[sequel to Tony the Tiger]
Give us potato hash, and ready for the backlash. We want coiled licorice strings and fast-food onion rings. We want everything on our list, boxed and delivered and rung up on the exchange. Then the devil readies thugs to de-liver deadbeats, shivering and hungover waking in a bath of ice, and missing key internal organs - or so I've read once or twice.
Tall men in suits chuff effetely on the flute, lining up for coffee instead of kneeling in a pew. Why not be a coffee bean and never wonder why? I get steamed, I get drunk, I have swimwear in my trunks. I have a bank right in the clouds -- too bad the interest rates are junk.
Try to relax as the keys get stuck, the mind in muck, the wherewithal just out of plucking range, the chi, the Clear, the dianetical celebrisphere. Why not dabble in a bit of Scientology? L Ron's alright? Give new religions a chance, if we have no use for God, we gotta have SOME sort of crazy dance.
Leo the Lion wrote an airtight business case for getting the hell out of this place: to rent a forty-foot canoe big enough for him, me, you and half the local zoo. A simple fifty bucks a head; that is, unless they're two by two.
Obadiah Smith and Jersey Pocahontas, tied together on a raft, forced to agree while Ms. Rhythm had a laugh. She put a waterfall + jagged-rocks right where they shook hands, then she'll pile their shattered souls to blackmail the Pelican man.
Grow nuts! Yes, to plant seeds, you dig up dirt to build a tree. I never smiled at a toddler reading, seems so unfair -- I had a thirty year head start to also sit and stare, wonder what I was needing, to find a decent patch of air.
Ozark Ike and the TSX, robber barons merge agendas while a man in Muskoka builds a deck. In the June air above water 'round dusk you can only hear ducks. "I don't believe in boardrooms when my teenager drives a truck." Okeeochobee in Florida, palm trees ye high, I got no patience for humidity, and cockroaches creep by. Did you call the exterminator? He's got a hot date on the playa; men with blue collars have thick brown wrists, I'll put out the ant traps myself just this once - that guy deserves a filthy tryst.
Mona Decadona has cleavage she bought in Arizona, loaned $50K to wear her dreams in silicone, or silicon, body porn or cyber porn just makes another yawn. How can we afford to pay? We got money marts poppin' up like crickets off a log. I got facelift grannies melting in Phoenix in a slow midmorning jog. I got fatass secretaries poppin' Skittles I got human-as-dogs at forty bucks a kibble, getting groomed and massaged more than a man with a sledgehammer stance and cigarette breath ever will and you wonder why the onlines seeth with despair, every thought you ever had will splat against the stare, at forms you fill in, it's never enough, you are like me, guaranteed to leave - we got a forty-foot canoe, just me and you and Leo wishing he never learned to read.
Showing posts with label pelican man. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pelican man. Show all posts
2/08/2011
11/24/2009
11/18/2009
Every time I stare at this screen
...I feel 1 frickin inch tall. Like Pac-Man in the maze, but I can't see any blinking edible pellets, and the blue ghosts are after me.
Mostly there is the waiting, and the empty space, and the strangers in the coffee shop if I'm out on the road looking for inspiration, and the guilt at not writing. The writing happens in about 2.5 minutes. The rest of the time is wasted, or maybe praying is what they would have called it 150 years ago.
Do you know what ultramontanism is? It's the sort of crap I look up on the Wik instead of facing this job: write a crapass FIAC blog post that don't make no sense. Which is we both expect. Ex pectin. Like the man who gave up strawberry jam was ex pectin. Argh.
I have almost deleted this blog entirely about 57,000 times. But the other 2,454,000 times I didn't so who cares right?
Last night I met this huge tall Asian dude who wants to open up a bake shop in Nashville, Tennessee--a Christian bakery in Nashville that serves discount baked goods to starving country music artists and pays them decent wages to perform, because there's so many GD musicians in Nashville that they don't get paid. Ha. Just like the blogosphere. Such is the landscape when 99.9% of your colleagues are barely 1% distinguishable from you. Ability to discern is victimized by Hick's law, whereby increased infomation prolongs decisionmaking time, and by corollary, apathy. Low barrier to entry. High cost of breaking through the dip. Know what I thought about the Asian baker? I thought this guy has it figured out. Good for him. There are still saints out there.
Mostly there is the waiting, and the empty space, and the strangers in the coffee shop if I'm out on the road looking for inspiration, and the guilt at not writing. The writing happens in about 2.5 minutes. The rest of the time is wasted, or maybe praying is what they would have called it 150 years ago.
Do you know what ultramontanism is? It's the sort of crap I look up on the Wik instead of facing this job: write a crapass FIAC blog post that don't make no sense. Which is we both expect. Ex pectin. Like the man who gave up strawberry jam was ex pectin. Argh.
I have almost deleted this blog entirely about 57,000 times. But the other 2,454,000 times I didn't so who cares right?
Last night I met this huge tall Asian dude who wants to open up a bake shop in Nashville, Tennessee--a Christian bakery in Nashville that serves discount baked goods to starving country music artists and pays them decent wages to perform, because there's so many GD musicians in Nashville that they don't get paid. Ha. Just like the blogosphere. Such is the landscape when 99.9% of your colleagues are barely 1% distinguishable from you. Ability to discern is victimized by Hick's law, whereby increased infomation prolongs decisionmaking time, and by corollary, apathy. Low barrier to entry. High cost of breaking through the dip. Know what I thought about the Asian baker? I thought this guy has it figured out. Good for him. There are still saints out there.
2/18/2009
Heart > Brain
Heart > Brain. I think that's the reason. There are so many dimensions to it.
I always looked forward to exams, because it was during these moments that I could feel the full power of the heart to trump something as puny as the intellect. My heart made me learn the material. My mind was just a tool. [Is this thread becoming a tad dualist? apologies] The material was always just as arbitrary as this blog template.
It still is, but I'm also running out of time, I get distracted, and these days it's so easy to get confused. WWW makes us a much healthier ant colony, but individually more insecure.
[the dirty little secret, I learned from reading Marshall McLuhan: just like 50 years ago, washing machines and appliances didn't allow all humans to escape from housework -- it just made it possible, indeed, made it almost obligatory -- because it made it so damn easy -- for everyone to do their own housework, whereas they previously they relied on specialists, ie housekeepers to do the dirty work for them. So too info tech has made experts with arcane knowledge obsolete and shifted the burden of intellectual capital creation equally on all individuals in the modern society, and this seems like a blessing, but really it's a curse, especially if ignorance is bliss, for the tools -- no, not just the tools, but also the ball and chain, the mouse and the keys, are literally at our fingertips, and so no one can ever stop doing homework, just like your washing machine forces you to wash your own clothes; anyways this is a long explanation for how we are so intellectually exhausted and feeling tricked by our 'advancement'.]
SoI'm always willing to start fresh, and not worried about not writing as much as I used to. Why was I writing in the first place? To prove a point? To be admired? Or to love you?
It still is, but I'm also running out of time, I get distracted, and these days it's so easy to get confused. WWW makes us a much healthier ant colony, but individually more insecure.
[the dirty little secret, I learned from reading Marshall McLuhan: just like 50 years ago, washing machines and appliances didn't allow all humans to escape from housework -- it just made it possible, indeed, made it almost obligatory -- because it made it so damn easy -- for everyone to do their own housework, whereas they previously they relied on specialists, ie housekeepers to do the dirty work for them. So too info tech has made experts with arcane knowledge obsolete and shifted the burden of intellectual capital creation equally on all individuals in the modern society, and this seems like a blessing, but really it's a curse, especially if ignorance is bliss, for the tools -- no, not just the tools, but also the ball and chain, the mouse and the keys, are literally at our fingertips, and so no one can ever stop doing homework, just like your washing machine forces you to wash your own clothes; anyways this is a long explanation for how we are so intellectually exhausted and feeling tricked by our 'advancement'.]
So
7/23/2008
Watching the chili
I miss you, PM
More than [The size and shape of a nuclear plant cooling tower.]
But now the Internet won't leave me alone.
I would explain more [the above parentheses] but
digits are my job and spitting syllables becomes the enemy, totally foreign to
reveal my mind when my only breath is to
enjoy emptiness, embrace blank slates and
skip along with contentment upon
encountering my harried fellow
citizens in the shopping mall.
More than [The size and shape of a nuclear plant cooling tower.]
But now the Internet won't leave me alone.
I would explain more [the above parentheses] but
digits are my job and spitting syllables becomes the enemy, totally foreign to
reveal my mind when my only breath is to
enjoy emptiness, embrace blank slates and
skip along with contentment upon
encountering my harried fellow
citizens in the shopping mall.
7/04/2007
More pelican notes
If I ever get old I want to be like you.
I just listened to you sum up the meaning of life, in under two minutes, and I want to listen again and again
Pure feeling wells, cannot dwell or oversell – let’s call things as they are, so we can be sure of just one thing, the fullness you find feeding hungry people, there are those in particular who ask me for just a little more, and there is always more.
If I have to start the conversation well I’ll tell about my appreciation for the sun. If you ask me anything I give detailed replies.
My head aches, I’ve been soaring. Can’t make sense of an old man’s epiphany, expanding to include the dawn of the century.
Full of
and overflowing
So thankful for what I’m owing
Fear accusation of triteness; I don’t express my love for you simply out of politeness.
I just listened to you sum up the meaning of life, in under two minutes, and I want to listen again and again
Pure feeling wells, cannot dwell or oversell – let’s call things as they are, so we can be sure of just one thing, the fullness you find feeding hungry people, there are those in particular who ask me for just a little more, and there is always more.
If I have to start the conversation well I’ll tell about my appreciation for the sun. If you ask me anything I give detailed replies.
My head aches, I’ve been soaring. Can’t make sense of an old man’s epiphany, expanding to include the dawn of the century.
Full of
and overflowing
So thankful for what I’m owing
Fear accusation of triteness; I don’t express my love for you simply out of politeness.
6/04/2007
We are hard won
(best writer's block you ever had - enjoy it)
We wear
bloody battle fatigues
best dressed
in symmetry
you and me, writing history
wildasimaginable fantasy and
extraordinary reality
Never had much to say
but always had the
flair to say it
got my attention now
don't know quite how to say
but it's time I
I took the time to pay it so
today it's
let me catch breath
air my bones
after my hall of fame home run
away from home and
unplugged phone
I ran a month-long marathon to tell you that
we won we won we won
happiness shrivelled the
sighs upon the
laptop, yammering
fighting not to mix up ecstasy
with pop
but sweetness + fizz is everywhere and
I'm a pig for slop
so, indeed
why stop
?
Silence
submerged in the brain
for years shouting over rain
now silence
brought by this
bliss
bursting at the keys
gravy
on our knees
waiting, oh
till sky clears
poems appear
content blares
pelican man cheers
and ms. rhythm despairs
the cupcakes —Jesus, for all they are
they're what they are and
they are half-baked to
please us
We wear
bloody battle fatigues
best dressed
in symmetry
you and me, writing history
wildasimaginable fantasy and
extraordinary reality
Never had much to say
but always had the
flair to say it
got my attention now
don't know quite how to say
but it's time I
I took the time to pay it so
today it's
let me catch breath
air my bones
after my hall of fame home run
away from home and
unplugged phone
I ran a month-long marathon to tell you that
we won we won we won
happiness shrivelled the
sighs upon the
laptop, yammering
fighting not to mix up ecstasy
with pop
but sweetness + fizz is everywhere and
I'm a pig for slop
so, indeed
why stop
?
Silence
submerged in the brain
for years shouting over rain
now silence
brought by this
bliss
bursting at the keys
gravy
on our knees
waiting, oh
till sky clears
poems appear
content blares
pelican man cheers
and ms. rhythm despairs
the cupcakes —Jesus, for all they are
they're what they are and
they are half-baked to
please us
5/29/2007
I am the phoenix
(proudly blurring lines between weirdness and boredom since 2004)
I am the phoenix (previously unreleased excerpt)
I am the phoenix tonight. I rise from the ash into the light. Evanescent and intransigent, my aura is smoke and incense, split between the perfect geometry of stars, mixed through the last particle.
Do not fear; I have come at last. You were promised—I will take you on my shoulders.
You were warned it would be me.
Listen to the talk below, behind the closed doors of the sordid inn. Sprawling limbs soak up spilled ale. Men in soiled coats listen for the end of the world.
It has taken much to come together, but this will last forever. We look into our innermost reasons, and we are set on fire. Around insane beggars and destroyed egos, we come to cleanse. To be reborn.
But we fail to respond. There is an indecision. I am stolen.
All I can promise is sympathy, not action. For now I am weak, but I will be strong again.
I hear the call every day, but I forget; I lose myself in its clarity.
The poisons are many, and the antidote is a fiction—it cannot be found. We dissolve ourselves into waters surrounding the mountain; we slave in dark anonymous caves. But there is not futility able to keep at bay the phoenix.
I rise above.
This is not the end of days, though night does fall, and the logic of blackness is
smothering.
We dress for the moment; we are ready at the moment’s notice.
Into infinity we charge on silver lightning, into the end of cause and effect, of unfeeling order, to the breach between world and dream.
“Stop the smallest man forever from lunging after death!”
We are conceived in a quicksilver flash—and I am the phoenix. I am the exploding sun, and the red and white light is blinding.
I am the phoenix (previously unreleased excerpt)
I am the phoenix tonight. I rise from the ash into the light. Evanescent and intransigent, my aura is smoke and incense, split between the perfect geometry of stars, mixed through the last particle.
Do not fear; I have come at last. You were promised—I will take you on my shoulders.
You were warned it would be me.
Listen to the talk below, behind the closed doors of the sordid inn. Sprawling limbs soak up spilled ale. Men in soiled coats listen for the end of the world.
It has taken much to come together, but this will last forever. We look into our innermost reasons, and we are set on fire. Around insane beggars and destroyed egos, we come to cleanse. To be reborn.
But we fail to respond. There is an indecision. I am stolen.
All I can promise is sympathy, not action. For now I am weak, but I will be strong again.
I hear the call every day, but I forget; I lose myself in its clarity.
The poisons are many, and the antidote is a fiction—it cannot be found. We dissolve ourselves into waters surrounding the mountain; we slave in dark anonymous caves. But there is not futility able to keep at bay the phoenix.
I rise above.
This is not the end of days, though night does fall, and the logic of blackness is
smothering.
We dress for the moment; we are ready at the moment’s notice.
Into infinity we charge on silver lightning, into the end of cause and effect, of unfeeling order, to the breach between world and dream.
“Stop the smallest man forever from lunging after death!”
We are conceived in a quicksilver flash—and I am the phoenix. I am the exploding sun, and the red and white light is blinding.
3/20/2007
sundry pelican notes
(polish squishy bits into shiny pebbles)
...You said "I am a gift to humanity and afraid for myself for that fact." Humanity doesn't treat its blessings kindly.
Give until you break. Why? There is nothing for you here. You don't need anything.
You use the same language I do, for thoughts that are too big. So we have these talks where you're the only one speaking, and I'm jotting it all down like a conversation with an overly interesting invisible man.
We were put here to do good, but I get stuck. I keep forgetting how to walk. Please help me. I am independent and proud and young, but be ready one day to answer my call for help.
It is easier to be sincere at the end of the day. Though, not enough has been done. But I'm tired of it anyway.
I don't know if a love explained is a secret ruined, or if a love explained is love that is permanent.
I am seeing a part of you that always existed come alive the first time. Nothing you do surprises me, because I've loved parts of you that you don't know yet exist.
Maybe it’s the music that funnels it out of me. I can’t call it ecstasy, I’m thinking too clearly, and I can’t call it peace, when I’m so desperately seeking something I can say brand new each time. I’m sorry for being quiet so long. If you only knew how tiring it is to try to contain all this.
A glow, I guess, a glow, not from alcohol, but maybe it’s the release. Collapsing on the ground afterglow. I am certain suffering has much to do with it. And being beat up so often, until you realize humility is strength.
There is release knowing you are completely lost. Being lost you are free. I am finding this out.
...You said "I am a gift to humanity and afraid for myself for that fact." Humanity doesn't treat its blessings kindly.
Give until you break. Why? There is nothing for you here. You don't need anything.
You use the same language I do, for thoughts that are too big. So we have these talks where you're the only one speaking, and I'm jotting it all down like a conversation with an overly interesting invisible man.
We were put here to do good, but I get stuck. I keep forgetting how to walk. Please help me. I am independent and proud and young, but be ready one day to answer my call for help.
It is easier to be sincere at the end of the day. Though, not enough has been done. But I'm tired of it anyway.
I don't know if a love explained is a secret ruined, or if a love explained is love that is permanent.
I am seeing a part of you that always existed come alive the first time. Nothing you do surprises me, because I've loved parts of you that you don't know yet exist.
Maybe it’s the music that funnels it out of me. I can’t call it ecstasy, I’m thinking too clearly, and I can’t call it peace, when I’m so desperately seeking something I can say brand new each time. I’m sorry for being quiet so long. If you only knew how tiring it is to try to contain all this.
A glow, I guess, a glow, not from alcohol, but maybe it’s the release. Collapsing on the ground afterglow. I am certain suffering has much to do with it. And being beat up so often, until you realize humility is strength.
There is release knowing you are completely lost. Being lost you are free. I am finding this out.
1/14/2007
Renew your vows!
Oh big bird in the moon, deliver me to June. Sunshine and pretty please, mango and swiss cheese, supped on til belly swells and then naptime cools my coffee mug half drunk in lazy Sunday sultriness.
Half empty, hauling my windless trireme and messed up on Mr. Clean, fumes inhaled after losing a bet; wiped with fastfood napkins and the map of a treasure chest. Whimper by the dock as sailors leave for legacy, I’m locked inside eternity, and hypocrites threaten me with piety; so what if I treated myself to licorice bits after a three-hour workout? I tune it all out, more upset at my burnout I guess, than what the vindictives figure out; still in disbelief at how I turned out.
Why no anniversaries? Or confetti under palm leaves. Frazzled by freakonauts fresh from maternity leave, a spitting image of June Cleaver’s son Beaver- or so I’m flattered by the cleaning lady who’d marry me in microseconds to her daughter Gabrielle. But no, not Gabrielle, no chance in hell - I’d rather be stowed in a whale belly, or forced to join the Navy.
Sentimentality's tempting, but there’s something more sustenant I’d be pre-empting. First-person bloodlettings and group therapy hugfests for neurotics and the depressed? I won’t wear such easy clothes - every swimmer borrows those. I won't put on my blood-red dress. No dirges or hellfire if I'm at my best. So it’s decided – we play at chess! I won’t barf on you, I promise. And I will clean up my mess.
Half empty, hauling my windless trireme and messed up on Mr. Clean, fumes inhaled after losing a bet; wiped with fastfood napkins and the map of a treasure chest. Whimper by the dock as sailors leave for legacy, I’m locked inside eternity, and hypocrites threaten me with piety; so what if I treated myself to licorice bits after a three-hour workout? I tune it all out, more upset at my burnout I guess, than what the vindictives figure out; still in disbelief at how I turned out.
Why no anniversaries? Or confetti under palm leaves. Frazzled by freakonauts fresh from maternity leave, a spitting image of June Cleaver’s son Beaver- or so I’m flattered by the cleaning lady who’d marry me in microseconds to her daughter Gabrielle. But no, not Gabrielle, no chance in hell - I’d rather be stowed in a whale belly, or forced to join the Navy.
Sentimentality's tempting, but there’s something more sustenant I’d be pre-empting. First-person bloodlettings and group therapy hugfests for neurotics and the depressed? I won’t wear such easy clothes - every swimmer borrows those. I won't put on my blood-red dress. No dirges or hellfire if I'm at my best. So it’s decided – we play at chess! I won’t barf on you, I promise. And I will clean up my mess.
8/03/2006
What makes you so special
(pure gushing)
I was thinking about what made you so special. Now I don’t want these words to be pure sugar, as that nauseates every tongue. But I was thinking about why for example the sun parts in rays just for you. And what power you hold over the weather, and always so dramatic every time you arrive it’s either lightning and soaked skin or cherryblossom breezes drying dewdrops off toenails; you don’t get caught in in-betweens. Something fascinating about extremes, not that we get so bored with moderation, maturity, mediums or every other kind of M (the exact middle of the alphabet). That weather, or the tone in your voice - it’s the way you exhaustively answer the most mundane question, as though no one else in history has ever asked it. You turn the razor attention of that mind on my eyelash, and my stomach turns in knots. If a poem could be written about swatting a fly with a Buick, well … oh there I go again about extremes. But I’m avoiding my initial problem, that of your peculiar quality. Is it your teeth – such fine teeth. Why is there so much emphasis on this planet about beautiful teeth? I’d rather have a cast-iron femur, guaranteed never to snap (something about certain death from massive internal bleeding). I’d rather have skin like a rhinoceros. I can eat meals through a straw if I have to, I don’t need shiny teeth, pearly whites, gate to your mouth your weapon of expression, your voice constant and reassuring like waves lapping against my cottage dock in mid July.
But no, it was never anything physical. And that too is cliché. I can’t call you special if I describe it in clichés. No, I need different phrases, like big pointy purple things, large orang-utan bands playing the banjos and hell maybe a fruit smoothie so damn smooth it’s like someone kicked me in the nuts with a half-litre of banana-pureed nutritional delirium – those kind of images could possibly be a start; though it’s ridiculous I can find therein the sublime, the underlying ne plus ultra of your speciality. I can’t resort to nature, the weather, physical footnotes or any other kind of archaeological cluebook the romantics fall back on. Give me my orangutan band and a ticket out of the solar system – there’re comets passing through every 86 years that don’t get worn out by this planet’s hackneyed explanations. Just passing through bearing gifts from Proxima Centauri, so much travelling you’ve done, just want to learn from your latest adventure.
Sometimes I wonder if you actually exist. Remember that game we played as kids – when we turned our back to the room and wondered if it was still there behind us? These were epiphanies – entire philosophies - disguised as hide-and-seek. I get that feeling when you’re gone from my life; not quite sure it was just a trick, not sure whether what I believed left any indelible meaning. And maybe I should apologize for my lack of faith – but if I could count on miracles they’d stop being miracles, and it’s pretty predictable where you’ll find me: in death valley. Then you come back and the universe has wheels again, clocks resume ticking, the entire dictionary reads like a single shop-sign declaring ‘open for business’. Church bells repeat your name and I spend all morning going gaga, spilling ink for cappuccino froth with cinnamon and a saucy wink from somebody’s long-legged sister - and that’s as close to heaven as I need. Did I mention the wink from that waitress? Thank you thank you–she’s smokin hot but also witty, warm, and she actually knows how to read.
I can sketch a series of images, I still won’t capture it: I gotta slice you up, section by section, trap you on a microscope slide (the goal of science is to use genius to eliminate all possibility for imagination, and oh the sad ingenuity that requires, the dedication to explanatory blandness; I don’t have it). I’m afraid I don’t want to reach my intended destination. Much too much of a digression, I’m completely guilty of procrastination.
So -
What makes you special – you turn each of us into a complete fool.
Plus – there’s that delicate flip of your rose-scented wrist, casting light in a tunnel and glowing in my iris. Pointing the way with a chuckle, halfway between a slap and a kiss.
What makes you special is your cast and crew, this insane retinue, and I’ve gone black and blue cataloguing everything they do. Sometimes they blindside me, other times I am grateful to borrow their eyes, step outside my shell and float. Out of body experience? Fuck no – I’m clearly out of my mind, and what I mean is that I get to be in someone else’s. An honour and a privilege.
What makes you special is that 883 days ago I dedicated everything up here to you – and somehow you keep pulling me – I’m pulling it - through. I don’t just feel like I’m showing off, because I know I’m really humble and besides – it was you who asked me to.
Pelican man, I [heart] you.
I was thinking about what made you so special. Now I don’t want these words to be pure sugar, as that nauseates every tongue. But I was thinking about why for example the sun parts in rays just for you. And what power you hold over the weather, and always so dramatic every time you arrive it’s either lightning and soaked skin or cherryblossom breezes drying dewdrops off toenails; you don’t get caught in in-betweens. Something fascinating about extremes, not that we get so bored with moderation, maturity, mediums or every other kind of M (the exact middle of the alphabet). That weather, or the tone in your voice - it’s the way you exhaustively answer the most mundane question, as though no one else in history has ever asked it. You turn the razor attention of that mind on my eyelash, and my stomach turns in knots. If a poem could be written about swatting a fly with a Buick, well … oh there I go again about extremes. But I’m avoiding my initial problem, that of your peculiar quality. Is it your teeth – such fine teeth. Why is there so much emphasis on this planet about beautiful teeth? I’d rather have a cast-iron femur, guaranteed never to snap (something about certain death from massive internal bleeding). I’d rather have skin like a rhinoceros. I can eat meals through a straw if I have to, I don’t need shiny teeth, pearly whites, gate to your mouth your weapon of expression, your voice constant and reassuring like waves lapping against my cottage dock in mid July.
But no, it was never anything physical. And that too is cliché. I can’t call you special if I describe it in clichés. No, I need different phrases, like big pointy purple things, large orang-utan bands playing the banjos and hell maybe a fruit smoothie so damn smooth it’s like someone kicked me in the nuts with a half-litre of banana-pureed nutritional delirium – those kind of images could possibly be a start; though it’s ridiculous I can find therein the sublime, the underlying ne plus ultra of your speciality. I can’t resort to nature, the weather, physical footnotes or any other kind of archaeological cluebook the romantics fall back on. Give me my orangutan band and a ticket out of the solar system – there’re comets passing through every 86 years that don’t get worn out by this planet’s hackneyed explanations. Just passing through bearing gifts from Proxima Centauri, so much travelling you’ve done, just want to learn from your latest adventure.
Sometimes I wonder if you actually exist. Remember that game we played as kids – when we turned our back to the room and wondered if it was still there behind us? These were epiphanies – entire philosophies - disguised as hide-and-seek. I get that feeling when you’re gone from my life; not quite sure it was just a trick, not sure whether what I believed left any indelible meaning. And maybe I should apologize for my lack of faith – but if I could count on miracles they’d stop being miracles, and it’s pretty predictable where you’ll find me: in death valley. Then you come back and the universe has wheels again, clocks resume ticking, the entire dictionary reads like a single shop-sign declaring ‘open for business’. Church bells repeat your name and I spend all morning going gaga, spilling ink for cappuccino froth with cinnamon and a saucy wink from somebody’s long-legged sister - and that’s as close to heaven as I need. Did I mention the wink from that waitress? Thank you thank you–she’s smokin hot but also witty, warm, and she actually knows how to read.
I can sketch a series of images, I still won’t capture it: I gotta slice you up, section by section, trap you on a microscope slide (the goal of science is to use genius to eliminate all possibility for imagination, and oh the sad ingenuity that requires, the dedication to explanatory blandness; I don’t have it). I’m afraid I don’t want to reach my intended destination. Much too much of a digression, I’m completely guilty of procrastination.
So -
What makes you special – you turn each of us into a complete fool.
Plus – there’s that delicate flip of your rose-scented wrist, casting light in a tunnel and glowing in my iris. Pointing the way with a chuckle, halfway between a slap and a kiss.
What makes you special is your cast and crew, this insane retinue, and I’ve gone black and blue cataloguing everything they do. Sometimes they blindside me, other times I am grateful to borrow their eyes, step outside my shell and float. Out of body experience? Fuck no – I’m clearly out of my mind, and what I mean is that I get to be in someone else’s. An honour and a privilege.
What makes you special is that 883 days ago I dedicated everything up here to you – and somehow you keep pulling me – I’m pulling it - through. I don’t just feel like I’m showing off, because I know I’m really humble and besides – it was you who asked me to.
Pelican man, I [heart] you.
7/10/2006
Smell The Roses
(a real ridiculous doozy. handwritten in the hour between rainbows)
*ahem*
Smell The Roses
In the pouring rain
in the Monday morning rush
we talked for an hour in my head
I was that guy
cycling on the sidewalk with an
open umbrella
though I was soaked
to the bone already so
- why dry out in vain?
dignity, it
slows me down I
know
but I
don't get pleasure from
solving these mysteries
cant dwell on dying or the rain
- prefer endless epiphanies, exiting
every cul-de-sac through secret garden escapes
I left out pieces
on purpose and perforce,
it's what I
always do,
I'm not lazy nor can't not leave untwisted thoughts for you but
I'm giving you credit, the wonder you are
and
in five years' time when
it finally makes sense I
won't gloat at how you
figured it out but will be
ready
with an uncondescending kiss on the
lips that
was yours all along, and
that - that kiss -
is something I will have
immensely missed.
(it's a whirlpool
flowing in a circle with different levels to skip
between
a cotton-candy spinning machine
sugar and magnets make it
crystallize so
sweetly on the tongue)
Monday evening and still
raining
the city calm after 24 years of fire,
washed out in downpour, extinguishment
oh
to desire no more, except the
satisfaction of a
clean slate
I'm preparing each day;
some days napping but
some days I'm painting the walls
twenty thousand and twenty-two shades of blue
- just for you
I lost my title along the way
smelling roses, tracking butterflies
stomach fears chasing rabbits down a hole
but
is this Wonderland?
It's not every day I feel so
lucid:
sometimes the joy is palpable, bright red with
orange streamers, shuttling through dusk in a
shiny blue Venusian carapace
- indestructible to
frowns and whispers
I can't do this in a vacuum
I'll stick everything in
formaldehyde if I must, if
words can't live free in your heart, I'll
tie em down on paper
like every educated
caveman, hunting my
mammoth in mammoth-cliques with a big drunken stick, oh
to flame once high, twice,
thrice before burning out!
I see no end to the rain, but I
see you're impatient so
don't wait up -
I've got the whole field to enjoy. And
tomorrow the desert blooms, technicolour
kaleidoscope and the smell of morning mist
seducing the
Sahara and
the cracked dead earth weeps
colours as double-rainbows encircle the
storm
*ahem*
Smell The Roses
In the pouring rain
in the Monday morning rush
we talked for an hour in my head
I was that guy
cycling on the sidewalk with an
open umbrella
though I was soaked
to the bone already so
- why dry out in vain?
dignity, it
slows me down I
know
but I
don't get pleasure from
solving these mysteries
cant dwell on dying or the rain
- prefer endless epiphanies, exiting
every cul-de-sac through secret garden escapes
I left out pieces
on purpose and perforce,
it's what I
always do,
I'm not lazy nor can't not leave untwisted thoughts for you but
I'm giving you credit, the wonder you are
and
in five years' time when
it finally makes sense I
won't gloat at how you
figured it out but will be
ready
with an uncondescending kiss on the
lips that
was yours all along, and
that - that kiss -
is something I will have
immensely missed.
(it's a whirlpool
flowing in a circle with different levels to skip
between
a cotton-candy spinning machine
sugar and magnets make it
crystallize so
sweetly on the tongue)
Monday evening and still
raining
the city calm after 24 years of fire,
washed out in downpour, extinguishment
oh
to desire no more, except the
satisfaction of a
clean slate
I'm preparing each day;
some days napping but
some days I'm painting the walls
twenty thousand and twenty-two shades of blue
- just for you
I lost my title along the way
smelling roses, tracking butterflies
stomach fears chasing rabbits down a hole
but
is this Wonderland?
It's not every day I feel so
lucid:
sometimes the joy is palpable, bright red with
orange streamers, shuttling through dusk in a
shiny blue Venusian carapace
- indestructible to
frowns and whispers
I can't do this in a vacuum
I'll stick everything in
formaldehyde if I must, if
words can't live free in your heart, I'll
tie em down on paper
like every educated
caveman, hunting my
mammoth in mammoth-cliques with a big drunken stick, oh
to flame once high, twice,
thrice before burning out!
I see no end to the rain, but I
see you're impatient so
don't wait up -
I've got the whole field to enjoy. And
tomorrow the desert blooms, technicolour
kaleidoscope and the smell of morning mist
seducing the
Sahara and
the cracked dead earth weeps
colours as double-rainbows encircle the
storm
3/08/2006
limitless
I'm on the
verge of saying
something absolutely
beautiful.
And the
suspense is
killing me.
(in the meantime, something stupid...)
verge of saying
something absolutely
beautiful.
And the
suspense is
killing me.
(in the meantime, something stupid...)
5/02/2005
4/28/2005
4/01/2004
Waltzing Matilda (for TW*)
[*to be read listening to ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues (Four Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen)’**]
The morning click of the doorknob as you return from the shower; the muffled whoosh of moccasins on my front porch; the itchy screen door you scrape with car keys; nodding furious your soft, earnest forehead, to follow where you’re going--that’s what I need to make it through another day. But I couldn’t jump as high as you; I wish I could've, but oh the things you can do and I just can’t, and I’m sorry dear; I never did. You didn’t ever stop trying though, with your platinum gold smile and growling raspberry tenderness, until your giant spirit fluttered off into the whirling pea-green river… And before we met, the first hello, the first time, I already knew your name; you took my fingers in hand and squeezed my calluses, asking ‘how did these get here?’ and I just shook my head and grinned and your eyes were so big, and you looked in mine and whispered your secret; time was running out. Now I’m losing my voice every night, with Tom W howling beside me, and I wonder--why won’t sad Lady Matilda dance with her man? Why won’t she waltz with him? Was I afraid of sliding across the wooden ballroom with you, sparkle spin and we spun, out of control we were. I was an amputated sailor once, but you took me by the arm, and I was weak when you led me up that hill; I was starving but you didn’t let me fall down, you never let me fall asleep, even in the cloudburst. But on Good Friday, you left--you left town nonetheless, you left me and now I pace back and forth in my bedroom, pummelling my forehead with fists, knocking myself out in the closets, digging for at least one of your tattered shirts, because I need a piece of something to hold on to, and I bet you come back someday still, because I have something you own. My heart my heart--but my heart is so big and some days it spills all outside, and there is never enough kleenex. And you said you’d remember everything I once told you; you said you’d never let me sit alone in those tired blank spaces, but the footsteps I’m hearing are just foghorn echoes of passing ships, and that night-sky supernova, those feathers, remind me of beach sand and the boardwalks--and hey, remember that time I let you cut my hair, and when I looked in the mirror we burst out laughing? What a disaster we two. But you promised to keep the sofa-bed free whenever I needed to lay my head, and today, boy do I need somebody’s Somewhere to crash--and do you ever wonder, how we’ll look when we’re old? You'd be more stunning than now even; you have those black eyelashes and dimple on one side. And I never say goodbye, because you can’t leave me, and if you leave I won’t forget it ever. It was blinding, how you rushed inside and took me, but just as blinding you brushed past… and do you ever find what it is you’re looking for? Answer me, please I am begging, you--fucking... answer me--say something... I remember, Saturday night was holy when we were together; that kind of waltzing was the only kind: we two spinning madness in my front hallway, back porch, my face flush in the middle of winter, in the upside down world you took me through, your silver horses and magic powers, your morning-after promises. So to get me through today I’m always falling on my knees; I worship those memories and I want to bury myself inside them, naked, dancing in your arms and shivering.
[**'cause that's how it was written]
The morning click of the doorknob as you return from the shower; the muffled whoosh of moccasins on my front porch; the itchy screen door you scrape with car keys; nodding furious your soft, earnest forehead, to follow where you’re going--that’s what I need to make it through another day. But I couldn’t jump as high as you; I wish I could've, but oh the things you can do and I just can’t, and I’m sorry dear; I never did. You didn’t ever stop trying though, with your platinum gold smile and growling raspberry tenderness, until your giant spirit fluttered off into the whirling pea-green river… And before we met, the first hello, the first time, I already knew your name; you took my fingers in hand and squeezed my calluses, asking ‘how did these get here?’ and I just shook my head and grinned and your eyes were so big, and you looked in mine and whispered your secret; time was running out. Now I’m losing my voice every night, with Tom W howling beside me, and I wonder--why won’t sad Lady Matilda dance with her man? Why won’t she waltz with him? Was I afraid of sliding across the wooden ballroom with you, sparkle spin and we spun, out of control we were. I was an amputated sailor once, but you took me by the arm, and I was weak when you led me up that hill; I was starving but you didn’t let me fall down, you never let me fall asleep, even in the cloudburst. But on Good Friday, you left--you left town nonetheless, you left me and now I pace back and forth in my bedroom, pummelling my forehead with fists, knocking myself out in the closets, digging for at least one of your tattered shirts, because I need a piece of something to hold on to, and I bet you come back someday still, because I have something you own. My heart my heart--but my heart is so big and some days it spills all outside, and there is never enough kleenex. And you said you’d remember everything I once told you; you said you’d never let me sit alone in those tired blank spaces, but the footsteps I’m hearing are just foghorn echoes of passing ships, and that night-sky supernova, those feathers, remind me of beach sand and the boardwalks--and hey, remember that time I let you cut my hair, and when I looked in the mirror we burst out laughing? What a disaster we two. But you promised to keep the sofa-bed free whenever I needed to lay my head, and today, boy do I need somebody’s Somewhere to crash--and do you ever wonder, how we’ll look when we’re old? You'd be more stunning than now even; you have those black eyelashes and dimple on one side. And I never say goodbye, because you can’t leave me, and if you leave I won’t forget it ever. It was blinding, how you rushed inside and took me, but just as blinding you brushed past… and do you ever find what it is you’re looking for? Answer me, please I am begging, you--fucking... answer me--say something... I remember, Saturday night was holy when we were together; that kind of waltzing was the only kind: we two spinning madness in my front hallway, back porch, my face flush in the middle of winter, in the upside down world you took me through, your silver horses and magic powers, your morning-after promises. So to get me through today I’m always falling on my knees; I worship those memories and I want to bury myself inside them, naked, dancing in your arms and shivering.
[**'cause that's how it was written]
2/29/2004
Seminal statement
Here is the first verse of a poem (written by me, natch) that represents my philosophy on life, writing, etc. This is something of a flagship posting, a ribbon-cutting ceremony of sorts, as I unleash onto your unsuspecting brains the true wrath of my monstrous psyche. Or whatever.
Ahem,
pelican man
Looking for the pelican man
always flies where he can’t stand
swallow worlds of fish and clam
he lives in never never land
never known him, to deny
tends toward philosophy
his dialectic iron clad
he’ll argue you to Hyderabad
Pelican bird, wing of steel
beak to snap a turtle shell
eyes finer than a china comb
inner sensor leads him home
legs so supple, liver good
his kidneys do as kidneys should
gizzard is a masterpiece
feathers light like heaven’s yeast
I can’t explain, such peli-charm!
ornithic song of sweet disarm;
he has a way
of opening up
and then you open up
and then you never shut up
about him
Like a celebrity that way.
He’s a king, this pelican
sceptre golden in his craw
lineage that rules man
son of god or superman
(I’ve heard the pope is quite a fan)
O you turkeys with your tryptophan
know the joys of pelican!
you can’t believe it, but I can
he’s my pal, the pelican man
Ahem,
pelican man
Looking for the pelican man
always flies where he can’t stand
swallow worlds of fish and clam
he lives in never never land
never known him, to deny
tends toward philosophy
his dialectic iron clad
he’ll argue you to Hyderabad
Pelican bird, wing of steel
beak to snap a turtle shell
eyes finer than a china comb
inner sensor leads him home
legs so supple, liver good
his kidneys do as kidneys should
gizzard is a masterpiece
feathers light like heaven’s yeast
I can’t explain, such peli-charm!
ornithic song of sweet disarm;
he has a way
of opening up
and then you open up
and then you never shut up
about him
Like a celebrity that way.
He’s a king, this pelican
sceptre golden in his craw
lineage that rules man
son of god or superman
(I’ve heard the pope is quite a fan)
O you turkeys with your tryptophan
know the joys of pelican!
you can’t believe it, but I can
he’s my pal, the pelican man
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