Daily Doodle

Take a scrap square of paper
Draw a rough circle on it
Add a piece of tape at the top
Stick it on some random seat on the public transportation

Open a Bible and place it under the paper
Watch the circle fill with color
Notice a shine, a sheen
Close the Bible and take the paper off the seat
Walk to the tall building

Go to the next-to-top floor
Stick the paper to a rolling chair
In a cube, with a computer and a phone
And stacks of paper
Watch the color drain

Take the paper circle outside
Walk to the benches and smoke a cigarette
Feel the rain or feel the sun
Watch people less fortunate than this paper square
Feel the color lessen in the circle

Turn off the computer and take the paper
Tape it to a barstool
Laugh loudly and point a cigarette at it
Throw down a ridiculous bill
Take the deflated circle paper outside

Tape it to the seat of public transportation
Open a Bible
Watch the circle fill with color
Notice the glow
Send it down a dark street
Known as home

Art

5 weeks, and all in the shed out back while entertained with Braves games over the radio. Drawing calms me and helps me focus. I feel zen in my breathing. I wish I was better, but I'm proud of this effort.

Too-Short Story

It was a gorgeous sunset, lasting three months filled with radiating colors and sweet, soothing breezes. We sat together calmly and soaked in the dazzling gift, the God-rendered present to us, sharing time. And then night fell, dousing the bright hues and draping our picnic. We picked up our stuff and left different ways. The end.

Abandoned

Look ahead, in the distance...is that the what-if, the could've been? Hazy and shimmering, it dances on the edge of what is beyond our current line of vision. Notice the moon, full and swollen with wicked thoughts eeking onto the below. Did it cause the daze, the disconnect and confusion? Or did it shine brightly, finally revealing the muck surrounding? I watch the stars slide over the sky, by myself, alone tonight.

Light/Dark

Uncertain
I can't speak this
Because of your blocks
Won't say those things
That cause caustic runs
Along this timeline of us

Hesitate
We will...will we?
You guess I perceive
I infer your guess
We're a fucking mess
Don't forget to
Feed the fish
Before we disappear
With a light switch

For A Friend

Is that what you can
Do or belive in?
Can you feel this
Slit against reasoning?
Pull this one thing
Away from direction,
And you'll find later
Failure, disaster.
Take this strange insight
Words unexpected,
A stranger in passing,
And listen to live.

Mato

Double-Meaning Dreams

The movie in the dark, the reel of film in my slumber, the rolling expressions from within snap me into action on the otherside of sleep. The images are allegories, the placement of characters are directional patterns, props are ironic suggestions, and sounds are worded emotions whereas words are fears.

I shake my bed-hair head in a quiet, black room and get the sense I missed out on some big event which I desperately try to recall, capture in my fleeting memory. Meanwhile I also process my incredible sense of urgency to comprehend some new direction I'm to follow...when I figure out the puzzle-piece meanings displayed in that cloak of rest.

Altered

You aren't the reflection I feel like I appear to be
Anymore
Not with those who surround me
Fake act
Slight hand
Juke emotion
Double speak
Shift eyes and dodge my slip from perceived
Worth

Not Usual

He said that I need to wait and see.

The new cubicle was flipped left to right.

I was given a business card from a Marta traveler who is planning on buying a house for me to live in and maintain.

The new hire turned around and smiled at me like she knew who I was which made me confused.

The folks at lunch were quiet today, like it was a funeral.

My empty desk had large dust puffs and an artistic shaped paperclip left to show my impact on the company for over two years.

Smiles and sad looks and half smiles and silent handshakes and clipped conversation greeted me amidst loudness, the vocal volume of my new department's vocation.

She wasn't home or else wasn't in the mood to talk.

The day was bright and this night feels thick and dark and full of detriment, spicing the disarry of my day with whimsy and distrust and abject removal of familiarity.

Can

Flag

Flowing in the breezy change is the flag of transistion, not really...no flag per se, but my eyes should show this banner of transistion.

The movement past cigarettes. The move beyond alcohol, except for one or two among a group. The departure of being an editor, moving into a new group, a new work position, leaving old, familiar ways behind. And her, the new addition in the middle of a my discombobulated life. That is now, this is me, the newness and strange and unfamiliar.

Dreaming bears the must disruption in that I can't sleep through the night without interruptions of expanding, swirling mind explorations. I wake up suddennly, needing rope for the tent, scared of missing Keith race the funny car, apprehensive that I didn't feed the cat that is long past.

I cough up blood in the mornings, a parting hell to my years of neglect for my breathes of life. Blood mixes with oxygen and paints permanence on white porcelain early every morning lately.

Hope hopscotches these painted signs of doom, more recognizeable than ever now in my leaps over and past them, as I breathe deep, as I reach further, and believe...know I can accomplish boundaries forbidden before.

Red

As I walk down windblasted downtown sidewalks, I see something red flash up, caught in the wildness of the breeze. A rose, a solitary flower, unends and petals shed as it rolls and floats toward me. I catch it; the wind dies for second as I look into the exploding folds of the petals for some kind of explanation of how this beautiful creation could withstand the gales and howls and sweeping wind to cut around unkind buildings and darkened streets, how it could bypass danger and depression and disregard in the faces of those passers that look only at themselves, and find me. This radiant, advertureous rose found me...I'll cherish it.

Squirt-Guns II

Wetumpka, Ala.--

Memo to all radio dispatch units:

Move all units into the main facility for maintenance inspections by midnight tonight. No units should be out, this is a mandatory inspection. River routes will resume at 6am.

Gerard Pitman,
Foreman
Alabama Water Division


Rome, GA--

"Are you prepared 4, over."
"4, prepared and waiting go, over."
"You may begin dumping 4, over."
"Roger, unloading, out."



Trailer Park, outside Rome, GA--

"What in the shit is that? Where in blue-ball-blazin' hell is that noise coming from?" Jimmy was frantic, standing up from the old couch with an ear cocked to the wall, then sitting down again to look wild-eyed at Brandi for confirmation. Brandi sat, bored, looking at the wall where the tv used to be.
"All I hear is you yapping Jimmy."
"You got wax buildup is what you got Brandi! You can't tell me you don't hear...a truck!"
Brandi suddenly sat up, quickly hiding the tray and pipe and baggie, and looked with panic at Jimmy.
"I do hear sumthin'! What the hell Jimmy, what the hell is it?"
Jimmy was wide open now, circling the trailer from end to end and peeking out of the windows, and he looked scared. He WAS scared.
"I...I don't know what it is Brandi. Ain't cops, we'd see lights. Ain't no car from the hood. Sounds like a dang-ol' dumptruck heading down to the crick."
The heavily loaded dumptruck's lights flashed across the trailer and turned left, hastily making its way toward the river in a cacophony of downshifting gears and diesel-engine groans.
Brandi looked at Jimmy. Jimmy slid on his jeans and grabbed his best skinning knife.
"Call the cops if ain't back in an hour Brandi..."

To be continued...

Soul

A newness feeling, maybe "older" maybe "wise", but not likely. More of a "dumbass survived, lives to tell...blahdom" kind of feeling. I'm expecting something invigorating, but can't find the impulse to create a newfound expression to initiate action of any kind....

Out of the muck, tuned, a friend extends a needed hand, and...new notes project.

Not broken yet.

Ouch

The gimped left hand presses awkwardly against thin lines of steel, pushing with misguided might on the wood neck in an attempt to produce some kind of chord that doesn't sound like the woeful death of the tinman. Craping, arching weirdly, contorting, this atrophy digit collection makes me feel weak, insecure, desperate and slow.

My writings suck sometimes, I can't find the art in me on occasion, my mixes don't flow...but man, learning to play the guitar is hard work and I have a long, loooooooong way to go before I can even produce notes that are real.

Maybe I attempted something harder than I'm cable of overcoming. My left arm hurts, my fingers smart, my pride exclaims "ouch".

Time and Space

Months pour like golden water down a large drain shaped like a wide-open mouth, days swirls in bubbles riding the surface of the downward flush, minutes and seconds and moments to remember are simply shadows, reflections, and shimmering flashes of light that disappear rapidly upon this undulating flow.

String-light stars hover every visible night like a web that either holds back the inky black or contains the gaudy neon, halogen, and fluorescent distractions this planet expresses outward. That connection between the stars, the invisible force that holds them steady in their positions, anchors me to this ground, presses me against the strata, makes my blood work harder on the return to my heart, spins my possiblities in life around, charted on the familiar face of my compass.

Draft Dodger

I went through my postings, from the user side of the blog, and found several drafts I started or didn't like or forgot about or whatever. I want to use them, so I'm putting them all together here for you to read in a Burroughes style of cut/paste writing. I don't know if I like or dislike these pieces, but for some reason they exist. So, here they are...

A Narrow Escape

It was a calm morning.

She screams it, "that's what's going to kill me 10 years before I have to die!


Predator

Sometimes I catch glimpses on those skinny legs behind me, following me, against the treeline as the headlights from the passing cars rush by me. I walk faster, I speed up, the shadow is there and then it is gone from sight. Never let your shadow catch you.


Begin

This inward twist is candy coated around pestilence, lick of delight and demise...sickly sweet.

Want to write about the charred insides, like descriptions of the haunting interiors of crack houses, meth labs, broken, beaten people, lost lives in the final moments. I hesitate...I have that similar downtrodden, destitue black shadow across my back for certain, but I resist sharing it even though it offers me relief.


Maturity

This blog can continue to be sadness, dissonance, caustic magma regret...or it can change and alter and tranform the way I want my life to become.


Divide

I step on either side of this divide, one foot in good and the other in anti-good. You don't want to know...you do, but you don't. I cannot poison any longer my friends, family, and faithful readers knowing that I'm a purveyor of smut. The smut is who I am.


Overcome

This blog will change henceforth. I wish to thank you for your continued interest and faithful attention. I can't just blast out the filth any longer: It is not fit for you not fair to my writing, and it is deadening, wasteful talent besides.

I might need an old-school relief from time to time, but this blog...and me...are changing.


Requires Adjustment

Short lived, burned and embitttered, wasteful.
Decadent
Derision
Self-analyzed, self-inflicted, selfish
Doldrums
Disconnect
Delination of the mark.


Auras tickle and blend hues of complimentary colors on an unusual Thursday night.


Watchful

If after lunch I seem strange,
And if I don't nod or smile,
If I ignore you, unintentionally,
Know I'll care tomorrow, later,
When we are passed and apart.
Afternoons suck my life out
Pull me apart, away, awry,
Inside out of my life.
I see the storm's forecasted
Arrival, my barometer drops,
At lunchtime, while you smile
During my jokes, while eating
nutrition to stave off the
encrouching grasp of
conclusion,
I'm watchful.


onwar

We are living phantoms of long past ways, glimpsed by most in licking flame-trickery-of-the-eyes campfires, crushing surround of breath-holding quiet fear while alone in forests, or not easily discarded gut feelings of intuition.

Those sensations constitute me and my brother, locking us anachronistically in the present time though our familiar community is long extinct, regardless of our ever-shrinking retreats of nature, and knowing that the father we both bore the loss of here on Earth is somewhere in the spirit world as hapless and transistional as we've become.

This sparce place was the surge of a positive Sunday calm folding onward into the dull grind of Monday bleakness: The lull of impending gravitational, aging, timelapsed disattachment.

Bobber

This unit dips and rises, swerves and stills, hovers against two different forces of matter with a clashing orange and yellow dress of paint for recognition. A line lifts me, a weight pulls me downward, so I stretch higher and lower on the uneven permanence of each passing moment's impact on my suspended being. My purpose? To snare the movement below and signal the observers above. I capture and alert and I am simply an ancient tool for indicating another life has been caught, leaving you to reel in for the kill.

A checklist

List of Art styles I did this year:

Collage
Pen and Ink
Colored Pencils
Watercolor
Graphite
Chalk
Oil Pastels
Colored Markers
Wire Sculpture
Spray Paint
Digitally Enhanced Imagery

Next: Acoustic Guitar

Shimmers

Flailing for truth I grab-hold clamor outward, a reality smack of resounding pain upon skin's impact and nerve-ending alarm of rude awakening--emptiness; I change inside when I step out of my position of perceived control and let life roll around me, like learning to float on your back in the swimming pool...relax, breathe and resist the urge to struggle against the transparent medium that is your body's backrest and fearful, timidly trusted support. You learn to stretch out on faith of molecules and density and invisible inhalations and achieve the balance of solid form and ever-altering, surrounding chaos alone, realizing the delicacy of your tiny existence.