ice on the windshield.
i chip and scrape
until my hands are blue.
the blinds cut the evening
sun onto the wall.
waiting for you to return.
stranded roadside
smoke billows from the engine.
starlings black against the sky.
the refrigerator hums,
the heater clicks on.
the house without you.
headlights pass over walls.
even the dog
perks his ears for you.
a cold moon
hangs in the window.
your pillow still bare.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
still here
bald monk on my screen
while rain makes the road a mist.
watching more nothing.
frost on windows.
the cat licking her butt,
then falling asleep on me.
i don't remember
the last time i simply
wanted to touch you.
i said i was sad.
You said that was sad but okay
because that's all it was.
taking the trash out
to forget this zen.
dead dog on the wet road.
our cat
quietly mauls a squirrel.
nothing to do.
while rain makes the road a mist.
watching more nothing.
frost on windows.
the cat licking her butt,
then falling asleep on me.
i don't remember
the last time i simply
wanted to touch you.
i said i was sad.
You said that was sad but okay
because that's all it was.
taking the trash out
to forget this zen.
dead dog on the wet road.
our cat
quietly mauls a squirrel.
nothing to do.
Monday, November 14, 2011
goodbye things
i don't trust anyone who says a book saved their life.
it's so confusing: the red kool-aid in Malick's The Tree of life.
if someone says they get a good meditation in in the morning before they start their day, they're not meditating. they're masturbating.
when you're hating or liking a book know that it wasn't written by anyone.
the most difficult thing to do is stop. the most difficult thing to understand without having stopped is that stopping is something which cannot be done.
first i wanted to be writer, drinking whisky, talking loudly. then i wanted to be a monk, living in the rainforests, going on rounds for alms. then i wanted to not want. now there's nothing to do.
if you think someone is beautiful, thinking of their poop will end that illusion for you pretty quick.
the present is a darkness which goes further into darkness. by which i mean, take some time to die.
bliss is a lot like coke: there's nothing to like. surrendering is a lot like withdrawal: there's nothing to not like.
reality was no longer boring when i realized i had never been in it.
spirituality: there is no higher spirituality to channel.
the activity of the mind is unceasing and stupid, a lot like a fat man eating whoppers. stopping is a thing to consider. how to: just watch some.
i don't know, gratefully.
nothing to improve. my farting cat is proof.
it's so confusing: the red kool-aid in Malick's The Tree of life.
if someone says they get a good meditation in in the morning before they start their day, they're not meditating. they're masturbating.
when you're hating or liking a book know that it wasn't written by anyone.
the most difficult thing to do is stop. the most difficult thing to understand without having stopped is that stopping is something which cannot be done.
first i wanted to be writer, drinking whisky, talking loudly. then i wanted to be a monk, living in the rainforests, going on rounds for alms. then i wanted to not want. now there's nothing to do.
if you think someone is beautiful, thinking of their poop will end that illusion for you pretty quick.
the present is a darkness which goes further into darkness. by which i mean, take some time to die.
bliss is a lot like coke: there's nothing to like. surrendering is a lot like withdrawal: there's nothing to not like.
reality was no longer boring when i realized i had never been in it.
spirituality: there is no higher spirituality to channel.
the activity of the mind is unceasing and stupid, a lot like a fat man eating whoppers. stopping is a thing to consider. how to: just watch some.
i don't know, gratefully.
nothing to improve. my farting cat is proof.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Blip
grateful to be among some fine stories on Blip Magazine, the new Mississippi Review (if you haven't heard, which of course you have, whoever you are): Summer 2011 Issue.
Friday, June 24, 2011
just saw a car drive by which read "COUGAR" along the side but sadly was driven by a man.
didn't drink coffee for days and thought, Cool, i get to have a big coffee.
been having some serious cramping in left leg while running and my wife keeps saying, Maybe you have diabetus.
really want to play on a grass tennis court.
i like walking out on a tennis court before a match and feeling the court under me and being on it and being in the world of a new kind of awareness.
a baby racoon lived in our house for a night.
saw a man make a shack in the woods near our house.
a woman tossed a check at me today at work.
had a dream where there was a great wind and all the buildings were shaking greatly in the wind and i was riding a bike in an unknown city searching for someone i didn't know.
the cicadas work in the morning but take afternoons off, i thought insanely today. i've seen their skins still holding onto trees and it made me wish people molted. people shapes climbing trees or laying on the sidewalk or holding a lampost but no one there.
didn't drink coffee for days and thought, Cool, i get to have a big coffee.
been having some serious cramping in left leg while running and my wife keeps saying, Maybe you have diabetus.
really want to play on a grass tennis court.
i like walking out on a tennis court before a match and feeling the court under me and being on it and being in the world of a new kind of awareness.
a baby racoon lived in our house for a night.
saw a man make a shack in the woods near our house.
a woman tossed a check at me today at work.
had a dream where there was a great wind and all the buildings were shaking greatly in the wind and i was riding a bike in an unknown city searching for someone i didn't know.
the cicadas work in the morning but take afternoons off, i thought insanely today. i've seen their skins still holding onto trees and it made me wish people molted. people shapes climbing trees or laying on the sidewalk or holding a lampost but no one there.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
what there is, sometimes
the only thing to learn from stories are stories. or paragraphs. or sentences. or words. stories are in this world but always about another. someone has said dreams and everyone hates that.
western philosophy is always about another world. the one made up by the philosopher, ha. here it is best to debate which philosophy is more accurate. existentialists like to win.
when i read a story, i look at the mind through which the story was created. then maybe the publication information or the typeface and often read the last sentence first and wait for it like a wave seen far away. sometimes that sentence gets louder and sometimes it comes in just a brush of skin, which is okay.
watch the mind enough and some stillness reveals itself. it's the same with a story or driving on a motorcycle the very first time. one should, if driving a motorcycle the very first time, wear the proper gear (helmet, etc) and do the proper low-wave and wear the proper face, for people can tell.
it is the wanting that is the problem and then it isn't. a lot like raining or a train going.
there is a homeless man who wears cyclist gear and rides around our town. he is properly dressed for what he is doing and yet everyone knows what he is, i think, because he doesn't really hide it. we like to hide it: that we are just wandering around. i want to often just wander around and then there it is, wanting, and then there it is gone, just wandering, again, oh yeah.
the sameness between stories and mind is this: an imagined ego. here we go again: the individual, the personal and the breaking through of that or the fear of the breaking through of that or the looming of the breaking. oh, not the doors.
as soon as we say it's all about the emotion or the sentence or the language or the rhythm we say what or how? say craft or say write or say lose yourself or say read.
western philosophy is always about another world. the one made up by the philosopher, ha. here it is best to debate which philosophy is more accurate. existentialists like to win.
when i read a story, i look at the mind through which the story was created. then maybe the publication information or the typeface and often read the last sentence first and wait for it like a wave seen far away. sometimes that sentence gets louder and sometimes it comes in just a brush of skin, which is okay.
watch the mind enough and some stillness reveals itself. it's the same with a story or driving on a motorcycle the very first time. one should, if driving a motorcycle the very first time, wear the proper gear (helmet, etc) and do the proper low-wave and wear the proper face, for people can tell.
it is the wanting that is the problem and then it isn't. a lot like raining or a train going.
there is a homeless man who wears cyclist gear and rides around our town. he is properly dressed for what he is doing and yet everyone knows what he is, i think, because he doesn't really hide it. we like to hide it: that we are just wandering around. i want to often just wander around and then there it is, wanting, and then there it is gone, just wandering, again, oh yeah.
the sameness between stories and mind is this: an imagined ego. here we go again: the individual, the personal and the breaking through of that or the fear of the breaking through of that or the looming of the breaking. oh, not the doors.
as soon as we say it's all about the emotion or the sentence or the language or the rhythm we say what or how? say craft or say write or say lose yourself or say read.
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