die at home. He is the first of my father’s siblings to die of natural causes. Brother Bob died in a Jeep accident almost 40 years ago. Bill is the fourth of ten children. My father said that he could see the repetition of this ceremony becoming commonplace. His oldest sister is 72. My grandmother died when she was 78. Inevitable.

I said yes because I figured it was the only picture I would ever have with him.

Billy. Bill. Born. June 9, 1933. Webster Springs, West Virginia. Died. Easter Sunday. Buckhannon, West Virginia. Leaves. His wife. Four sisters. Four brothers. Preceeded. Parents. One brother. Remembered. Nieces. Nephews. Friends. Member. Methodist. Served. Army. Received.

The men in the room move stiffly and slow. Mapping steps to ensure the least amount of pain. Hips. Backs. Legs. Voices. Slipping. The women are drinking coffee, shivering in front of the air conditioning vent. Heel spurs. Diabetes. Kidneys. Shoulders. Everyone is saying something important.

what i wrote on the mirror (a dry erasure)

2008-08-21T20:51:00.002-04:00

if ever a better way appears before your eyes i might say look again. still the same backwards glance that has always been there. different hair, sure. the facial muscles shifted by double vision. how did we ignore this for so long? functionality questioned again and again and here it is, plain as the nose on yr face. and perhaps it will only half come out, like the stain from the ice cream you dribbled down yr chin that night when all the stars circled the moon above the backyard where we first found ourselves.

this much is true of everyone

2008-08-21T00:51:00.003-04:00

nothing better to do before bed than make good on commitment. no need to assume morality. the fan here makes like it's ready to fall from the ceiling. can't type i twice without things coming to mind. the erasing of individuality for place in the final hall of words. lasting just long enough to evade duration. our simple eyes see only so far in any direction. the scope of the road signs visible only to those with good vision from anything less than flashing distance. something overheard once goes silent until another moment makes everything relevant all over again. haunted. as you were. all the same. such awful phrases. petrified. i've held on to a piece of wood i acquired from matt upton on the bus in second grade. petrified wood. something holy about it then. nothing to read in to but emptiness. where is he? what children exchanged hands? i was the fastest at flash cards then. laughable now. the check book in shambles. one finger in the wrong place can ruin the keyboard. all of it gone. the random combination of sleep and overuse. the hands veering in and out of breakdown. like the transmission in the blazer inching up sandstone mountain on the way to pick her up. we packed the cinderella dress and black tights to stay warm. she stayed the night with her cousin. birthday party and a play. a photograph of my father between the step sisters. the first time his happiness has been captured in a while. how we watch one another trudge those long miles. sisyphus returns again and again. awakened each night by his screams of joy watching the boulder roll. i want to see the ground give way. take back what the companies have done. i want money too if this is what we need in order to survive. i prefer, however, paper that has something past the encryption. a language we can trust and use freely. clock ticks. not really. but the phrasing hasn't lost the digital edge yet. but the fan serves its purpose. more noise than necessary. reruns you've never seen before. what will this add up to after no one says a word? after thumbs replace the tongue i will argue the idea of hitch hiking being illegal. more than anything the rope burns have kept cracked fingers for several days now. a stiffened kind of pain. beard shaved too short. all of this a period of healing. of learning to listen to midnight screams and react according to what they say. not what i want. i am the type of person that needs to remind myself of things i should already know. frequently. a maker of lists. many of which never get crossed off. but every thought has led me to the place where other voices are speaking.

2008-08-16T22:32:00.004-04:00

fireworks audible in distance outside

other side of mountain

last night of state fair

visible if i weren't inside typing this

above the tree tops

but seen or not

seems weird knowing that

somewhere else it's gunshots

bombs going off

no pleasant sparkles

just the blisters across three fingers

tying down drums

to make a sound back at them

skin cracking

days in the sun

she comes home from the tanning bed

never knows the difference

what is taken from the other person

no one real necessarily

just the glass half empty type of thought
to make the individual whole

constant

consume(d)

by clouds that keep passing over

photographs someone else was giving away

2008-07-31T23:14:00.007-04:00

family reunion this past july
janet left a blue plastic basket
out on the table
for people to go through

what was leftover
she was throwing away

what was picked up:
my grandparents
50th wedding anniversary
march 1978
(two years before I was born)
my grandfather
(dead when I was two)
Rev. Forest Armentrout
holding up a glass candy dish
like he's making a toast
my grandmother
Milly
short for Bessie
once Eubanks
now celebrated Armentrout
two babies in her lap
one in my grandfather's
three children in front of them
all grand by that time
a black and white
my uncle hunter
when he was a teacher
he didn't know the year
when i showed it to him
my uncle hunter
smoking a cigarette
looking curious or peeved (?)
sometime in the 80's
me
maybe i'm five
barefoot
long stick in my hand
like a spear
in front of milly's trailer
in the background
someone
squatted down like a toad
a dog
just about to lunge
put
after something
in the distance
me again
same day
shoes on now
knee high socks
standing opposite
young girl
harmony?
looking across
foot bridge over small creek
henry's back yard
closer to the present
uncle bill
his wife mary lou
and his sister
aunt margie
how long before he died?
aunt phyllis and homer
smiling
timeless
aunt edith looking smug
drinking coffee
john and howard talk in front of her
Hunter
coffee
red shirt
you can tell he felt good
uncle bill and mary lou in 83
he looks tired
his ears large like
pawpaw's when he was old
(i only know his face old
i mean really know
and the details are hazy)
back in 78
phyllis
looking like i've never seen her
(she looks like milly now)
bill and mary lou
definitely 70's
silk red shirt him
striped red and white pants
her big cuffs and brown glasses
has to be in WV though
before move to florida
wood panels
afghan black and pastel colors
painting of a river
january 83
here she is in red stripes
horizontal not vertical
the stripes
definitely florida
in front of orange tree
they look plump
78
almost two o'clock in the afternoon
milly and pawpaw look tired
seated
he smiles
looks half behind him
her face
just above the vase of flowers
in the foreground
march 75
cousin tommy
margie's son
on a dock
red haired kid at his knees
bill beside him
with braces on his arms
why then but not in 83?
(the dates are printed)
winter 83
uncle henry
a hideous baby blue and white trucker hat
perched on his head
sticking his tongue out
milly's trailer in the background
two years ago
uncle hunter
an empty plate of food in his hands
hillside draped in sun and shadow
behind him
jan. 83
accidental silhouette
(one of my favorites)
two kids
headed out the door
wooden rail sleds
in hands
blurry polaroid
unknown man in far left corner
in rear
my dad
the slight top of someone's head
(blocked out by pawpaw's head from center)
uncle bob?
phyllis
edith
in front
john
aunt sharon
margie
henry
center
my grandmother and grandfather
kenny
my cousin
maybe 9
laughing hard at someone in a diaper
behind him someone's legs
a high counter
the tip of a cigarette
my dad and hunter
reunion
maybe three years ago
henry's yard
friday night tradition
angie
with katie on her lap
ayrella beside her
a puzzle between them all
2005
saturday
burnsville community center
2004
my dad and daisy
(holy shit he has gained weight
no wonder my mom teases him)
uncle bill
2004 or 5
before coming home to die
my dad in 2002
american flag bandanna
standing with grendel
and a stick for roasting hot dogs
henry in front of him
FDNY hat
the bill flat
bible in hand
me 2006
talking to cheryl
her eyes closed
a bad picture
me and angie
the year everyone wore american flag bandannas
my hair short
her belly swollen
she is grinning
the way that
only pregnant women can
ayrella in 2006
her hands held up to her chin
uncle john
early 80s
walking past a car
white jean jacket
tommy in the background
his hand
lost in a blurry receptacle
john and bill in florida
john looks like hunter s. thompson
henry with a baby
the lamp my grandfather made
out of the hub
of a wagon wheel
beside him on the table
summer after 5th grade
the year the reunion was at margie's
in ohio
and i spent most of the time
in a camper trailer
reading a book called The Fire
but here I'm out
smiling at my aunt sharon
blue WV t shirt
one huge balloon boob
the other
just popped by the needle
in my hand
you can actually see the needle
going for the second strike
in the photograph
i look ridiculous
a bright green georgetown hat
(i never liked sports, though wore sports paraphernalia)
a purple lightning bolt tank top
blue shorts
and white air jordan's
wow
janet in
god
the 70's
tammy faye makeup
staring down surprised at an envelope
maybe angry
john in background
by fridge
fucking amazing shirt
leaves or pumpkins
can't tell
me in ohio again
jesus
i forgot to mention
i have a mullet
05
bus henry sandy and john
standing in henry's driveway
posed
80s john
his shirt says kiss me
he is beneath the painting
of the old man
mid prayer
a loaf of bread and a bowl at the table
06
angie and bus talk about her aspirations of med school
a hat rack
in the shape of a mounted deer head
antlers for the hat hooks
on the wall
between
and behind them
janet and jeff
06
both looking grouchy
and fat
jeff is wearing badass sunglasses
kitchen
morning
uncle john and aunt margaret
smiling
animals boarder the room
wooden things he has cut
she has painted
everything there
looks full
06
angie pointing
kelly in her lap
her hair is so short then
naturally
my grandfather
the anniversary
his smile
a yellow flower on his suit
something in his hands
his smile
his nose
was the cancer there already?
his smile
looking out
across a room of his family

and counting F is four 50

2008-07-06T23:20:00.004-04:00

(first)

something about a number
always created an argument
deep in the
parts of the brain
recognized
alone
dark
and brimming on seconds
still watching someone else
stare at number 3
everyone the vouyerist
it feels better
just admitting
to thievery
break things up
doesn't work like
down
has so much
more
connotation
ignites like a common thread
dangling above a match
in calloused hands

(now)

from here it will get worse
far less kicks more ass
fingered braille across
forehead minutes left beneath
fingernail taps
fine the way he eats
foreigner defined as outside county lines
forbidden love an apparition
fabric catching certain colors of breath
focused on
first conversation
feminist
followed through years after
factual expansion
family session
finding anatomy of the collaborative wall
frame cracked middle bottom right
forty minutes past
frantic pauses
feeling at the breaking points
for a place where there is nothing
further your dishonor
finish what someone else
farted
found the way in
fourteen ways from Sunday
fermenting vegetables in the hot back seat
foul cloud around the horizon
flesh taste sweeter than expected
faint hint of
fat without the good knife
fairy tales would eat beef
fashioned after long talks
festivities exclude the unspoken
farms to something entirely different
frozen into history's apostrophe
fits of rage recur intermittent
fraternized some long ago
finality a small ultrasonic
face to outline and dream
feign quality to gain product
fury abounds at the closing of eyes
famous last words
future a little self serving
frail
fear mongering
fanny pack mom's
fondling closest pouch
forget me not
fixed upon the sacred vein

12 minutes to departure

2008-07-01T06:38:00.002-04:00

no one else awake
curious about the meaning beyond the house
the road wet
young man's back broken from stupid driving
someone once called a friend
replaced by quickened pumping of blood
hot memory on the edge of the forehead
it is
above all
an opportunity
for the betterment of everyone involved
potentially
that is
and who is to say what is to be done with potential
until it has already been done
then it becomes
who says something
about the ability
to learn from a mistake
to greet freedom without running away
so many decisions perpetuating the lost
there is no cause for the itching
outside the sun
barely visible
like the dream of your breath at my ear
how we rolled over conscious enough only to kiss
instigated by some presence
between us
time passes between secrets
but there was a hibait of never needing to say anything
which is how it got to be so fucked up in the first place
but that was then
this is
early and
so far have we traveled
what calculation of distance could possibly
represent
the sounds since the first time
rolling in
and out of bed together?
perhaps the number of bodies
brought home
is the only indication any of us have
not in the sense of lust
but those created out of
those with little names and
how fragile our committments
rendered forever
by the recognition of how much loss
becomes an unthinkable
no less inevitable
feature
of love
that we accept with arms
wide as a lens
to capture all of this at once

suspicious behavior from the dog

2008-05-16T22:26:00.002-04:00

an out standing veterinary bill began a sickening declination. hours of loud conversation had everything drained where food was leftover in the sink. clean dishes waiting to be put away. dirty dishes ready to be clean. later an hour of screaming before being pacified. no regular schedule this evening. stirring through empty pots. he sniffs a localized leg before heading back to lick the carpet. agitated by the way it all went down. he never bothers to plan far ahead. a personal deployment of.something to be said in some other sentence far far away from any tongue you'll only know as well as water rises how dry my mouth this evening. how calm it feels. his eyes slowly open again. perpetual hiccups. back into the dark a sound comes from small white circle. if we make where we go? more time scratching that writing. no reference or hidden agenda. an explanation to parents slow march from mouth to ear. brilliant ignorance of time. a child outside the idea of weeks. someone in the room still left to decide the future. the body not quite visible on the desk but no less recognized beside old drum beats people don't play the same anymore. she keeps scratching, sneaking on to a blanket in the back bed room. the last three weeks mixed with new life and severe dehydration. after trimming the vicious breed of pine tree, thin vines of poison blistered arms. took a match in one hand, red hot needle in the other. smooth holes bright white for days before. still in the stages of healing hand butchered beside last fire with a friend before loading couch on u-haul cold morning. next days blurred by inability and sleep. shitting gallons in crippling intervals. realized no piss five days later. back spasms. came out pale. eight pounds lighter. no answers.
keeps breathing out of sync. feet seems less chewed than usual. masticate everything within reach. use bigger words. say more. say anything. fingers slowed to thoughtful pose before wasting seconds other things might have captured. put down the idea of writer as self righteous and pick up a fucking book. see what it says. see what you say. a vocabulary after multiple intelligences. completely shifting gears the way to work blocked by flipped truck dangling above crevice from guardrail. it will be quite a while, he said. only one way to get there. play the same songs throughout life and remember every moment that comes with them. they can all hear more than credit can afford. all the. shit. in maelstrom we feel right at home. everything back to normal. the excitement of feeling like you might be overwhelm,ed at any moment. swallowed completely. in debt. deeper than your foul mind can take you away from. beyond the fear is an exit sign. a door made to look dangerous. you kick the bastard right out of the jamb and walk in unannounced. when the phone rings you can pick it up and scream the final time, no more screening, a clear glass you can't ever fuck with me again. and it's so beautiful. a chapter.
something like a hammered timer. a clock to determine the point beyond which one can count on time. all the newest philosophies totally unexpected. quivering in dreams no one will ever interpret. the floor occupied more often than any other surface. outside the disease lingers. on warm days the smell of the neighbor's goat shit rots the breeze. even the flowers look bitter. reduced to beauty objectified. the parting of the sensory. one of the recent inclusions to the ongoing soundtrack. hiccup. dreams move the feet across ghost land. his cries return. postpone decision. keep talking to the young girl that believes people who feel pain is inescapable should be left alone. her eyes darken upon reflection of the hospital. a generation of early victims. lost in hopeful oblivion. it makes no sense. mired everyday in indecision. the needle blistering dry the poison never hurt. neither did the matches. a slight blink where a flame used to be. innocuous enough to have managed so much havoc. long sleeves for weeks until someone asked. the truth as brutal as the assumption, just different corners of depravity. leaves you wondering after departing in bursts of laughter. why can he rattle off so many lines from silence of the lambs. when the limbs are young they aren't recognized. flailing wildly against the blanket an alienated moment, the mind distant enough from the body to witness it objectively. on the other side of every exhalation your first breath ready to be again the moment before the agreed upon moment arrives on either side of epiphany.

songs of the dead

2008-05-07T08:23:00.003-04:00

where do we fade in from/ this beat of confusion/ come in to the world screaming/ so many words between/ screaming the way to surface/ turned around and shoved back the way we came/ same voices halt progress regardless of time or place/ same words challenge strength to stand the fuck up/ to scream OUT/ even if all other ears are deaf/ never stop/ let the pace change/ glorious transitions make legendary stories/ told over saddened notes/ we lament this eternal thing/ between progress and tradition/ until eventually/ we ask why enough/ we get angry or passionate or fed up enough/ to sing/ to acknowledge everything seen/ all we have been through/ all we refuse to tolerate/ until we outnumber them, they will outnumber us/ unless we sing into coming darkness/ there will be no light

glory is another brown ale

2008-03-24T23:26:00.004-04:00

not about drinking
about savoring taste
the vestigial harbor somewhat more distant than once conceived
a gross underestimate between the shell and the cracking
coat hanger bent toward desperate purpose
smoke the same color regardless
with exception to incident of explosion
auto shop less than quarter mile away
plume of black smoke
beyond dog play in yard
squeaking of toy outsounded by gas tank's plunge
onto electrical wire
no one beyond repair but the building
community brought to action moment of need
his hands badly burned
no local intensive care had him airlifted
no word since/ sense
she said years ago that innocence was a fence in a sense
never listened at the time
can't hear over own screams now
sound will become familiar
is born familiar territory anymore?
a classic unnamed but no less recognized
like the attic door walked into HARD
the floor felt after self induced knock down
eyes closed a long while
an instantaneous hand
faster than backspacing bad ideas
laughable
lack of blood often a good sign
as it is bad
swelling feet exhibited a day too long on record
the sound too long on repeat
the feeling
slow to start up again after letting things get so quiet
inside always a noise worth taking note of
but
all these days
between having fallen even harder than the metaphor
six years
4000 represents only a small portion
new mouth says there is no end in sight
no fucking shit
both a comment and a rule
no end in sight
no end in seeing how far distance can elude
no end to death
no end to death
allen said
figure it out in bowel movements
perhaps not plural
a test of someone else's standard
worth nothing in the end
no end to the end
if the beginning is seen
so too or not
we don't say that anymore to close
the language has learned to speak for itself
how about that?
a houseful of material
and a boy
without time for his own life
nothing but sitting at the computer
coming up with god ideas that go no where
now
where to start
each day a choice
each end
prompting the rid of that hideous pen
finally
still in the box
after only being used as a wand among mushrooms
christmas
when sickness interrupted cold
a fire toxic enough
transmogrify hands perch
outward to some more extensive
hold that kiss against the sun
instructions about pants and the decline of eyes
anymore doors don't need locking around here
nothing coming in or out
but bullshit
like nothing coming in or out
remember
no end to death
and even then someone out there saving letters you wrote
when your heart acknowledged another
inspiration
spin at ion writhing
no one to answer the phone
only after everything
will clarity become clouded
and we will search for it all over again
just like we already are
yes
just like we already are
dying and being born at the same time
mother
father
that way the music continues through the night
plans are made for the weekend
the bottle rattles against the table with every move
a gross underestimate of the eggshell hatching
all of us watching it crack
as if everything would happen afterward
and nothing convinces the child of abandoning belief
only the adult
ratchet strangled to death on the television
of the mind
an eye moves in ten minute sequences
your own or someone else's
depending on comprehension of time
davey said the roof wouldn't be held up anymore
and peter said grief waters two gardens
when ben's birthday looked back over thousands of bodies
all the children that year
born among the dying
as brilliant
and as lost
as anything that had come before
deception or eyelids
?
who knows the result of that formatting
won't even bother to ask
as many already
a smile
sudden alarms
selective ears
smell
all in the face
closed eye changes rest of body
can you see me there?
first time coming out in the open dark
glowing around every point of light
obvious
he slapped himself in the face
to laughter and familiarity
like family
there is no end
sleeping hearts beat
air in constant motion
out of nowhere the air is in constant motion

during the phone call

2008-03-02T21:36:00.003-05:00

away sound pattern silence over whatever comes across marginal disposition wavering serious doing talk with hands slower than tan active oil there the porch outsources flag cramp production pause to itch face water linger behind clean slate still looks erased all it is an exact way vacated lambaste cycle wedge level descent complied weather prior to greetings and repeated pause entire motion body participates open to suggestion just a place december longer hour under quiet no word to follow articles vertically on accident
she offered intently number unnamed hope wanting irony never ask picked birthdays no weird like it when you're gone the phone rings and suddenly it comes together and the speed almost burdens the idea we hear but not always from who is wanted reach out like a drug pretend you're not pretending to pretend pretending i can hear you hours after last speaking answers active in a realm only thought knows the other side of the volume words exit with more caution where telling twists any tongue close enough to god to give a name or pass the urge to visit the far away sound chaos congratulations coming to a close sooner or later regardless laughter before you leave if anything

Off the Road--After Laurie Anderson's On the Road

2008-01-27T14:37:00.000-05:00

My daughter didn’t nap in the crib until long after she stopped breastfeeding. She always nursed to sleep and her sense of departure could take her out of a coma. My girlfriend and I were both undergraduate students, so when I got home from class she had to study. The only way to get this done was for her to nurse just before I got there, allowing me time to get her in the car and spend at least two hours a day driving on roads free of traffic.

I was low on personal time and driving gave me a chance to think. I’ve always traveled back roads to really understand West Virginia, now to get my daughter to sleep, to meditate. Ayrella and me are pretty fond of gravel roads; they have a nice rocking effect about them. You have to be somewhat adventurous too, because most of the time, you don’t know where you might end up until you get there. I had discovered on a previous outing that Laurel Mountain Road connected Randolph and Barbour counties—areas that are only a few miles apart on the highway, but took some ninety minutes if you went over the mountain, a perfect time to suit my purposes.
Mountain roads have countless drivable paths, some more treacherous than others, but almost all of them have or have had something to do with the logging industry. The more dangerous ones serve as a popular destination for teenagers (some of them older than the term allows) with four-wheel drive vehicles that wish to discover the local past time of four-wheelin, a.k.a mudd’n. The other, more drivable roads attract anyone who enjoys the national recreation of space cruising. Having dabbled in each category myself, I am now, with the baby in the back, creating some strange fusion of the two. Somewhere near the top of Laurel Mountain I pass through an open gate onto a well-driven turn off. I was hoping for a longer ride into Barbour County.
The passengers in the only vehicle I’ve seen or heard in over an hour return my wave with scowls. In the rear-view mirror I could make out the words Scott Cook Logging on the tailgate of their truck. Those assholes were gonna lock the fucking gate, I could see it coming.
Trees are on all sides now, thinning with the road. I stop when I come to their machines, exit quietly and pick up the biggest rocks I can lift above my head. I set them in the floor on the passenger side and turn the car around. I stopped again several feet in front of the gate, which was held shut by three Master Locks and quarter-inch chains. The earth around sloped drastically, up to my left, down to my right. Choiceless, I heaved the small boulders until each of them ricocheted toward the valley below.
Wonder how bad it’ll fuck the car up if I try and drive through this thing?
I ask myself this and realize that I’m driving my mom’s car, my own having been totaled in a recent accident that involved my girlfriend’s first “girl’s night out” since pregnancy and the parked car she dragged twenty feet away from it’s spot.
I’m stuck and Ayrella’s awake. I’m at least fifteen graveled, curving miles from home. I’m supposed to pick up my girlfriend from jail in twenty minutes… I’m freaking out, but there’s a truck engine roaring in the distance. It passes as I hit the road, arms flailing, screaming “Waaaaaaaaaaaaiiiit!” One of the six kids in the back gets the Dad to stop. His name is Sunny. Three more kids are shooed into the back to make room for us.
How the hell d’you get stuck back there bud?
We pulled into my driveway as he was shaking his head, chuckling, “Fuckers.”

The Difficulty of Effort

2008-01-27T14:34:00.001-05:00

I will think of this house when I am old,
never having been quite sure if the blue paint
peeling even in the winter sun wasn’t really lead, or
if anyone has ever truly cared.

Our lawn is always the last to get cut,
and the only one with dandelions;
they fill the back yard, taking what little
attention that can be drawn away from
the dilapidated grapevine,
the sagging rear end of the place,
and the shingles that dance down into the grass
each time the rain is accompanied by wind.

We earned a reputation with the neighborhood simply
by choosing to rent this property, but we refused to live up to it.
I’ve paid for five blades and three mowers to keep
the grass tame for two short summers—due in part to my
own lack of hesitation, but primarily as the result of
undisclosed tree stumps, bricks, and rock gardens.
One round of full-body,
FULL-BODY
Poison Ivy, two pairs of sheers and a saw
to trim the shrubs when we moved in;
infinite cans of wasp and hornet spray,
ant bombs, and monthly visits from the exterminator to
discourage the insects who have established residence
in the storage room beneath the breakfast nook, yet
these things go unnoticed by our voiceless neighbors.

The birds have taken over since the cat died,
but if the dog can lick her way through the
kitchen floor (a task towards which several
hours of her day are focused) then she might get to the main nest
before the flock migrates south… that leaves her
a good six months.
Other dog leaves trails of hair behind him that
exhaust the second vacuum cleaner— the first having
been permanently defiled by the smell of
the ladybugs that were unaffected by the afore
mentioned pesticides— and the second carpet— whose
predecessor had been generously marinated in the urine
of both the bird dog, the cat, and her late night
prowling boyfriends— nonetheless we sweep and we love
this place that hasn’t been loved in decades,
and what remains is a paradoxical struggle between
regeneration and death.

I am a father here, realizing
age for the first time and am thus surrounded on all
sides by things growing and things returning. I am a young,
unmarried man, living with my love of seven years
and our eighteen month old daughter in a conservatively diverse
region at the heart of Appalachia; we rent this house
from the biggest slumlord in a little town and we have so far
paid him upwards of $13, 000 for this leaky roof, this potentially
fatal paint job, this half-acre jungle…
this beautifully painful period of our lives.

The Husband Listens to Himself Speaking, Finally

2008-01-27T14:32:00.001-05:00

I hate mornings like these,
unable as I am
to determine what role I’m playing
in your emotional status.

I wonder if you even realize the messages
conveyed by your eyes;
reflection of the inheritance I cannot protect you from,
ancestry you do not deserve.

Years of unresolved occasions
make dog hair piled on the carpet
seem much worse, but I should be wary
of such comment.

I had no intention of diminishing your reality
or displacing acknowledged blame from myself.
I know
that I do not meet your expectations of perfection
and that I should contribute more
around the house.

These short years of readjustment
have had little impact on those
spent soaking up examples that do not meet the standards
of this new life,
which is how the dishes came
to spend last week bathing in the thickening aroma
of food that was never rinsed from my plate.

For what it’s worth, the house is clean now,
empty, silent, and I have no idea where you are.

No/ for Ayrella Lorien

2008-01-27T14:30:00.000-05:00

My spine shakes sometimes,

listening

in constant amazement
as you declare the transcendent sentiment
of expression that exceeds
communicable barriers of all cultures.

…the proclamation of defiance
…the statement of opinion
…the foundation of change

Even at your most unbelievable moments
I hesitate in my assertion of parenthood,
knowing full well what that simple syllable
provides you;

how it becomes rooted in all
that you will grow to believe
and the intensity of everything you reject.

Origin

2008-01-27T14:26:00.000-05:00

I said my first curse word when I was two years old. Or so I’m told. Apparently I was sitting in my high chair and dropped whatever I was eating at the time, looked down and said, “Damn it.” My sister loves telling the story. I don’t know where I might have picked it up because neither of my parents swears under anything but extreme circumstances. By the time I was old enough to understand the taboos of curse words, I was constantly inquiring when and if it would be acceptable for me to use them. My mom has committed to memory several of her favorite moments of such inquiry, all of which happened before I was 10. Like on the way to pick up one of my sister’s from somewhere, maybe I am 5, and from the recesses of the back seat of her station wagon I break the silence.

“Mom?"
“Yes honey.”
“If we get into a wreck and all of the tires explode and we don’t make it to pick Debbi up on time, can I say ‘shit’ then?”
(She must have been shaking her head, half grinning) “No honey. You should try not to say that word.”
“I know, but what if…”

And her answer was firm until I was in the third grade. By this point, away from her earshot of course, I was saying words that I didn’t understand. My best friend Shane and I flipped each other off because we thought it was funny. When his little brother flipped us off, we told on him like we’d never seen such awful behavior from a child. Our tree house was adorned with magic markered pictures of a species we had named the peckerfish. While under the protection of our neighborhood’s forest haven, we littered our minds and our tongues with every word that we weren’t supposed to say. And contrary to popular belief it wasn’t TV that taught us these words. While the TV did offer creative uses, we learned the words from our new favorite book, Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. And we used them like headlights, turning them on when we couldn’t see where to go. Like anytime we were in the presence of Denise Utt. She was the most gorgeous woman we had ever seen. She was the next door neighbor, and blonde, absolutely stunning, a senior in high school, my sister’s best friend, and best of all, she was my babysitter. We tried to act tough, like we were older than we were, but deep down we knew we were going home later to take a bubble bath and get tucked in. She knew it too, but she played it off so well we thought we were kings. And then one night I remember waking up, my mom hovering over me asking if I was okay. There had been a loud noise. We looked out my window together, and there was Denise’s house swallowed in flames. I got up and walked out to the drive way with my mom. Everyone had gotten out okay, but it was still one of the biggest things that ever happened in our neighborhood.

“Mom?”
“Yes honey”
“Is it okay if I say ‘shit’ now?”
“Yes Timothy. You can say ‘shit’ now.”

Pledge

2008-01-25T22:51:00.000-05:00

Picked up Death and Fame this morning
Coffee and a Big Apple pancake
3 ravens perched
when fog lifted out of valley
the dryer started horrible noise
ultrasonic squeaking
dog toys dog toys
everyone coughing
all my life
obsessive rounds by the window
expecting nothing
but anxiety
half way between
action and spiritual cramps
responsibility postponed signals
auto-pilot
the job you can't stand
people you love
within reach of contact
overwhelmed question okay
okay
what's wrong can't produce
answers
spatially disoriented tongue
no proper spout on the brain
her eyes glared upward
face dropped slight degrees
just before she spoke
and walked away
to sleep
coins drop in a jar
animal hair dust devils tip toe
driveway
pant legs stepped on
her cracking ankles
only sounds
light switch
breathing
notation still gives language sound
closes the drawer at nap time
occupy separate rooms
month old balloon catches current
kitchen floor
it slows down
forever
my legs crossed on the couch
Saturday half over
no plan for dinner
containers nearing or empty
take it all in
do nothing
avoid it talk loud and stop
asking the same questions
there will be more speaking
tongues unhooked by hand

space between promises

2007-12-27T23:37:00.000-05:00

we keep to ourselves
around here
less spontaneous than dogs
eagerly fleeing confines of the kitchen
to chase bones
stray cats of a different color
than the one we named
upon first moving in

the way we greet water
our tongues
curved toward taste
so hard to breathe
liquid does so much
for us
it was never about
the complication

only air
room to breathe
and say the same thing twice
to no more avail
than
time to open doors

in the dark

2007-12-09T20:17:00.000-05:00

typing by the light of the screen
listening to a distant debate about the realtionship of
wookies and ewoks

too much dork, even for me
i am so lost in my own words lately
the idea stuck between

my fingers and my brain
fighting for dominance
and i can ahrdly think through

the window is covered
porch newly decorated with seasonal lighting
more wood split for the stove

i have found new friends
aware of breece pancake
the tragic history of regional fatalism

and my job is not fulfilling
but where the idea that
it should be

she apologizes
water runs from pipe to machine
our clothing freed of stains

gutters clean
a warm day before
cold again

this last week
i was the only decent driver
staffed in a system of security

so many accidents
to drive by
headphoned and oblivious

how is it that the worst
has become a viable option
i don't want to discuss money

the holiday repulse
nothing new to say
about bank accounts

but i have distanced myself
from wires and the like
after years of attachment

and the light is just fine
my face warm before
the open doors of the stove

the ashes shoveled out
by morning
red will have taken over brown

and identity will be revealed
by tuesday becasue these kinds of things
are easily scheduled nowadays

against the car window spoken silently

2007-11-26T21:43:00.000-05:00

to think in terms of a tape recorder
without the ridiculous feeling of talking to oneself
soundtrack of the otherwise passed by
horizon sliver of light in distance
sound of their coughing together
attempt to reconsider
something better left to longer lines of thought drawn out or
to speak as means of preserving the instantaneous
the guaranteed inspiration of a deer running through an open filed in early morning Alderson just past the river of life, and turning the corner to see a deer skinned and hung from front yard tree. there is a reason to it all. sometimes easier to sense than the sight of her clutching chest and joking remarks of heart attacks in the absence of sincerity among the mormon mafia.
yes
they exist and we have to remember the power they have assumed
but it isn't you anymore in question than the thought of how we all sat there together
how i sit here now thinking of something sat there thinking when there was a position in constant transit
traffic limited to rain drops and dead squirrels, only avoiding insult to injury
there is no form to this
it is broken and my
bank breaking
logs so red hot after these hours unattended
dinner was right
and you were there through it all
something she will never forget
longer than a word
our lives wrap boxes in tape to be stored for most of a year until taken out and
she smiled at the movie while we spread false libs to fill real holes in the aesthetic of our theft
why can't we not be
like an afternoon alone in a room with a pen and a small black journal close to empty's end and nothing new to say
nothing new to say it in that will preserve the immediate fast enough
it has rained for two straight days and still the fire burns hotter than the season warrants
so much ash to sweep off of shoulders
backspacing and backspacing
never uncovering what was known lost as soon as silence thought it into being a quiet dream to be lost again
down the road someday
she warns of the tires poor response to anything but perfect weather
purity is the root of all evil
an efficient way of dealing with the perpetual failures of
light stretched across the sky as it
it was dark and light at the same time
together everyday to do nothing
i watch the children of dawn wither at the root
sheltered from sunlight
tweed coat shrubs who believe themselves taller than reality
and sometimes you can watch it on the verge of collapse and not give a fuck about spelling things the right way
i never learned to surf
and this sliding sensation
dusty springfield in the background makes no sense to them
i want out of this dichotomy
excuse me
my receipt please
surrender the idea of this ever working
let it hit the ground and i will remain on the top of the mountain where i have come from and where we will all return
because we found each other on top of mountains
making a small hill of the world
and the creator smiled as we ascended
drunk from the night before
and full of new mimosas a perfect breakfast in the buff
red fox slipped out of the photograph
the song changed and was not pleasant to the ear at the time
so the road wound down into the town that industry ignored
after everyone got what they wanted
and everyone else
stayed in the flood plains
to build a life from empty factories and leftover glass

Save a Turkey, Eat More Words

2007-11-25T09:37:00.000-05:00

I said it when I answered the phone knowing it was her, thanks to caller id. She didn't get it. I knew she wouldn't. I said it again and there was silence, followed by, "huh?" I gave up and relinquished to small talk, even thought the intentionof the call was to inform of her departure and provide an estimated time of arrival. It was nice to hear her, nicer to see her. Although we left early because of vomit and a spiked fever. She said she was sorry even though it wasn't her fault. For the situation, she corrected. We are too, but we still leave. It takes me an over an hour to get the wood stove hot again. We forgot to turn the heat on when we left and now our breath is visible indoors. The bedroom stayed warm, so the girls huddle there and watch movies while I tend the fire. In the night, her fever rose to 104. There is no primary care facility within an hour's drive, and locals are known for saying that they wouldn't visit the ER if a bone was protruding. So we do what we can...cool baths, popsicles, tylenol. And in the morning it's down to 99. The fire is low now, my coffee cup empty. Our stories don't end, but rather suffer a series of multiple and questionably necessary interruptions.

something that would otherwise be left blank

2007-11-19T20:50:00.000-05:00

to offend, at least requires speaking, or language. physical or verbal. a message sent through eyes, fingers, mouth. upon receipt acknowledged. you can figure out how the level of sincerity by the increase of por grammar. i talk to no one but myself, in writing anyway. so here we are again. time for another backspace. a film to celebrate the onset of vacation. i have abandoned making sense here. it's quiet. i can see my breath in the morning on the way to work. the wood stove keeps the house sweltering. i was able to talk to several good friends this weekend. it is a joy to have this ability. so i'm saying/ writing now that i am making an effort to use itmore consciously. i offend myself when i am quiet. when i fall asleep drunk at the computer, or worse, when i fall asleep sober before i have given myself the opportunity to put anything down from the day. there are times when i have no idea what to say, but i find that here i can make my fingers work...see myself breathing a bit longer before thigns evaporate. the sun comes out. the embers in the stove start a new fire if the logs are willing. i enjoy listeing to allen read "transcription of organ music" on the way to work. he saw the presence of the creator, he was gifted with poetry. i have told him in my own way. what will we say of each other through the syllabi we create but cannot always teach...at least not out in the open.

the inexpressable

2007-11-18T21:16:00.000-05:00

instead of an attorney
you've already
offered a name
for the responsible
when and if
in the event of
spelled out circumstance
thought about
when drunk
are you already?
(i suppose this indicates so)
the metaphor of inability
to neatly document
closing parentheses
around numbers
defining what we can
of the life we've lived
assurance of birth
a celebrated date
for the sake of
shameless self promotion
otherwise referred to as
insurance
policy and procedure
prevention of affordable
demise
call it catch-22
can't nobody even
close hands around
make a fist
or sense
of what's above dotted lines

notes on a subordinate in a dominant position

2007-10-05T22:29:00.000-04:00

curse
eating

under
taboos constantly
committed
to

break the silence

tires explode

shaking you should try not to
say

we'd never
adorned a species
littered
tongues
belief
learned
we couldn't see

the presence

we tried to act like

kings and then

we swallowed

flames

in the clearing

2007-09-02T21:43:00.000-04:00

Can’t think straight through all this claimed space. The occupation of boxes obstructed view from the bedroom we left behind for the futon and less dog hair the way you offer to do dishes when my wrists go numb. Always checking back in to find a way to stop feeling. Fingernails sharp. Dirt beyond what anyone wants to hear about. Empty. More boxes to fill up and no direction. Time escapes. Sneeze. A reason to look the other way.

black book black box

2007-08-15T21:25:00.000-04:00

the urge to repeat sensation
so far beyond solitary
song played over again
at low volume
she reads before dreams
established connection
removing bedsores from
cadaver while dad thought
dinner that wouldn't
resemble the day's curriculum
vegetables are always healthy
and somehow frequenting
the moment of
something stupidly contradicting
supposed cleverness
what music isn't stolen
plucked from air
made of echoes
suggest new pens
not worth bargain
or a moment's second thought
before moving forward
reminisce
every lived cliche
presented elsewhere
(not you)
and lost in music any chair
is comfortable
distraction never really far
enough out
the yard dark
full of bugs
good for smoking nights
forced occasionally
by disposition
a habit
of not looking back
from the left
a fascination with bones
adjusting new frames
knock here and there
old windows will open
matches refuse to go out
of style
tabloids so pleasant lately
false idols fall apart
their creator without comment
irritation of skin
random turn down
same amount of time
just observe the giant tree
to your right
not too close now
questions arrive about martyrdom
one good stick by every exit
to walk
or defend by instinct
pursuit of
void
the line damaged
ears drawn perform
according to
disappearing
it's all a point of view
taking spaces on occasion
like drinks
empty is a debate
pages long
the beginning
so hazy
after you've been there

first morning after arrival

2007-07-25T13:13:00.000-04:00

The eggshells crack
Rain outside
The temperature so low in comparison to vacation
We reenter routine
Searching for a longer line
But these short
Moments of clarity
Fill the void of an absent sun

The mail is full of books
And over coffee phone rings
Always the conversation unexpected
Waiting so many months on a confirmation
That will not happen
Resigned to maliciousness
Language evades situation
Leaves the speaker mute

Separation of objects stitched to the heart
No laughing matter
But we live in hysterics regardless
Attach our bodies to sensation
Relinquishing ownership
Of everything
But the tremble
Placed upon the tongue

I Am

2007-07-22T21:38:00.000-04:00

finally back on my own blog
unemployed
on vacation
typing at my sister's computer
(all her keys are white and i find it very odd)
happily the owner of:
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
The 50th Anniversary edition of Howl
The Spoon River Anthology
cracking open bottles of wine i've never tried
listening to my daughter prepeare for bed
tired
compelled by the past and present in the state of Virginia
aware of the fact that I have been living from a distance
now back in a zone of communication
going to the beach tomorrow
then driving home
writing this mostly for myself

published

2007-06-15T22:00:00.000-04:00

check out the new issue of not enough night

space to fill

2007-05-26T13:00:00.000-04:00

with obligations
always pressure
to create a pattern
of repetition
often unwanted
by participants
tired and sore
resigned to please
a birthday present
patterned after birth
perhaps an accidental
pedestal for his
co-o-o-o-o-o-o-ck
absence replaced
forever by replicated
dreams made solid
behind the wheel
in the direction
of home he
thinks about more
than he can stand
on the pedal
and the trip lasts
forever repetitive
straight roads
or mountains
same time either way
a birthday pass out
substitutes a long week
where he waits
on the comfort
of honoring
everything she does

something he does during bedtime

2007-05-10T19:58:00.000-04:00

the corner of a face smiling
the perfect protrait

someone known in a life left behind
someone always dear to the heart
made immortal by the lifetime of memory

all noticed as of late is change
a sense of detailing senses
of leaving the censored at bay

and once by the ocean we screamed from separate continents
i never knew your name and never wanted to
the message is clearer that way

and after the rain we walked among the eager spiders
noticed a green sludge
and renamed it

at a party a room full of young women
drink from penis straws
call it preparation for marriage

america has strange methods of meditation
practice traveling the same path twice a day
mowing the grass in mid day sun

call it what you will
these strange days have found us
left us lying in the dark without dreams

the margins

2007-05-07T20:29:00.000-04:00

Between the grass he cuts
a life without i-pod
and something received in the mail from a stranger
now acquaintances
they gather together for showers
set beers down and forget to pick them up again
make horrendous comments about the boss
make even bigger plans to leave him crippled with guilt
the moment the job is done
always on the fringe
scraping the legs along sharp evergreen
doing the trim
she had turkey for lunch
said it smells like smoke in here
was corrected
to redirect a familiar odor elsewhere
toward the life of a lawyer
embedded with outlaws and poets
stringing a new perception from the same old
situations he'd love to understand but never will

the sun slides into mountain horizon
blankets turned down inviting sleep
and more
depends on the room
without a view it's all just orange paint
a shower you can see through
the crack in the door the sliver of light
passing through
inability to sleep so sexy
just boring after a while
the stimulation passes
a car in the middle of the night
fragrant jars approach empty
cuticle lacerations
an awkward position to halt

false face must hide what the false heart doth know

2007-04-09T20:02:00.000-04:00

He came home nauseated. He tried to forget. He had received advice once to not attempt dividing his time between work and home and self, but instead understand all experience as "your time" and avoid waiting on a pocket of the day set aside for such a thing. He liked the sound of it. He was free of division. He was consumed. He didn't know who he was. He wondered what it must look like from outside. His feet filthy. His toes bleeding. Stoicism becoming a mask. Concealed by a tongue trained to be quiet he let the Butcher continue slow murders. He let the Butcher prevent them all from feeling at home. He drank down guilt and threw it back up. He was teaching himself to make the forest come to life.

sometimes on sunny days

2007-04-03T19:31:00.000-04:00

It was something perpetually running through his mind. Growing with each day's experiences. He requested a lunch date that was promised but ignored. He had planned on feeling out the situation one more time before passing the judgements he had retained. The Butcher believes himself a shaman. Carries pockets of different colored rocks to remove different kinds of evil from the chakras. Relates things to the metaphor of his own reconstructive surgery, the value of not knowing how things might turn out. Appropriates theory he does not fully understand and calls it his own. These are the complications he recognized upon first being introduced to the Borrower of Robes. Things he was willing to remain open-minded about at the time. This was prior to his understanding of the negligence trial. The suicide. The other, slower deaths Cawdor the Crownless chalked up to a veering off from the path of virtue he was clearing.

detestable ring tone

2007-04-02T20:30:00.000-04:00

The question repeats in so many different contexts. What is your intention? Sick of answering he begins to raise his voice a little. Adds an expletive for emphasis. He listens to the voice on the other line tremble a bit. Stutter. The conversation backtracks, explains itself a little more. He raises his voice louder in order to establish a boundary. He continues to find more and more reasons to loathe his job. He is compelled more and more every day to put the stories down. To make himself less crazed in the process. To purge the language of recovery. To expose it. To make the truth known. To destroy their quantified figures of success with examples from the reality they attempt to create. The phone calls from prison. The spiraling return to life as it used to be. The Butcher of Cawdor hidden in Mormon robes. He knows what they will say. He knows what he will say when confronted with their questions of intent.

other than work

2007-03-27T09:40:00.000-04:00

a method of coffee and avoiding a clean house. problems of a breathing nature. in retrospect, the last year riddled with sinus infections. good music though. the combinations of smoke and habit make for long recovery. if only the routine could be more productive. it's mostly a screen, fingers, random intervals of clicking. has this already been said? how many times has that been asked? some say insanity and/ or depression is the repeated application of failed strategy with an expectation of quantifiably different results. that train left the station early. a reminder to remain focused. a simple vocabulary. catapulted into this we try to explain ourselves, the elation to others. like a willful hallucinator speaking to a sober room, shut down. odes to loafing and invitation, my great grandfathers are louder than student loans.

Notes/ Poem Listening to Silas House

2007-03-15T20:13:00.000-04:00

From: The Coal Tattoo

--Eastern Kentucky
--Mother orphaned, raised by older sister.
--Intensely different personalities. "She always wears red."
--Continued to live side by side throughout adulthood
--Unconditional relationship; sister/ sister, mother/ sister, mother/ daughter
--How do we make up so many times throughout life?
--"Sisters (people) don't make up, they go back to the way things were."
________________________________________________________________

His voice
at home
the sound, the listening
about moonlight
farther
guitar echo toward memory
images of cigarette rebels
the longing
faster
feeling like they looked
Samuel becomes an archetype
notes of our own making
made timeless
too much perfume
a distraction from ancestry
warm spread out
sticks become embers
radiant language of old flames
skies without differentiation
from god
to dark houses
love
(is the weight of the world)
shimmer distorted
his poems
felt in veins
at home in the order
blood movement
intention of pulse is life
it seemed forever
"full of the spirit"
and they retreated
to a sense of happiness
ignorant of sin
arms wrapped around mountainsides
something heavier
lately
smells of all night
the push and pull of participation
afraid
we may never know
what it feels like
one hand poised
the verge of movement

Spring Writers Week

2007-03-15T20:09:00.000-04:00

too much between between both both

2007-03-07T20:31:00.000-05:00

empty or full is no longer part of the equation. a thick accent. sirens constant. the snow and the writing come back together. hours talking. smoking. television. lost. lost. how many words can gain meaning with repetition? become poetic theory. eat it for breakfast. the recordings. really nothing here now. numerically induced ringing. familiarity. on the roof of a thought broken off. new valley view. moving moving. soon soon. distraction distraction.

notes:

2007-02-23T13:05:00.001-05:00

(1)

on the random fluctuations of heart beat during occurrences of philosophical debate, otherwise referred to as an insatiable lack of gratitude. screaming guides us swiftly in the vicinity of nowhere. everything flows toward negation of polarity. fingers and hair extend beyond previously conceived notions of ownership. through the looking glass a lacerated sensation. something linguistically beyond the mouth’s potential.

(2)

it’s what takes place between/ that counts/ quantifies the space/ your face and remnants/
pillows and fragrance from dreams/ darkened houses/ what they used to do/ seconds
prior to departure/ proclamations of love and Tuesday’s intentions/ eagerly anticipating
the purge of a self-enclosed system/ out of step/ by step instructions the staircase refutes regulation/ in preparation of fire/ escape/ prisons of invisible conviction/ morning surprising rapidity of telephones/ grief warped countless dimensions/ trouble with memory lately/ the thought of/ infatuation/ your voice/ a return to the question of distance

(3)

the rhetorical inauguration of weak knees/ consecrated by water weight/ retraction of lubricated excess/ a story of “damn boys” and cancerous gums/ something approaching cognition/ restless in the presence of sleeping breath/ a storm beyond calculation/ attainable with precision equipment/ screwdriver, philips and the lid from an empty styrofoam cup/ broken pieces to be forever reconfigured/ reflections of Hardy and Jude obscured at random intervals by gangsta/ crossed legs

plague of untitled days

2007-02-18T17:27:00.000-05:00

how we have come to practice the clearing of history. count the newest inches along the banister. exhale existence. a transformation. water to snow to water to ice to water. sometime undefined.

he seems increasingly obsessed with the subject of human sexuality. research makes it all valid. slobbering and magazines stacked in the bathroom. the animals sound varied calls as we relearn our primitive selves. tomato sauce or blood? wind howls. call and response. cabin fever. sinus infection.

drips the faucet, the face. all the same slow response by the state road. she's whining and making decisions for me. grouchy after too much tv. the sudden realizations of time better spent. still undefined. weeping blanks.