Friday, May 26th, 2006

I don't know if you are still living, still feeling, still reeling, still breathing, still alive, still yearning, still aching, still in touch with It.

It: the hurt the smashing the retching the ruination the dismay the dried eyes the callousness the financial crunch the carelessness the clueless direction the unconcern the uncouth the cotton-mouth the cashless sharing the call-soon the cold shoulder the crying the crouch of fear the call-back-please the clouded consciousness of It.

I do, tonight, feel It because the effects seep like pollution.

Slow Passing Time

The cable runs along the top of the windows, looped in segments of a couple of feet, and it ties into an electrical sensor that, when pulled, generates a light on the dash of the bus, a message of "Stop Requested" across the scrolling light board hanging from the ceiling, and (if you're lucky) an imperative voice that says "Stop Requested!". You have to pull this cable before the stop or else you walk back to where you were supposed to get off. If you pull this cable after someone else has already triggered the response, which happens to a lot of non-observant earphone-clad riders, you get nothing except looks from other people. The handicapped riders have their own special button that sits on their laps. Sometimes the cable doesn't work on one side or the other and you have to get folks on the opposite side of the bus, the side that has a working cable, to pull it for you when you need to stop. The cable is like the reigns of a great, white rectangle of a horse. It, indeed, does arrest the forward motion generated by harnessed horsepower.

When we get past the last bus stop before my stop, inches after we cross the threshold of stopping so as to commit no confusion to the driver, I grab that cable. Sometimes others beat me to the pull, but mostly I make the driver stop at the next possible, allowable stop. I need not even grab the damn cable; all drivers know my routine. I've fallen asleep on the way home, late at night after being out at some bar with unfamiliar singing folks or wrapped up in indecency of some sort, and the driver will ask a rider to nudge me and idle impatiently until I rise-mumble incoherant gratitude-and exit. But in the coherant, bladder-filled afternoons usually I grab the cable and immediately put my travel bag over my shoulder as I walk to the front. I like my bus drivers. Bus drivers put up with a LOT of bullshit on their marches back and forth over their routes, like junkyard dogs they are in their protective zones, but also like patient hippos ferrying dull-witted, lazy birds on their unconcerned back they tend to glide to and fro.

I talked to the driver, my better driver friend (the drivers alternate), and told him that I won't be seeing him so much anymore. He asked why and I told him I was going to finally do it, I'll be buying the Rusty Turd this weekend. After I explained the price and condition and history of the truck, he countered that I might still be seeing him more than I thought...and he might be right. We smiled, I departed while wishing him luck, and the bus moved on in a roar and bustle of movement.

I went into the same old store, the one closest to my house which causes me to walk a mile home after the bus drops me off, and I thought: "Life is moving onward. I'm to the point where I'm going to miss the bus rides. I'm changing..."

My Quiet Friend

Push against them, the whole tide of opposition, for they come with sharpened teeth and they know only killing. It hurts to feel their pestilence inside me, to know they are coursing inside this deflated body, this boy that once rode his bike and believed in Santa Claus and dreamed he'd grow up to be a spy like J. Bond. Now I clutch, I grab, I cringe, I crave and I claw and I have totally lost control of everything that I thought I had grasped on my escape from my sinking boat. These accusatory eyelids define me quietly in the night and I blink in rememberance daily the whiplashes of shame and regret and hindsight they broadcast to me in the coffee vapors of my artifical-light mornings. And you look at me and try not to shake your head because of the things you see that equal what you have already learned in your miranda rights life. And I shake my head with resignation for you, because you are right and I am lost, so I shift to scratching at the two dollars in my pocket, and no longer register the headache because of the ache of the crushing, dirty presence of the tide inside. These days, despite the outpouring of care, I feel the dying inside all too often. And it tastes like metal, or beer, or contaminated smoke, or bitter-caustic "what if?". I stare at the sky; hope, my quiet friend...

K and C

A. Share
2. Double Barrel
3. Is A Crowd
4. Downcast
5. Hope
6. Potlatch Croupier
7. Connecting Tones
8. Riddle Redundancy
9. Contest/Confess
10. Emulation
J. Contrast/Compare
Q. Subdivision
K. Homogenous Influx

The Blackest Night

Fear--it raped my sense of security, of boundaries, in a scythe swipe. I shook, my body racked with confusion and panic and adrenaline. I heard the noises again and tried to process in my overloaded mind my next move. The gun, a trigger, turn out the lights and tiptoe. Breathe quietly, silently...and don't forget to breathe...while my very alert senses configured my next action. The gun was hardly a noticeable weight in my tense hand but it was a comfort, and a concern. Would I put a bullet into someone, maybe. This decision struck me as odd, as I tensed against the wall out of the light to avoid shadow movements. These new standards of living and dying were the products of fear. I began to pray with my eyes wide open.

Curved Rhythms

Curved Rhythms-
Can’t stop wondering where this path ends
how far this line of sight extends
what direction this map line plots

Her words freeze across my lips like icicles
and shake my warmth into packages
that look like fancy-wrapped chocolates
that have been left in the hot car
and have now become a ruined gift

These pink mornings extend into the
heat of bright white and light blue
and onward into the gray overhanging tones
of rain and wetness, before casting
purple shadows leaking blackness;
pinpoints of night when I finally find rest

She closes me inside my words
capturing me in the meanings I leave
for her with flowers and stolen kisses.
While her mind still slumbers I have touched
her on her heart with my exploding belief
silently, that cannot be taken away.

False/Fade/Find/Fortunate

Tonight I slicked up my hair, wore a new shirt-open three buttons in the front and sleeves rolled up to right under my elbow-over a simple white t-shirt, some well-fitted pants, and flip flops. Oh, and my hidden-from-view-but-there new belt, and felt kinda cool for a couple of hours.

Why? What defines me by this choice of attire, this display? Is my self confidence and status based on fashion? Well, no. Not at all. But this was a night to have fun. It is Cinco De Mayo and I wanted to get out of the house, please!

My wonderful friend, and P&C teammate, Amelia came and grabbed me out of my doldrums for an adventure on the town. Amelia is the COOLEST chick, I'm so very lucky to have her as a good friend. Anyway, she was looking quite hot and I was either looking cool or looking like someone who is trying to look cool but whatever, we went out.

We went to a local place that is usually ok, but tonight it was kinda lame. We sat down and after ordering our $2 Coronas some jackass comes up and claims I'm sitting in his seat. No chairs were even in this section of the bar, we had to move some into our spot, and the whole place is not crowded at all...so this guy is just being an asshole. I stay quiet and listen to see how much he is going to sound off about his seat. He continues on for two or three sentences and then finally settles in next to me.

Apparently everyone around the bar, for lack of anything better to do on this fine Mexican holiday, has witnessed the situation and are looking at this guy like me and Amelia are, which is "what a drip". He then changes his tune and wants to be friends, introducing himself and apologizing profusely with transparent false pretenses amidst many "good natured" back slaps on me. If we didn't have full beers we would've left, just on principle that this place sucks from the jump. He then shifts into introspection and remains quiet the rest of our time there, thank goodness.

The entire place is lecherous, old and ineffectual and tagged by the contents of their wallets...or blonde, fake, laughing or sipping on bought drinks, and wondering how long until they can go blast away their respective positions by bright white in a dirty bathroom.

Amelia is not blonde, the only female in the room not blonde, and is bright, talented, funny, witty, and enthralling. And soon all those wallets are cutting eyes to her, insulting the blondes and suffocating poor Amelia. Then they look at the chump to her right: me. "What does this goof have?"

Respect, not that I need to reply. We finish our beers and leave this insulation of the self-damned. We end up at Taco Mac, the old haunt. Peace and love and nachos and conversation and clarity. The night unfolds, the rhythm shifts, and we are syncho de my ohh.

Driving home I explain the shades of drum and bass vs. house music styles of turntablism and feel human, complete and understood. I write this in thankfulness for a great friend. Thanks Amelia!

Earth Turns On Hurt

Questioning drops
Of crumbling quiet
With golden words
Is confined misplacement.

Can you reach across
Sunset-streaked colors
To find my contentment
Without you?

I remember clearly-
Birthday morning overcast,
Sleepy-eyed surprise;
Shines in a dark place.

A year has passed
Since that promise.
Lessons burned,
Goodbye.

Honeysuckle