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

5-22-99

     Been a long time.  Don't know what to do.  Stilted sentences w/o subjects. Odd abbr.s.  Blandly, blandly I continue without one good thought to write, but continue to write.  I do.  Every day, as the heat repeats and the air is teeming with flora's team efforts, the noise crisply moist in the air, and the quaking ground more evident, strolling over water is another chore.

     Hastening along, Schrieber telegraphed his message, his motive, and his opinion all by his body language:  taught at the shoulders; loose in the knee and ankle; eyes that darted as fish from loud, invisible barriers crashing against the constant numb of the deepest, wet depths.

     Hippety-hop, his feet hopped, shook, hopped.  Clackety-click his teeth chattered, and his blubbered jowls waved in the gravity of force.

              Mastered,                Haiti,               Asking
                 truth.                  hiatus,               belief

             Blanketed,           Blasphemed;         Bereft,
                  kind                     helper             antwerp

             Ensconced,               Empty                 Ego,
                Breath                    larder                begin
           

Like makeshift passion:  wind, untameable, told in golden entrails, seeping truth, hold fast, don't dream.  In the flesh lies flight, in the flight:  God.

     Has, have the will, begin against heavy roads, sopping the energy, given freely by rampaging, roaming mists of unwary, underpinning dream lives, take for granted something on a page, a page in a book, call it your own little joke: Explode onto the joke, take it by storm, reduce its talent to energy, frenetic laughter, love, burn into light, above.

     Take hold, hold.

And Thus It Endeth

That's the last of this volume.  160 entries, not bad.  I've got some leftover miscellany that I'll post from here on from the journal that I attempted and then failed to follow up with.......

Hold an instant, new beginning, holding fast on born horizon.  Born beyond with little betwixt, trained in an array of dry fiction.  Belittling the scene seen once in the drain, one odd Ebenzeerte drove a stake into the deal, cut out the heart of the meal.  Trusted up, trundled out, dumped like a cheap rug on the heads of trouble.  When I last saw the effect, it was wreaking terrible chaos from a tiny throne, bleating of forgiveness and tasting of dry bone. Once there were twenty twenty visioned dilemmas aboard the the skinny schooner.  Today they've fuzzed beyond easy recognition.

               When, o when
                  does my berrypatch grow?
               With chicklets and filberts
                  all set aglow
                  by the blaze I have set
                  from the seeds I didn't sew,
               Bunnies fleeing, rats watching the show
                  As the neighbors beat my head blow 'top blow,
               And the constable comes to take me to row
                  19 aisle 29 F subset 99ZL2.

     The bottom of the page.  My old Nemesis.  So we meet again.  How many times and in how many ways have we met thus?  Ooh, there was

2-1-95 (Fuck)

     The beyond legendary, household-eternity omnipresent, if not ultimapresent of all, all.. ALL of those thoughts passed down from electric charge, to mouth, to charge, again; the deepest of fathoms:  forget the rest, don't even mention a one, it's pointless; one can't escape its little clutchings, gentle messagings, as the mind is entwined,

     It flared, it burned, it squeaked on the surface a little odd, the formality of the borders and informal mesh of day-glo colors, all adding the continual tweaking of the bit.

     And there it sat, sometimes for awhile.

     Sometimes, it was enough, the offender deciding to take a break at the next exit,

     Let it go.

     That attention was not unwarranted, though neither minutely planned.  It was a question, where to go?

     Somewhere.  But there has to be something extra, a bending to the ways, accepting what you really saw.  React, become a wave, a distortion, an oddity to kick some gear into the whole arena, right down to that damned soda jerk.

     It was hardly concocted by the owner, owing to its cheap attainment.  No, not stolen.  Just cheap.  The van, what a van.  Vacuous.  Odd, possibly. Crazy, a little.  Bent, sure.  On that highway.  Actually there, bringing a packed hull back to that one magnet, hell, Reality takes a couple bruises.

     All's fun.  Sometimes.

     Yet.... Law and.. you know.  That vague rock beneath which thrive bands of dark dwellers, seekers of more muck, their power.  They've taken the reins of a philosophical moral question and turned it into a gun, a badge, some sunglassed, hopefully a club.  Damn fine club.  And it cannot be questioned when the sighting occurs, a sleek, dark vehicle piloted by future monsters coasts into the consciousness, and those inner pangs begin, the natural alarm, bringing it all to bear.
   
     Again and again.

5-23-94 Half-cast introduction. (Beware Idiots.)

     A blasting flash, a sudden attack upon the scene entered from behind the hill, around that bend.  Loud and warily unbelievable a rolling powerball swooped in on those burnt out drivers and their crews.  Stares, and more stares:  It came roaring into their selves, and it roared as it left.  The mere size was no mere matter, though if it were alone among all the characteristics, it would matter little.  But to those who saw, who experienced, it was the largest of the large, a crushing power of infamy.

     And the colors.

     Like a mad-dog circus; like a dream from dark, bizarre, hilarious, electric Hell, The Dope Roach Coach flew through the brains scattered along the highway.  Alien landscape, a neon-green horizon dissipating within grey fog stretched beyond the eye, while here, burning through the empty space of a past, silly coating, rushed the spirit, the motion of the beast, the silhouette, black to brown, of a stagecoach sped with cockroaches in place of horses, and a massive roach-god holdin' the reins, flying the coop, and scaring its way to belief.  This was the flash for those to whom the thing was an obstacle, slow like a black hole.

     To those whom it was the pursuer, the one to overtake, and the one to abandon, an answer to everyone's question, electric orange and yellow, beat against the side.

4-13-94 Begeen.

     Rolling, sweating pavement; black tar weighing for miles on a dry crust of Earth; rolling, rolling, falling away to shallow and wide valleys, uninteresting, rehearsed a million times by millions, again the tree goes by, perhaps a pink elephant.  The truth will set you free two out of three, this being the third; where the truth was this road, its other side planted as the beginning, steady and awaiting, the whole thing one ghastly monotony, painful and trying to the traveler.

     All forms of comforting were tried in each and every vehicle that sped along.  But none could delete the truth, the third truth.  Music was out of place, attempting to theme something, bare to the bone, surrounded by the nothing.  Conversation was never as lengthy as the miles nor the still time between them.  And mind alteration, altercution, or substitution, though soothing to some and purposeful to those others, still would not erase enough of that constant of views, that lack of substance.

     And so it went one day, the variation in the vehicles alone, their operators hidden from awareness by the clogging lack of interest.  Flashing the sun back to the dark gray clouds beside it, the metal demons flew before one another into the zero.