Friday, March 31, 2006

Flu Bug Steals Man's Sense of Humor!

DAY: Friday
WEATHER: Odd. Supposed to be warm, but there’s a cold wind blowin’ and dark clouds sweeping in.
ATTITUDE: Odd. But this is nothing new.
DAYS WEARING SAME CLOTHES: Uh…one. I’ve changed my clothes, and washed them so many times a day over the past week, that it’s hard to be my usual slacking self.
SITCOM IDEA: Bowling Alley Super Squad. A band of misfit bowlers (a league team, of course) that fight blue-collar crime. They can even tour America during some bowling tournaments, and solve crimes about murdered mechanics, and plundering plumbers.
WISH FOR THE WEEK: That the flu would leave us alone. And that my writing will be published within the next year. And I wish for 23 million dollars.

Hi. I know it’s been a long time since I’ve blogged. Sorry ‘bout that. My entire family has been sick with the flu for a couple of weeks. I’ve been up to my waist in bodily waste.

Unfortunately, these past flu-filled days have even sapped my sense of humor. So I’m cheesing-out and posting a bunch of poetry. Yes, I used to write poetry. Still do, sometimes, but I disguise it as short stories, or nonsense from some character in my latest attempt at writing a novel.

So, here’s a taste of my poetry from throughout the ages. If you don’t wanna read it, I totally understand.

Hopefully, things will get back to normal soon…. Though there IS a big vacation coming up in the next couple of weeks. Something that may even put bed head on hold. Yikes. Okay, here’s the poetry. It really might not be so bad. College English Professors seem to like it. So…

A Place I’ve Been

Green of pine,
strange laughter prevails.

Into dead trees
run the nymphs of the mountain.
After follow gnomes,
carrying their auras in bags
tied to their belts.

Drip drop goes water pieces
from far above the spongy floor,
drink from your rusty cup.

Day dreaming fawns catch
runaway sunlight in their large,
soft eyes.

Rainbows dance with water-skippers
above large stones that have built
tiny dams
and swimming pools.

Green of pine,
and the world sighs.



I know the song sweet summer sings,
and the wish of wild winter waves.

I feel the rush,
when we touch,
the electric joy of stolen kisses
only borrowed.
If you stay near,
with your arms wrapped ‘round my dreams,
and your hair spilled ‘cross my chest,
I’ll kiss you awake.
If you allow the pleasure I wish to create,
the friction and sweet caress,
I’ll call your name softly
in your ear.

I know the fierce furrowing fire found,
and the twist of turbulent terrain.


Soundless Mind

Beyond his outward thinking,
past pure space, full of the endless nothing
that forms life,
dwelled his deep remembrance.
Infinite memory of as many existences,
all at once,
in one beautiful, painful experience.
Realization too big, too empty to imagine.
Tentacles that pass through dimension,
cells that build them holding universes.
Worlds and hearts, and dreams
to lace them altogether.
The heavy fulfillment that weighs
the weight of it all,
pressing in his chest.
He calls it love, or God, even if he’s not aware.
Pulling him together,
the thought of idea,
of thought.
Unique diamonds
pressed under the weight of everything,
to become prisms of time,
reflections of light,
bent to color through mind,
to become friends;
others, shaped from heart, and need,
from the because of why.
He takes from the emptiness,
words, to try and explain, and though they cannot,
he is content
in his glimpse of what is.


There are the hardcore among us.
They push themselves
For one real reason:
To see where they will go.
They do not think about what might happen,
or worry,
or exalt.
They work their way through the river
in flashes of gold.
They shine.
We wonder at them. Wonder of them.
They are beyond the tribe.

Those who alter their bodies for the sake of artistic expression.
Those who race feet first down mountains with winged feet.
Those who reach for the words to fill space with meticulous purpose and utter expression.
Those who reach with all of their being toward healing the masses.
Those whose minds break bonds, or whose bodies take them further.

There are those heroes in our world.
They do wonders for the sake of wondering,
they rush toward the end of their time
in headlong amazement,
dazzling us in their brilliant trappings.
There are the hardcore
among us.
To them we look
for a glimpse of who we are.


Dancing in her glass shack,
bramble-haired and flaxen,
she takes her hands to show
her body.
She takes her clothes,
and loses them.
She is a cat, on that floor,
she bends and purrs,
stretches in front of me,
obscenely beautiful with long fingers,
she traces her breasts
and smiles.
Around a chair,
before the lusting fire
she moves.
Her music is sex, and I see it
stream from her fingers
as they find her secret beat.
Her toes drag the floor
as she approaches.
Heavy lidded eyes that accuse and invite,
blaze with her slow erotica.
The arch of her,
as she arches,
and bold, created.
She points her belly to the roof,
and through it
to the sky,
a heave of her hips,
their roll, and silent thunder,
take me further than I wish to go,
she strips me of control.
Shaking, I press myself to the clear wall
that divides us,
I leave trails of heat behind
as I follow her from left to right.
Her smile is my answer,
once her dance is done;
it is seductive and wet, and real,
her hands atop the swell of her hips.
She tosses back her head to laugh
in delight
as I break the glass with fists pounding.
I catch the length of her hair
as it spills,
I catch her eyes as they find me,
and show her
the desire
she’s created.

Monday, March 13, 2006

My List Grows Shorter

DAY: Monday
WEATHER: Weird. Rainy, flooding to the south, 3 inches of snow to the north, and here it’s about 40 degrees, with this strange fog that rolled in about 7:00 this morning.
ATTITUDE: Introspective
DAYS WEARING SAME CLOTHES: ½ of them for two days
CARTOON CHARACTER OTD: Yosemite Sam (because he’s feisty)
WISH FOR THE WEEK: I wish for my novel to be published, or a short story, or something I’ve written. I also wish for 23 million dollars.

Let me start by saying this: I am not jealous of writers who get their books published.

Now let’s look at that sentence, and then I’ll let you know why it’s important to me, and just what I mean by it.

I’m not jealous of writers…

WRITERS is the key word in the sentence, not jealous. While jealousy is a feeling I don’t normally harbor, never embrace, and have always had an indifference for, I’ve noticed that there is one place in my life where I AM jealous. It’s about published writing, but not about WRITERS who get their books published.

I am jealous of famous people who get their books published because they are already famous.

I have a list. It’s a list of lame-ass famous people who turned “writer”. Some of them don’t even write their own books. Some of them don’t even read the books that they’ve had written for them. I’ve compiled this list so that one day, when I’m a published writer, and I’m interviewed about writers, or the market, or writing in general, I will publicly speak out against those lame-asses and the fact that they are published writers.

I told you, I’m jealous of them. Jealousy is ugly. It’s not my fault.

But come on, do you really believe that Paris Hilton could write a stream of words that would not only make sense and convey some sort of meaning, but would also be entertaining to read? Well, maybe entertaining, but that would only be the mean kind of fun where you go through her book pointing out of how many times she misspells her own name, and uses the word, “like” in a sentence.

This morning, while I was watching GMA, they ran a spot about their upcoming interview with McCauley Culkin. He was there to talk about his new book.

I was immediately jealous, watching his face react to the things being said about him and his book.

While the commercials played in anticipation of the interview, I told my wife how much that sucked that fucking little McCauley Culkin has published a book. I ranted a little about my list, and how McCauley was being added to the list, and how I just couldn’t fucking believe this shit.

I followed her down the hall, detailing my fantasy future interview where I talked smack about McCauley, lumping him in there with Paris, and Pamela Anderson, Madonna, Leann Rimes, Billy Crystal, and all the other “celebrity writers” that real writers want to smash.

Then I sat down and watched the interview.

Within a minute I had removed McCauley from my list. McCauley, I am sorry to have judged you immediately, unjustly, and without provocation.

In fact, I think that McCauley Culkin’s book, “Junior”, will be the next book I buy.

I hear there is a quiz at the beginning, and if you fail the quiz you’re not allowed to read on. If this is a quiz about McCauley Culkin, I doubt I will pass. The last thing I truly remember about him is that scene with him in the tree-house in that movie, “The Good Son”. But I will break the rules, as I usually do, and read the rest of his book, even if I fail his quiz.

See, the beauty of it is—and this comes straight from the author’s mouth—I can read it from any point I want to. So I can just skip the quiz. Or I can PRETEND I skipped the quiz…

Listening to McCauley talk about his book, and watching him react to Charlie Gibson’s questions about the content, and the strangeness of its layout, made me absolutely want to read it. I trust that, even though I really don’t care about Culkin’s life, or his dad, or anything about him, really, that it’s going to be an entertaining read. And not just in that mean way I was talking about doing to Ms. “That’s Hot” and her “book”.

I think he’s taken a (oh man, excuse this, please) novel approach to writing a book. Celebrity aside, it sounds interesting. Certainly, it would have been a hard sell without his fame, but it’s pretty much ABOUT his fame, so it makes sense. He was certainly forthright today about understanding that the writing community is going to think he sucks for getting a book published, and apparently mentions it in his book. That alone would make me consider taking him off my list.

I never heard Pamela Anderson say that she understood that she hadn’t really become a “writer”. Madonna went so far as to say that there were no children’s books with lessons in them, and that it was up to her to produce a decent book. I’ve read her first book. It sucked. And I’m not talking about “Sex”. I’ve actually never seen that…

For McCauley to understand that he’s going to be seen as another celebrity using his fame to get published seems to be unique. At least in that he publicly stated it.

And his book may actually be interesting. It sounds interesting, from what Mr. Gibson read during the interview—most especially because McCauley answered for the passages honestly, and with humility.

I’m telling you, I gained respect for McCauley Culkin today. More importantly, I’ve decided I should probably prune my list. I shouldn’t add a name to it in jealousy, just because I find out that the celebrity has published a book. I should investigate before I judge.

I mean, Nicole Ritchie may very well be the next Jane Austen.

Sorry for the serious nature of this blog today. I apologize if I’ve offended my regular readers by not mentioning anything about earwigs, plots to kidnap me, and taking my car for a swim. I will get back to those things soon.