2 02 2010

your hand dives in your pocket to clutch at the lint and only lint and that tin of gum but the whole while you are thinking hm there’s something missing there’s something i’m looking for in my pocket and you turn and twist and feel and all you come back with is the same thing in your hand to begin with, which was nothing and you search your bag next to the  old chair you are sitting on and nope no your bag doesn’t have it and so you get up to go to the drawer next to that fridge you got from the thrift store down the  street and you search the drawer front  to back and there are a lot of nice forks and a cool bottle opener but nothing you are looking  for and  so you step outside and why? you look and the sun is coming up and the  lawn has some dew on it but thats still not it and by this  point you begin to wonder if there was anything  to look for to begin with because you keep your eyes moving and your hands moving and your feet, well obviously your feet, and you cough once or twice because you still aren’t over that cold and you step d



n the three steps by your porch and focus kid focus what was it where is it do i need to go to the store or the shop or is it at the house you were at last night and you start scratching your head and check your pockets again for the forth time and so the question really starts to ring in your head you start forming it  with your lips what was it what was it and the wind whips across your face and screams in your ear that

T__ __ _ ____ _ m __e__ _ _ ___ _ar___ __ ______ly!”

and your hands drop to your sides and your eyes to the  ground and your feet stop and your heart beats and the two guys walking down the  sidewalk ignore you ignore them eyes ears sweat clothing air short breath clammy sweat sweat dripping sweat clinging sweat rolling down sweat stained sweat sting sweat

and you remember that

you can’t find it because you didn’t have  it to lose.



31 01 2010

its night time now and my eyes are getting heavy. light hurts oh  it does. light, but this blanket is warm, and this song is good, and this house is empty and these streets are quiet. saint augustine is cold tonight, the town of people and air and time and sky and walls and doorways. the ground is warm, though: warm, inviting, the waves striking the shore, the clouds hiding the stars, the trees keeping time with the air rushing through their branches to somewhere away from here.


.  ..  ..   .  .  …    . … ..  when does an ellipse become a line of periods, ?

and when does that line turn into a [[path]], and when does the path lead to somewhere away from here

what if i let the wind lead me, ?

some wind-led boy ,     running      from  his town, running  from this place of trees and streets, warm ground

cold people, so cold so cold so cold

the sleep sounds nice, the thought of it and the dream of it

but dreaming of sleep, is not sleep, is it

— is not, and is not warm,

and is not here, and,

, is not

which begs the question, why so cold, ? why so cold when the ground is so warm, ? we walk on the  ground and we stare at the ground and we end up in the  ground so why not learn from the ground why not learn to speak from the speechless and see from the seeless and fly from the wingless and sleep from the restless and

can i learn from the ground how to walk, as i

learn from the dead how to live, ?


31 01 2010

today was a day, when

[my] hands and my gloves didn’t fit each other, well,

and [my] f e e t missed some beats.  .    . .   .      .   .. ..   . .    .

[my] c u f f s and my buttons didn’t meet

[my] l  e      g             s             d i d    n ‘   t                quite           r  e a   c h     the

grou      nd

one of those days when sleeping in might have been a better choice. [mhm]

– ‘0oh well, he says, even after posting a reward for the cell phone he just lost,

(miss america is on, but he doesn’t really care.)his socks are still on (though), and that is a problem, because how are you supposed to sleep? with socksocksocksocksocksocksocksocksocksocksocksocks on your

f e e t

, which touch the ground, like the hourhand which is getting closer and closer to that time when i need to get up for work

and you laugh,


[laugh. .  .]


because you have to sleep first, kid, before you can get close to waking up.

and before he goes, he writes a note to remind himself:

[note to self, stretch tomorrow, legs need to touch something, at least]


29 01 2010

crashbangtearc r u n c h

and he almost dies

which would have been fine if this had been noteworthy

but it wasn’t, just

saint augustine

and so the bruises and the scrapes and

my favorite pair of pants, torn

all they got me was an extra hour before i have to go to work.

feasting on camera angles and bright lights and loud noises, pictures that flicker in colour, or not, the moving and the still, the memories and the schedules and the plots thicken, i think, and we live on these television nights and these movie-script days and we search for our lights and our crew and our paparazzi, we search and we look and we hope(hope) and pray(or do we, ?) and why are we surprised when we look around the corner and find a /shadow/ instead of a [stage crew]

and yes dear, and dear, dear, dear you and dear me, but all i get is a hurt knee, not a paycheck

where’s your applause sign now, kid?


28 01 2010

i sit here and stall for hours because i don’t know what to write in this tiny little hospital-clean box until now,

words. its all i have to paint this somewhat mediocre picture of this town, although i guess the mediocrity doesn’t matter when it comes to paintings, because even good paintings have people fall on them. even good paintings get ripped. even good paintings get stolen or rained on or burned in a pyre or retouched or sealed away in some mansion on a hill,

and so here is my painting, and yes you may rip it.  shred it and burn it and steal it and do whatever, just please

take me at my word.

i am still stalling, and i am listening to Boccherini and sipping coffee and i am left with nothing to write about. and its not because there is a lack of words to use:  its the  simple problem of knowing  where to start.


[And they’re off!]

but to where? you don’t know me, and therefore my words mean nothing. but  this isn’t really about you, now is it? this is about me putting down little thoughts, and you being the voyeur, coming along, looking through the  keyhole into the room you aren’t supposed to know about. in this little box, i am free.


the aroma of horse and smoke are on me. this cafe is empty, and i wonder if its because of me, or just because of the  time.

[don’t give yourself too much credit,]

and i don’t because, well, that’s just silly. there’s one other man in here, an older man who is here most nights i am here. he sits and chats with someone via laptop and video camera. you’d think that we would have introduced ourselves by now, seeing as we are in here together alone quite frequently, but we are still unknowns. we are still shadows in opposite corners. we are still the  clack of keys and the shuffle of feet and the sound of coffee cups dragging  across table-tops. we are not people, not to each other.

this is saint augustine, at night. its either this or a bar, and i for one don’t really care for bars. not around here. not with people i am almost guaranteed to see tomorrow somewhere. if this were new york and i could be just another pair of legs and arms in some club, then yes, i would be there and not sitting alone, warming a cafe seat. but this is not new york. not at all.


*John Coltrane’s Meditations, as transposed for typeset**

**whats going through my head at the moment, which is to say, the music, which is a stretch by most normal standards. Meditations, when listened at a high volume, and when almost totally ignored, becomes the most amazing and relaxing  music in the  world. try it. it works. i don’t even know why i am sitting here, to be honest. i should be sleeping. i should be dreaming about getting up for work tomorrow, so when i do its not so much of a surprise. i should be  calling  my father in tennessee to make sure he  is alright. i should be reconnecting with my mother in colorado who probably thinks i am dead. i should be praying or cooking or reading or stumbling  around,

(c), none of the above, is the  correct answer, in case you didn’t know. as in, i am doing none of the  above.

cop lights are flashing through the window. not for me, not for me. i don’t even have my fingers crossed. i don’t even have my rabbit’s foot. i don’t even have my Luck of the Irish, which is fine by me.

i for an eye, aye? or, at least that’s what seemed to be the thing to write at the time. i got mad at the radio today, too, because we have 2 stations, and they both spend equal time bashing each other about  lack of variety or excess commercials or being bad in bed, and then they both go and play the  same god damn song within about 30 seconds of each other. over and over. the same music. terrible music. in stereo.

so i got mad and found an old zeppelin tape that had not turned into a Queen’s Greatest Hits album yet and popped it in and blared  it, even the fuzzy bits, and i smiled for a bit as people glared at me and my obviously dated taste in both music and media.

this coffee is cold now, and coltrane is whispering in my ear, saying, kid, its time to sleep, kid, its time to sleep and dream and do it all over again.

all over again.

[all over again, tomorrow, and the next day, and probably the one after that, too]

[and he sets down the paint brush and he  steps back a bit and he sighs and closes his eyes. enough painting, tonight. more time, tomorrow,]




26 01 2010

the most terrible thing about this is how i have been dying  to start a blog, and now i finally can, but instead of some deep, long, thoughtful, powerful bit of prose, i am instead kept to just a few lines of hurried text typed in the booth of the local chick-fil-a because i forgot to charge my laptop battery.

why not wait till i am in a more suitable situation, you  ask? a comfy chair and an A/C outlet,  coffee or tea in front  of me, laptop humming happily aware, feasting on electricity?

i guess its because i am just that desperate to actually say something, because who knows: there may not be a comfy chair in my near future.

write when you can, and as much as you can, because sometimes, just sometimes, you might type something worth-while.

this, i fear, is not my time.