Contamination

It’s interesting how the mind works. You think you want something real bad, and in reality, you do. You want it, and oh you want it now. However, wants and needs are so commonly confused that it’s hard to distinguish wants from needs. Especially when your mind is in such a vulnerable state of want, in which case you are more likely to dig yourself so deep into a hole and you don’t realize how deep you really are until you, for some reason, gain the urge to climb back out and take a look in. Man have I been in a deep hole. And it’s not the first, and will most likely not be last. It’s refreshing however, to climb out, take a deep breath of good fresh need, and shake my hands clean of mess I’ve been clawing through. Sometimes small remnants remain, crusted under my fingernails, of behind my ears. And they beckon me, but that’s when I have to pull out the bottle of alcohol from under my bathroom sink and rub myself free of the contamination. As a matter of fact, I think I’m going to go do that right now. Goodnight.

"What Makes Him Tick"

I loathe the expression "What makes him tick." It is the American mind, looking for simple and singular solution, that uses the foolish expression. A person not only ticks, he also chimes and strikes the hour, falls and breaks and has to be put together again, and sometimes stops like an electric clock in a thunderstorm. - James Thurber

At Target

While standing in line at the technology counter at Target today I noticed a sign posted on the register. The sign read, "please make all alcoholic purchases in the front." As I was being waited on, a man got in line behind me with a 12 pack of root beer and a box donuts. I looked back at him, and upon making eye contact, pointed at the sign. He looked at the sign, and then back at me. The expression on his face: blank, absent of all emotion. In effort to redeem myself I told him it was a joke, and began to try and explain it when he interrupted, “You must be from Utah.”

Thank you Root Beer man.

To Make a Turn

You caught,
The Devils cold,
And the train leaves in the morning.
His had looks like pure gold,
Got ya climbing out your wondow.

If reason, can't keep you here,
And you've got to keep moving,
The city, will miss you dear,
But it holds nothing for ya,
You said, it holds nothing for ya.

You say that love,
Has turned you bold.
And the Silence, even louder.
Dreamin's got you fooled,
And lifes become a jailhouse.

If reason, can't keep you here,
And you've got to keep moving,
The city, will miss you dear,
But it holds nothing for ya,
You said, it holds nothing for ya.

What do you want?
A new situation,
A new start?

Life will leave you old,
That is for certain.
And that's why you heading out of town.

Familiar and Blue

I'd sing a song,
Familiar and blue.

But I ain't got,
nobody to sing it to.

He is gone,
the road has left him dry.

I can't shed,
another tear.

In my head,
I'm at a loss for words,
oh, oh, oh.

I'd write a verse,
Familiar and true.

But I ain't got,
Nobody to read it to.

He is gone,
and I can't get him back.

I wont shed,
another tear.

In my head,
I'm at a loss for words.
oh, oh, oh.

He is gone,
He's gone, he left, he's not coming back.
I wont shed, no, not another tear.

But in my head,
I'll always remember him,
I'll always remember you.

The Railroad Song

I came by the rail road,
I came with my shirt tucked.

Battle wounds and dirty cuts,
Lord I didn't have much.

Walkin' in a bare foot,
Talkin' like I'm undone.

Read me like a dirty book,
I bet you ain't got none.

The face of brilliance, she doesn't know it yet...but I do.

Don't Come Sun

Don't come sun,
I'm dreaming of living,
With the seas rolling over my eyelids.

Sink with me now,
Into something unspoken,
While my troubles dissipate.

Don't go moon,
You always leave,
And all too soon.

Dance with me now into the silver,
Move to the sound the silence makes,
While my thoughts are at bay.

Don't come sun,
Stay still in your place,
While I in mine; far away from your honesty.

Don't come sun,
I'm dreaming of living,
Don't wake me sun, don't come.

honesty

If I could hold you I would,
If I could be true then I could.
If I could hold you I would,
If I could be true then I could.
If I could hold you I would,
If I could hold you I would.

Halloween

Great, another excuse to wear as little clothing as possible…you go girls, you get em.

I’m honestly disgusted.

dah.

Death of a fish.

After much hesitation and a careful study of the specimen I decided Mother was right, it’s time someone dispose if it. Two weeks have gone by since the fish died in the pond out back, and only one since my mother arrived home early from holiday.
The poor dear broke her ankle while strolling through Central Park, with Father and Brother.
I have not told her that a week has already gone by since it died, the goliath of a gold fish, the king of our pond.
I first noticed it resting belly up in the shade of a plant growing out from the side of the pond. And there is rested still, it’s gills motionless and it’s back bent, so only the right fin and a portion of its lower body remained exposed to the intense summer heat.
I had refused on a number of accounts, to remove him from the pond, thinking somehow he’d magically disappear. But he did not, and father was not due back for another week.
So, reluctantly, I grabbed a pare of prongs from the kitchen drawer and a paper bag from the pantry.
I figured paper would be better than plastic…that way I would have to only look at it’s decomposing body once: as I was fishing it out of the pond, no pun intended.
I cannot believe how big it is, “that is not a gold fish, I don’t know what it is, but it is not a gold fish,” I told my mom while leaving her room and heading towards the backyard.
I stood their staring at it a moment, and then bent down.
The closer I got to it the stronger the stench, and a swarm of fly’s gathered the moment I probed the thing with the prongs.
I grabbed the fish, and as I pulled it from the now murky water to place it in the bag, it’s entire head fell off and sank to the bottom of the pond leaving a couple of bright orange and yellow scales glistening in the sun as they floated on the waters surface.
I immediately felt queasy; lucky I don’t puke on impulse.
The other half is now in the big green dumpster on the curb out front waiting to be carried away to some horrible land fill along with everything else no one wants.
I used to bury these things, with respect and a couple of tears. But now, I just want them as far away from me as possible, my how the times have changes.
I haven’t told my mom that I only managed to get half the thing out of the pond, but then again, I don’t think that is really necessary, do you?

plum·met(intransitive verb)plum·met[plúmmət](plum·met·ed,plum·met·ing,plum·mets)1.drop downward fast 2.suddenly decrease 3.suddenly become pessimistic

There are so many other places I’d rather be---
---Discontentment, like a little mouse,
is gnawing at my rope of a soul.
And out in a field it lays,
All coiled up surrounded by things forgotten:
Broken bottles,
Some rusted nails,
A mattress.

I’m not supposed to think this much----
---I wish I were a tire swing,
Hanging in the countryside.
Tied to the branch of a great oak tree,
With painted hills all around---

But I can’t help myself---
I’d rather be in a knot on an old ship.
Hanging off the mainmast,
Sprayed by the salty mist of each wave
As they break against its wooden bow---

What else can one do when they sit inside all day---
---Or even strung tightly between two skyscraper.
Holding the weight of a fearless acrobat
As he moves gracefully,
Softening my course threads with each stroke of his foot---

I’m aching.
here where I lay.
I feel empty,
Like a bottle with its contents poured on the side of the road,
Like the streets in my city after dark.

What to do dear self, what am I to do here.

Autumn In The Backyard

Oh Art Of Time And Sound, If Only In You I Could Be Found, But That I Fear, And With Good Reason You See, For You May Be The Death Of Me

The woman that lives directly across the street from me has the pipes of an old accordion and will commonly sing the sun into sinking about a half an hour earlier then scheduled. She has no doubt been singing and smoking her entire life.

I sometimes sit in my car with my windows down and listen when I am about to head off somewhere in the evening hours. My neighbor and I agree that she’s got something missing upstairs; she’s not completely all there. I’ve tried to have a conversation with her but it didn’t quite flow, I asked her how long she’s been singing and she replied “you too.” I haven’t tried talking to her since.

The man, who lives with her, takes up residence in the front room closest to the walkway. His TV is never turned off, this I’m certain of because his room is always a glow when I get home no matter how late or early it might be. He has a horrible limp, and is probably in need of a hip replacement, which has been put of for far to long. This is understandable because his profession, I’m assuming, does not supply him with sufficient funds and this is why he lives with the old woman in the first place. He, however is a concert pianist and accompanies her in the room to the left of his, adjacent to the front porch. He taps those keys, she sings from her toes, and I sit and listen.

The old woman’s husband I have seen only once, and he was being wheeled out of their house on a stretcher into the back of an ambulance one January evening. I didn’t stay to watch for long because the bitter cold was sending my body in to slight shock. He is home now or so I’ve heard, but have yet to see him for myself.

The garage they will commonly leave open all night, and I’m surprised that their freezer and lawn mower are still present. Our street being only minutes away from the largest establishment in town (The Victorvalley Mall) is a common footpath for the unsupervised and particularly questionable youth in this town.

On Sunday mornings a large red diesel forerunner sits in front for about a half an hour depending on how behind schedule it is. I’ve observed on a number of accounts the two (the old woman and the man with the limp) dressed in their Sunday’s best, scooting out the garage and struggling to climb into the oversized vehicle, with bibles in hand.

One of these days I’m going to go over there and ask if I may sit in on one of these musical sessions. I have yet to muster up the courage to try and conduct another conversation with the old woman, she probably has no memory of me or the conversation we barely had sometime ago, that I am okay with. I merely desire to sit and soak in the fullness of her soul filled choruses, and the graceful embellishment there of by his accomplished fingers.

मोर्निंग ओह मोर्निंग

The mornings here are especially lonely.
When I awake from my dreams to find the house empty and the floors cold on my feet, all I want to do is stay in bed.
Today’s wind is pushing against the trees, and I can see the shadows of their branches dancing on my walls. Oh to move, “come on,” I say to myself slowly pushing the covers away and sitting up.
“Come on,” I repeat sliding one leg off the side of my bed hoping the other would fallow, and it doesn’t. I collapse again there in that position one leg hanging off my bed the other warm and sung under my covers. It’s taking every last bit of determination to resist pulling my covers back up to my face.
“Today, is going to be— finish that sentence I dare you,” I mumble.
“Today is going to be—better not mess this one up….Today is going to be, great, it’s going to be great.”
I climb out of bed…
Now for our next dilemma…what am I going to eat?

There is dirt under my nail, how can this be?
I've done nothing but sit inside all day sipping tea.

There is a stain on my shirt, what a mess.
But mother always did try her best.