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.


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