LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

THE FACTORY EDGE

parked.  waiting for my father. 

listening to a blue flag blow in the wind. 

it squeaks like a pirate ship. 

the edges are tattered. 

been doing the deal

for a

minute,

i guess. 

cars up on pedestals. 

balloons bouncing about. 

facing the sun. 

dirty on my windshield. 

waiting. 

aching. 

feeling the enormity of the moment. 

the irony of the exit i got off on.

lone hill.

i smell hamburgers.

i see the orange letters of a place i rarely went to

but have since become a regular.

home depot. 

i am a poet. 

i can sweat copper piping. 

i know more about the factory edge

than i did a few years ago

when a friend gently

taught it. 

this used to be a christmas tree lot. 

now its this. 

center.

where the rubber meets the street - I hear ocean. 

Breathe.  Center. 

Wait.  He'll be here soon. 

As folks hush with hurry to and fro

and all about I take notice of the

palm trees, and balloons, and

the flags - in addition to the

one that grabbed my

attention. 

They point towards something. 

Effortlessly.

In the same direction.  

LONE HILL, 2010.  DISPLACED.  BUT NOT.  NEVER DEAD.  RESURRECTED.

DEATH BECOMES THE DREAMER

I feel it slipping.  I feel time.  And sometimes,
I fear the dream is dead. 

Which is not a bad thing for a dreamer.

I am not complaining.  This is not a dramatic spout.
If a dream dies, death comes first for those that
Love them.

The drama of it all is a trap that shuts as it opens. 
Relax. 

A dream can condemn with as much grace as it liberates. 
Know it.

I will never forget the day when a shrink told me to treat
My family like mental patients. 

I love them madly.  But will cut a motherfucker. 

A dream can make people deaf, dumb, desperate, and mean. 
It can turn us into satellites and find that kind of life
satisfactory. 

It draws emotional vampires who come to feed
On your heart because they know your hunger and
smother with hugs that constrict. 

These hapless wraiths with ideas about who you
Are and stomp around with hot meals and blankets
To mask the rage they have for the bankruptcy of
Their own happiness. 

They are not happy.  They are hungry, scorned,
And jilted.  And they do not see you.  And, if you
Forget you can lose sight of yourself. 

Even if you are the one doing the seeing. 

Worship not these people.  Worship not your ache
for the way their limitations scorn you. 

Do not get lost to the dream of “shoulds” and “should nots”. 
And “Are we there yet’s”.  

It will rob you of smile and song. 

It can steal your time if you forget
That the dream is an escape plan.
A through line from the days that
Clung on to the belief of the lack
Of ache of later days. 

A belief that kept you alive throughout
the complete and total indecipherable
bullshit and absurdity of living, through
The Mechanism of a Dream in the simple
fact that you refused to accept it
and believed that you deserved
more. 

Which you do. 
The dream defies. 
The dreamer thrives in the belief
That there is no way in Sam Hell
That you are going to lay down
And take it like a dog because
You know you are very important.
No matter how subtle or not the
Transgression.

You are.  You do.  
You have a grand purpose
And one day this purpose will diffuse
And bring order to the bomb they baked
For you (that you ate because you were
Hungry.  It is not all their fault.) and make
light of the plight of the grossly misunderstood,
Underestimated, dismissed
And invisible. 

If you let it. 

Us freaks born ill equipped
for this life. 
Even amongst the strange. 
Of whom we believe we are the strangest. 

Don’t get carried away.
We are not.  Nor never was.
And living in this state may have been
The lie all along. 

Which makes a great companion for
Anxiety, self loathing, and panic. 

Do not panic.  Have no shame.  Speak freely.
The eyes will roll and the reactions will not
Match the risk you take for opening up.
Your ideas will be shot at and ventilated
As both preventative medicine and murder. 
As well as sometimes larceny.  You are
Bright.  You are strong.  And it shames
Them.  Because they want it and are
Afraid to say it for fear of failing.  Do
Not fight them.  There is no insult. 
Only purpose.     

Know that yours is the beautiful belief
That you are completely unique and entitled
To all that is in and isn’t in the universe. 

And I am the type, as well.  Here now. 
Still standing with scars.  Later in life. 
Humbled by the limitations of my imagination. 
Fighting to follow through.  Make good. 
Prove the well wishers wrong.  Snuff the lie. 
The stench.  The black sheep on the couch. 
The malnourished.  The discontent. 
The Hungry.  Squeaking like a wheel. 
Or not. And moving now, like never before. 
It has never been about them. 

These days I live with great urgency, love
and conviction. 

The dream is changing.  As I have cast it. 
The dream is changing.  I see now with
What and how I assembled it. 

The dream has changed as I open. 
Technology comes.  Technology changes. 

The ground dries up.  The prey skips town. 
The stubborn hunter wanders around looking
for mice with a machine gun amidst
a stampede of buffalo. 

Licking his finger to check the wind with
eyes upward, waiting for -

Angels. 
Rain. 
Fog. 
Sunlight. 
Ticker tape. 
Kisses.
Flashbulbs.
Cries of adoration. 
Trumpets. 
Parade. 
A wink.
Justice.
Windfall. 
Currency.
Revenge.   
Same but different.
Algebra. 
Money.
The omniscient.

To fall from the sky.

In this we go somewhat mad at the miraculous lack of echo
That comes back at us if we forget what we are doing. 

Dressed in black, twirling your mustache, shaking your fist
at the sky screaming, “BRING IT.” 

Death becomes The Dreamer. 
Like The Spoils of War getting tongue fucked by The Runner Up.  

Fret not. 
There is no time. 
There is no schism. 
There is no peril.
Have no shame. 
Speak up.

You are and have always been independent of tragedy. 
But not exempt from it. 

Admit it.  Drop it.  Say it.  Even if its weird. 
Keep moving.  Evolve.  Be present.
Do it better.

But fall not victim to the mechanism.  
 
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy. 
The world is opening up to me. 
I am the Walrus. 
I am the fisherman. 

The gifts keep unfolding. 
There is a porch swing in the garden.
There is much work that needs to be done.
Every day I become a better man. 

Which is a process that is uncomfortable
And goes hand in hand with the illumination
Of my shortcomings. 

Not unlike popping open an umbrella
In the desert and holding it up like a torch
in the bright. 

In the realm of poetry it is my belief that
The Runner Up does deadly best and
Becomes what he never thought of
Himself . 

And becomes. 
And laughs. 

Because he isn’t. 
Never was.
And always is.

Like you. 






 
 

GO WEST

>

it is not sadness

> But practice

> That brings me here

> For something

> Me self says.

[Back to top]

THE LIVING ROOM DOZES AS BILLIE HOLIDAY SINGS AND I DRINK TECATE

feeling low but not beaten. 
working as hard as i can and as quick as i can
while i am lucid. 

sitting on the couch with nothing on but a
black beanie and red towel in the dark
with another beer. 

i’m trying to ignore the impulse to shave off
all my body hair. 

i don’t care how it looks but it gives me an
idea for what i’m going to paint next. 

ants.  one big gigantic mechanical stealthy
saturday morning decepticon transformer
motherfucker.  the kind that makes me jump
up naked in my bed and slap at nothing
with a bath towel then use my cell phone
as a torch to look for the glory of my
kill.  

there are limitations to my imagination.
i like my hair so i jumped in the shower.      

this kind of stuff used to bother me but
i’ve settled into an uncomfortable state of
ease with it where i can ash on the floor
and not sweat it because i know it can
be swept up.

we have tools to make this thing easy
and i’m working. 

i’m working as hard and as quickly as possible
because i have got the strange feeling that i’m
going to die this year.  never though much about
dying, not like this and i can’t explain it. 

time to pause dramatically. 

i think about this while sitting on the couch
in a black beanie naked save a red towel
listening to billie holiday getting ready
to paint an ant. 

and as the living room dozes her voice
drowns out everything.   

NOTHING TO MISS

she told me that she liked the
taste of my semen.

apparently it’s light and mild.
kind-of like sunday or eating a
bowl of cereal on a
rocking chair.

it was a nice thing to say so i
thanked her.

then we moved on.    

i don’t know what other people
are like or if the “i like the taste
of your semen” conversation
is a relationship standard. 

but 
this was our, “i like the taste of
your semen” conversation
and up until this moment
i never really thought
much about it;

if at all. 

which makes sense because
this is how we spoke to each other
so there was nothing to miss.