CLXVII.
February 24, 2013 § Leave a Comment
I have only submitted one opinion to the Statesman Journal. It was published a few years back. For my second submission, I have responded to the [above] scanned image. It was published in the Journal on March 2, 2013:
This is in response to Bill Blankenship’s Feb. 24 letter, “Why would a homeless person need cell phone?”
This struck a chord after having driven 1,465 miles to visit my homeless father in Arizona. He suffers from schizophrenia, (and is) incapable of socializing with others. His cell phone was a pre-paid gift from distant relatives.
Perhaps a little bit of critical thinking would best serve Mr. Blankenship. It is not difficult to realize that an individual lacking a home still remains irrevocably human. Or maybe that does not occur to the casual passerby whose “common luxuries” are taken for granted.
Many of our homeless suffer debilitating mental illnesses. A simple acknowledgment of their existence can do wonders for their esteem. Oftentimes, my own father raves over the kind gestures of strangers, remarking that God is indeed responsible.
Despite my own reprehensive nature toward a Christian deity, I can admire my father’s faith. He calls me some nights just to celebrate having sold $20 worth of newspapers. Another day survived; that is an achievable dream.
If this response does not seem sufficient enough, allow me to refer you to my novel “Rabbit” written on this very subject: a son accepting his suffering father.
CLXIV.
January 28, 2013 § Leave a Comment
lightness, a memo
Calvino highlights cosmic irony, hilarity
from silent city, I read Italo
my friend naps elsewhere
nimble creature, eyes shut away
receded, withdrawn — in sleep, we meet
illuminated tales dreamt a peach tree, a hill — reserved
for us, resultant of longing
Moon, Waves, separate
natural ways, we gravitate
CLII.
January 5, 2013 § Leave a Comment
–
six
to
eight weeks
rabbit, marked prey
child: powerless, naive
numerous ways describing a book
twenty-three years in the making
new year, new pains, new page
CL.
December 23, 2012 § Leave a Comment
returning to what? inflection substitutes for what my linguistic preferences were at a time
returning for whom? no person replays what I meticulously labor on, be it a synthesized keyboard, organ, or an arpeggiator; no amount of virtual stringed instruments or mixed, spoken vocal tracks will attract the common ear as it will my own;
returning for whom? each note chosen, each key touched by my own hand, tweaked by my own ear
words, in their own right, chosen with care
octaves are no different
rhythms, too
commas, periods. dashes / colons: cuts
what is begged of me is internal, the audience within
A measured year has almost passed
spirits wane—
may restraint illuminate! may a certain self-temperance allow my instinctual self to recoup,
the narrative-structured prose to recall
CXXXI.
October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment
It nags, pulls here; it is not the impulse to write but
you sleep; I write
is this not true? Or am I deceived?
Skin of my bones, my muscle, my egg-carton of organs (cook, crack, split them; they expire, they spoil; all it takes is time)
all it takes is time and these nights fade
you sleep; I write
there was a life here, was there not? Out here floating off is a boy
a balloon missing its weighted-piece –
not “decorum” because my inflated form does not belong up here
not “decorum” because the wind whipped it about, scuffed the plastic, wore-down the edges
faded; all fades as these nights are closing
in, around — I am deceived
you sleep
I write
CXXX.
October 29, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Each new entry is an apology for the last, each new word having healed what others damaged
/ steady washing, the forms of water rushing –
sleet, snow, rain –
rocks, even vulnerable to the slosh-and-cave of things –
things, how bland, how vague
/ words, how colorless, how white
/ soul, how empty, incalculable –
no amount of back-dashes, hyphens, colons, or markings will alleviate the dissatisfaction
no markings make pause for thought no markings make reason for cause
no justifying my means
nothing answers the call of the clouds
the great descent / the great ascent (of all things water)
as nothing answers the urge to write of it
/ it, how bland, colorless, incalculable, vague; how empty…Is this entry healing what I have irreparably damaged? Might the elements purge the page of it? Might the waters wash it from record?
/ might the fog in this head clear / time, how empty –
might “time” be the sole healer?
CXXIX.
October 28, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I sat here before
again, I wait for responses, replies, critiques, rejection
(many words to suit the effect, each ill-suited for it)
Eleven Few, do your worst.
Do unto me what my words deserve. Not a year has passed
I am here once more
(as I will until my writing-hand is cramped, eyes clouded, head-of-fog)
as I will until the flesh drips
as the rain does; out the window to my backside, dripping, dripping
as it has before
CXXVII.
October 26, 2012 § Leave a Comment
“I felt absence; no density or weight. I feel no density or weight there now. What an odd and derogatory thing to have to say about our masculine genitalia.
It is our weakest reed…
…(Women don’t suffer from penis envy. Men do.)
They are such fractional parts of the total construction they might easily be overlooked if we did not dwell on them. They are arrogant and absurd in their haughty, sniffing, pushy, egotistical pretentions. (We let them get away with an awful lot.) They can’t even hold their lordly pose for half a day a week. What a feeble weapon indeed for establishing male supremacy, a flabby, collapsing channel for a universal power drive ejaculated now and then in sporadic spoonfuls. No wonder we have to make fists and raise our voices at the kitchen table…
…I might just as well have shrugged my shoulders and claimed:
‘It’s not mine. There’s nothing I can do about it.’”
Joseph Heller, Something Happened
CXXIV.
October 13, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I am typing from an unreachable space. Here, you are sealed off from the immediacy of the emotions coursing through my nerves, exacted by (oh, as I have referred to them as before) these interpreters made of bone and flesh and all that is invisible to me unless I were to peel these layers back until an emptiness revealed itself, until the void creeping into my thoughts as of late is revealed–
you should feel alienated by my words now. Good. It is best this way. The relationship we are forming is too knowable…You read; I live, I write; you read…How are you living? Well? Not-so-well?
If you are not familiar with this manner-speak, please, humble me by allowing yourself entry and entreat your mind to wander; do me this courtesy and I shall offer a heavily contemplated experience. I offer you honesty.
Here, you are sealed off from knowing me. You know the words. That is all I have anymore, really (do not mistaken this for pitiful remarks of Self.) It is true. The words say what my laughter and my new pair of shoes and my haircut and the artifacts on my shelves cannot.
CXXI.
August 26, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Another day on earth passed; that is, the rays that nurture life have passed on once more to aid the other some-billion thriving organisms.
To many, Neil Armstrong passed.
To me and few others, a Facebook debate ensued over the jail sentencing of a sex offender.
To some child, the night is still passing.
CXVIII.
July 11, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Harvest
Drop him, Lord
De-leash your avatar
remove his belongings: scripture, wallet, emblems,
the fleshy-pink, mole-rat-state of nature cocooning him–shed! shed!
he shrivels, buried in vines
he breathes in detritus and waste he becomes (what we became)
he breathes us; digests, deposits us
to worms, we move
to muddy pockets
to water bodies; we sink, we ferment–
“ah, such legs,” Sun says, spinning us in its glass,
“so finely aged . . . I’ll have more.”
CXVI.
June 14, 2012 § 2 Comments
Writing fiction is one of the worst necessary choices I had to make. It nurtured me through periods of alienation. It also alienated me from those who wanted to nurture. It rescued me from despair but it distracted me from focusing on what could have made me money. It created for me a home to live in when I felt homeless, but it also became that home I could never stay in for very long. It became a chore to upkeep, to maintain, and it grew into a monster I couldn’t tame; it became an ugly growth I could not expose, but I had already removed its wrappings;
I had unveiled what I am, what I do.
Writing fiction brought me here, to this place, to this terrible June, where I’m fretting over resumes and completing a degree and now this trip to see a man who they say is my father. It has put me in this uncomfortable position from where I dispense only the ugliest of truths; it has become a burden for me to bear and unload it here for a measly 4,400-something page hits. It has me wishing for the dumbest things: fame, recognition, praise, controversy;
it has me defending myself to those who do not believe in this road trip I am undertaking, those who believe in book trilogies adapted to movies, both forms so wasteful but profitable; these enemies of mine believe in what the Screen shows; they believe in what the latest PR claims;
they do not believe in me, what I am, what I do.
Writing fiction has brought me to this blog that I have considered deleting now about 116 times…but each time I sit to do it I instead begin typing
as if it’s going to help the pain of disappointment subside,
as if I am committed to a monster worthwhile.
CXI.
May 7, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I must practice writing as Earth practiced itself
until I emerged
now words surface
to stars and to black [crushing] voids
[press lead / press diamond]
I / You
I / We
……… / ( )
