Waterfall

Cliff divers of light arc outward in water drops forced into hangtime by motion of the replenishing current of water, style points of the drop come from the flow, while light's reflection presents individuality and character on this escapist radical flash life of a drop of liquid's cascading existence in the only environment by which it is defined.

Slippery flash of a fish is shadowed on the bottom of the calm eddy, refracting the form of himself amid waves and swirls and rocks and cut-tree sunshine cozy on the surface edge of fluidity. His ghostly shape is life and my eyes register his presence and also absorb the imperfections of him in my sensory intake--the ripples, the phantom forms, the hint at deceitful mirage, or second-guessed imagined actuality.

Chrome flick causes eye reactions from underwater and from above, on the rocks, and we turn to understand the intent of the interruption between man and fish. The planes of definition of actuality and form and science are cracked. The noise waves reveal a casting motion, the air whistles the movement and direction, the wall of water responds to the object breaking into its ever-alterating form with exerted pressure outward from the contact. I watch the tail kick in the fish's fear, watch him turn to the shiny intruder; I register apprehension from the guilty pressure of foreknowledge, and rend inwardly the pain of the fish's bite, and we part.

The white foam of water rolls over smoothed rock edges, falling into itself to reform and journey onward toward the beginning of the cycle, the air is still and cool, the tree leaf patterns peek colors of the closing day sun. I stand alone on slippery rocks today, I stand and watch the water rush by, I separate life and death.

Rotation

Waking, worry
wiping eyes and lies away
Walking, working
washing it into embers
Each anoynmous day

Travelling, moving
passing in a blend destinations
This that for she who
Reverse undo erase
Blinking, breathing

Crunch, intesify
the whole portending gap
Love me, hate that
can't deaccelerate
Happened, coast, retract

Left shoe, lightswitch
decompress into prayer
This hurt, that demand
subtle dance dreams
Want to waken

Pattern Of Collapse

Dear Mommy is crayola orange on the construction paper, careful not to cross the stick-lines of Mom with a frown and downcast eyebrows in a dress, the words can't cover the paper and she crumples it and cries. The circle with the brown stuff mostly inside the lines peers out of the waded paper from the corner of the room.

Dear Mom, the lines of the diary are mostly empty but the rain of the week forces her to stay in the locked room and reach inside herself for understanding. You can't know me, she scribbles, you don't try, she adds. You don't see me, she reaches out for the glass and watches the rain. The phone rings, the diary closes--unfinished entry, unheard words.

"Mom, I'll be over at my friend Melanie's house. I'll see you on Sunday." The magnet holds the scrap piece of paper on the metal hood of the oven and she locks the door while the impatient car honks. He revs the engine and she glances at her reflection in the glass of the screen door. Her lips are deliciously red and her hair is blinding black and her eyes shine with mischief. The weekend opens like his car door as she slides inside and escapes.

"Mom, how are you?", the metallicy distance seems artifical across the phone lines even though she is in the same city, mere miles away. The customary call on Sunday, the routine conversation, the casualness of their separating lives pierces in the usual places. These hurts will be numbed soon, afterward, and the night rolls onward. School doesn't enter her thoughts, nor does anything of future importance nor does the doldrums of responsibility in her aunt's pleading entreaties of wisdom; she hears selective words and cuts backwards with a sharp-witted tongue. Her beauty is blackened with the darkness of her history, black eyes, black hair, black clothes, caustic sarcasm and dreary music. Her cologne is dank and seductive, sprayed from white spikes that light on backporches in the silence of the slumbering house and cooled by secreted amber drops that echo the crumpled circles of childhood.

Mother's Name--Age--Reason for Admission--Describe the condition--Any known allergies? She grew up quickly, the silent miles into the town from the distant life she'd blown windward into and collected, like swirling leaves in a captured corner, only made her understand herself deeper. Nowdays these moments Mom doesn't see the adolescent attitude, doesn't recognize the infrequent visitor, or the little girl with the pouty mouth and broken crayons. Without him by her side, the unimaginable creep of blackness and the drawing void of emptiness would finally put her beside her Mom, sharing the days together, taking long walks, becoming the legacy she has fought so violently and steadily and vehemently to deflect from herself. She steers the mini-van in the rain with the heavy guilt of a lifetime evading a predestined pattern of collapse.

Approach

Inside, the battle rages in bloody sunsets and eye-tearing morning cracks of shine and it encircles time like a dark halo over my lifeline here on this soil, this circle, this point amid great spaces. Actions break molds of atrophy and apologetic lockjaw when words can't paint, and feelings have molded, and intention is lost somwhere in translation like a joke gone wrong. The movements and physical manipulations and creation from the bodily hands carry my beaten insides, my mislead heart, my disfigured brain, my polluted soul...carries what is me onward. The form I reside inside tires, here it rests on the back of my rusty truck, and uses my rheumy eyes to seek the sliced edge of fading light, the radiance of the moon, closes lids over sight to feel that trickle breeze whispering across my creased face, hears the soft pulse of the calming inertia rise forth. The body recuperates now, to briefly sustain the disjointed collage of me, in this foreshadowing sensation...in the clawing approach of night.

Tranquil

The steady rain washes over the hopscotch blocks that required the secret steps, immersing lines defined, numbers plotted, footstep accomplishments in the calming hum that is background to cookies and milk and forgotten skinned knees on the sidewalk of afternoon shine.

The exit plume of a heavy draw on a last cigarette puffed against the two-dimensional horizon cut of night outlines quiet neighborhood housetops and postured lots; the burden of the loft of the captured insight disintegrates into the temporal display of serenity nightime.

This clingy dream is still painted on the inside of my thoughts like an exploded chewing gum bubble and amidst the stickiness is the shape of the pillow that is your form and the smile, the bad-breath star in the darkness smile, which is that joke's lightness, the one you told me in my sleep inside my dream derived from that memory of you triggered by the squirt of chemical juice contentment--this guilty pleasure unwinds me like the cat stretching a yawn and clawing empty air before settling into position.

I feel clues to tranquil living are all around me, in every day observations or intersections of concidence, but the mysterious chase silently, subtly unwinds its invisible ribbon for me to unwrap.

Requested: The Happy Post

"This is NUTS! This is completely, 100% cuckoo! I can't believe we're doing this!!!", my friend Scooby exclaimed loudly in my ear. My knees knocked and my jaw shook with adrenaline and anticipation. It was completely off the charts--10th row, Grateful Dead, opening night, Charlotte, my good friends all grasping the tickets to pinch us into reality from dreamland. We stood in our circle inside the clustered line extending from the entryway out into Shakedown Street, aka the parking lot. Our smiles were very wide and our brains were secreting the juice from the happy glands and we could've conquered the world...hell we did! We had 10th row.
It was a stroke of genius from my buddy Matt who said simply..."um, there won't be lines for the Charlotte tickets here in Georgia, and we're all in the southeast Ticketmaster monopoly, dude." So, I skipped walking the dogs for their do-do at my vet-tech job and Matt, well he woke up early that day, and we were the only two people in the store when the tickets went on sale. We landed 10th row, 4 tickets, and a very expectant, excited month wait. We were kings in our bedazzled brains.
Scooby and Doo were the two other lucky ticket holders, and we depended on them for transportation up to Charlotte from our party-pad in Decatur. It was a good deal; tickets for transport. Only thing was that when the month circled into the past us and the day to travel finally came me and Matt were broke like a vase, and Scooby and Doo had to pawn a very nice pistol for cash on the way up to Charlotte for gas, food, cigs, (funding for two slackers) and one flat-ass tire on the side of a highway involving a two-mile journey and the endurance of a dead and pungent carcass convinently located 10 feet from our blowout. Getting there is always half the adventure anyway.
The road stretched onward, and with trustworthy rubber between ourselves and the road, our destination approached quickly. Signs for Charlotte, for the new stadium, appeared in concert with colorful vans, groovy folks, and concentrations of hippy types at the local gas stations. We finally pull into the random, crazy, circus of folks dotting the stadium's parking lot and secure a spot. We immerse ourselves into the slap-happy throng and stroll around checking out the myriad sights, the unique people, the different scenes and situations. A guy dragging a cooler on a skateboard sells us nice beers for a bargain and we are inundated into the pulse assemblage, the fluid cohesion collection, the togetherness of the stangers joined in music and lifestyles and appreciation.
A character appeared in line next to us full of energy and outpouring emotions. He greeted all of us and started talking about the numerous and varied necklaces around his neck. I paid attention, Scooby and Doo exchanged looks, Matt smiled: It was the magic of these shows that connect folks, and I got it like Matt did. After hearing about Vera from Texas, Mazzie from Oregon, and some chick from Las Vegas, I said, "Here, take my necklace. It is a gift.". The guy exploded into happiness and activity. He took my outstretched necklace, gave me a hug, and said his name was Brother Bob. My crew looked on and smiled at me, and the line started moving. Brother Bob said his gratitude and his good-byes and he split. And we entered the stadium, handed our tickets to the attendant who looked up incredulously at our prime seats, and was sent to the next level down with frantic flashlight waving. We descended the stairs, the roar and the darkness and the energy gripping us with each step downward. We met the next attendant who closely examined each ticket by flashlight and then stamped our hands. We were directed down more steps, deeper into the pit of this pulsating organism of movement, sound, and sensation. We walked down to the bottom level. Here two attendants and a cop stood waiting for us. We showed them our tickets, showed them our hands with the stamps, and got frisked and stamped again with a different stamp. Plus our tickets got a stamp too. Then we were on flat land--we had arrived at the floor seating. We began our march to the stage, for we were located on the first four seats in from the aisle on the blessed 10th row from the stage! We walked forward, continued, moved onward...it felt like we were the ones about to take the stage with all the hollering, fanfare, ridiculous outpouring on our journey to the front. But we stopped at the 10th row, kicked out the clowns in our seats, and looked around at our setting. It was awe-inspiring, truly.
Circling us for at least three stacked layers upward and outward were packed bodies moving, twisting, shouting, waving, some sitting and watching, in every direction of the eyeballs. Before us was the raised stage, blanketed by drapes. The crush of the crowd's sound made me kind of shake like a startled animal amid the firework celebrations in the neighborhood on holidays; it was simply unnerving. I think our crew all felt this tension, this kind of stagefright feeling, for being in front of so many other people. We were probably just dots to everyone, but it felt like we had 58,000 eyes on us. The concert was about to start so that was why everyone was getting so amped up and going nutso. Doo talked to the folks around us, Scooby just grinned and looked around, Matt and I exchanged satisfied glances, and I wondered where Brother Bob's seat was...but then everything shifted into motion.
It began with soft notes on a guitar--soft for being amplified 10-trillionfold--and the glow of colored lights illuminating from all directions, while the drapes raised and the members of the band stepped forth to make magic for us and them, hell just to make magic, and we all caught the tune in a collective blast of happy whooping, whistles, "HELLLLLLL YEAHS", and so forth, to "Touch Of Grey" by the one-and-only Grateful Dead.
I kind of went numb. Matt joined the chorus of noise with shouts and whoops. Scooby and Doo looked around with grinning faces and their bodies just started moving in time to the music. Actually, all our collective bodies started moving together, ring to ring in the stadium and seat to seat; the moment arrived and we all were moved off our asses and into motion, appreciation, and fully immersed into transformation and development. Music into sensation, cohesion of like-minded folks gathered, the social experiment once again changing people, and the Grateful Dead expressing and intaking everything going on to their polite influence in our lives.
This was the happiest, most joyful, fulfilling moment I can think of in my time on earth, without getting too heavy into love, to out there in discovery of growth and understanding, and not broaching my spirituality. Charlotte, '92.

How About An Orange Soda?

Another installment of the discoveries of my past writings, by special request from my brother, Gregg. This was the first writing I ever had published. It was included in my high school's literary collection called Impressions, circa 1987. Thanks Gregg for remembering it, though it makes me cringe when I read it now. And that's why I made it harder to read. Try highlighting the orange soda for easier reading.

The door to the little shop opened slowly, as if the light was having a hard time cutting the dust in the air. The hinges creaked and the handle was falling off. The rest of the shop was in no better shape. Even through all of this, she was stunning. I knew it was love at first sight for me. Her face gleamed in the light; I was breathtaken. Her beauty was immense and we were germs of normalness. I stared at her as she walked toward the barstools; I wasn't the only one. She dusted off a stool with the grace of a princess. She sat down slowly, taking her time to look around the place.
I searched my mind for something to say. How do you talk to the woman of your dreams when you've never seen her before? I guessed the best place to start was by talking to her like I would anyone else, even though she deserved much more. I was a waiter at the restaurant. That helped. I mean, it gave me an excuse to talk to her. She had a menu out and was reading it as I walked over. She looked up and I smiled at her. "What do you need?", I asked her. Oh my gosh, how stupid, retarded, etc., can you get?
She didn't seem to notice and said, "Just a Coke." Coke? What is Coke? I thought desperately. Then it registered so I went into the back and tried to pour her drink.
We were out of cola! Great, just what I needed! All we had left was orange soda. So very cautiously and coolly I walked out to her. I explained to her what had happened. "What, no Coke!", she exclaimed. Then she got up and left.
I was heartbroken. To say we had no Coke and watch the love of my life walk out the door...I had to get her off my mind so I took the rest of the day off and went into the city. I headed straight for Burger King. There I sat down and released all my worries into my Whopper. Next thing you know I had knocked over my drink, dumb klutz that I am! I went up to get a new one, cursing and wiping myself all the way.
Guess who checked me out at the register when I got there? Yes, her! The ex-love-of-my-life! Sheepishly I asked for a coke and she said, "Sorry, we're out of Coke. How about an orange soda?"
The sunset never looked so pretty. Maybe it's because the sky is so clear, and the stars are unusually bright. I think it's because she's sitting by my side. By the way, I hate orange sodas, but don't tell her that, okay?

Sandy Trail

Linked Writing

Sandy path winds
Wandering, directionless
It skates danger or
Purpose.

My feet imprint
this shifting surface
on my journey
that lacks focus.

This trail binds
my imagination,
and burdens motivation,
into temporary impressions.

Sandcastle

Linked Writing

Licking attacks lap away this barrier and dissolve direction. This fortitude crumbles, erodes, lessens with each liquid inundation; dangerously discharged half-felt expressions is detrimental. The castle corrodes and drowns the stadid example of steadfast wholesomeness, of class, of rare breed amid the clawing waters of uncaring mediocrity. My sandcastle holds against these sunless tidal waters with withering resistance as the palace drops from within, the structure fouling and failing. This decorated, opulent hope was planted away from the shoreline as an example of uniqueness, of individuality. These suction waters take, rend, laughing-splash patterns of destruction in their churn and rolls. Castle is falling oh family, of familiarity! Where is good against this mindless wash? Where is barrier to pen and cage to this devilish wet darkness? Freedom...Freedom! is shouted from the crumbling tower as it immerses into the splash from which it deviated, evolved, and now returned.

Sandbar

Linked Writing

It extends upward amid the fluidity of shifting currents. It raises itself like it has a meaning to express, but it is simply what it is...abutement of land inside of the swirling currents. It breaks apart the horizon and makes one feel that they can swim out and claim it, can stand on it and proclaim some unintelligible vocalization of that accomplishment. The conquering of something impermanent, something overcome which is in the process of dissolving. And that is what each day is to us, it is a sandbar in a churning ocean, a raucuous sea...we make this or that or do that and this and we say we mean everything, but each darkened night shakes apart our daily tasks like erasing an Etch-A-Sketch and we begin again, and again, and again, until we no longer begin. We continue until we are overtaken, buried, washed away forever.

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