9-19-13 Now what?

Well, that's about it for this archive.

Now what?

I guess I should step things up over at Fatguy Sez.

To close this out, here is a poem that I wrote to Mom on her birthday that I found stuffed between pages:


     To my Mother:

As I attempt this glorious day
through written word to find some way,
to tell you true how very much
love and happiness and life and such,
all the things you've given me,
mean so much more than the words you see.
I want you to know with all my heart,
how much love I send; this tiniest part,
is but a glimmer of the blinding shine,
given by me, forever thine.
And though lacking, this is the only way,
to show my joy when I do say
that "My wondrous Mother was born this day!"

9-28-04 Voodoo Cure

     Pick up the pen, lose it all.  No words.  Blank.  Write words about how there is no words, look at the style, the mistakes, the change.

     Once, I had some dreams that waited, like children in the flower garden, waited until I was like a lost flightist, fully away, and they sprung upon me, laughing the whole time, screaming at first.

     Shock.  Searching for meaning.  There it is.  Children.  Playing.  In the garden.  Shock.

     The dreams themselves were doorways, they had always been there.  But now they were open.

            Possibly a chance goodbye,
                 ever so lost and rare,
            May be never having to try,
                 to put it to tune

9-24-04 Katie Didit.

     Mmmm.  Left to devices, the dream/brain takes the pen, makes the mark, it means something, it all means something.  It means what it means, which is to say, it means what it meant when it meant that thing it meant, way back when.

     Take words.  Take them out.  Portray them, with your hand.  Take an instrument, make the words.  Make them look like what it means.  But all it means is words.  And words mean what?  The things in my head?  Doesn't seem Likely.


              When we trust,
              when weee see,
              there is nothing,
              yet so to be,
              Can you see,
              with an indrawn eye,
              that after the lower,
              it would go so, so high.

8-2-04 Yeah. Again.

                    So around, around it goes, here again,
                                    painful blows.
                    Pain imbedded in the mind, all your own,
                               face it,
                    Laughably soft, there's nothing to it.  DREAD__
                               besides the caps, just
                    another arrangement of letters, just
                               making sense in your head.
                                        Nowhere else.

5-15-04 Remember Me?

     Hi.  Flicking wick to stick the blood clotless, trying, vying, like one of those cars, you know the one, struggling, choking, someone get out and push, for god's sake!  Turn again to the energy bin.  Green gold, ticket to true, passport to puzzling; stop writing!  How the hell do you expect me to do the thing?

     Done.
                      Wow.  Who?
                      Do I know..
                          You!
                      Smoke clears, clarity descends,
                          the true road depends,
                          on the links in the dream.
                      Could be, can be.
                      I believe.
                      Different, so samely so, sweet.
                      A whole new dream.

                                                             Kaos

7-7-01 Years later

     At the advice of my physician, atop a log anciently dead, long from home (both log and I), I suck sour grapes and sponge sunshine out the air; wind attempting to stop the pen, the pen obstinate, my dyslexic hand away from the keyboard betrays itself.  Pen shift.

     Whoa, pink sail, huge and near, sailing the beach, 'twould appear, dangerously fun, psychotically mild, vulture and rider share the game, wind game, evil venture, crushing power, random master.

     Lighthouse sans namesake, dead, though beacon in sun, constantly aroused, waiting, ever virginal, lest you count the nymphonic fog, cloaking, cold, surrounding, still, loving not at all, yet enough?

     Spicy gorge, head tethered, less than the worst, which wouldn't be good; leave the shining portal at home.

     There is always Sunday.

3-2-00

     Spot; in the dark distance.  Belief, following fact.  Morsels of light blinkingly blessed in tried trundling crescents.  Blanketed bastions of sanity, like sanity, only better.  Like Sanity.  once ago, remember.  Once that time when I looked at you, you at me, and
                            'tween us did see
                              Yog Suwhatsisnaneme
                       and reality died,
                                So reality lived,             
                                  born on pained sight
                            we saw what was
                                      no longer unreal
     but to death with the flailing, put a rest on it, why don't yoo Scattere