Thursday, June 16, 2011

“Suspense is worse than disappointment.” Robert Burns

I would never describe myself as depressed. However, I do have a tendency towards self withdrawal. At times I am unable to slide through disappointments and concerns in order to act cheerfully or participate in the joy of others. Mostly this selfish behavior is targeted or not targeted at my friends and family. It's not my normal behavior. During these gloomy episodes, I can step out of self and see my wretched demeanor but have no desire to do anything about it. I think I want to be alone, but when I am, I no longer feel that way. I have narrowed this personal phenomenon down to when I have been disappointed in, hurt by, or frustrated with those closest to me. Everyone gets the grey fury. I have to change. It's not fair to me. Or them.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Best paired with Pina Colada - Two Straws

My letter writing skills are far less advanced than the imagery and focus of great poetry, but I guess that comes from a traditional expectation of being feverishly honest or more typically romantic and pink.

I am neither.

I cannot brutally tell the truth because I do not like the way it sounds in my head. If I tend to exacerbate my emotions into themes it is best assumed the guitar solo will carry you away into my fantasy.

However, in the midst of this truth, beauty, freedom, and love: I write.

To you.

It wouldn't be fair to compare you to anything less than a force of nature. The kind of force an artful brunette, flushed from early morning's arduous love-making, cannot predict with what appears to be Elvis burnt into her pancakes. Her trailer parked visions of the Holy Madonna are no match for you.

You, strong and unpredictable as a tornado. Uncertain and damaging as hail.

You sweep through backyards carrying hot coals and cold beers - always covering your tracks.

Most of my evenings are spent watching for you in the sky. Scoping the horizon for an ominous cloud signaling your arrival. In any other daydream this cloud might bring doom and destruction, but these lazy summer days welcome the fresh wind and thunder loving.

My skin tingles, you blow through my hair, and I smile.

The judge who will be sentencing us today just found out the dance studio where his wife has been taking tango lessons for the past year has been closed for eight months. Last known instructor goes by the name Juan, prefers fuzzy navels, neon lights, and blondes.

"Two hundred miles!" He bangs his gavel. "Round trip." There is nothing to do but serve our time, and hope we'll get off. On good behavior. The sweat on his brow smells like cheap whiskey and reminds me of past time served. The restraints are all too familiar and I refuse to be led down that cold fluorescent hallway again.

I will be the file in your cake.

The tattoo of hidden duct work in your prison walls.

Be my look out.

My bribed guard.

My shadow and perfectly planned opportunity.

Break me out.

Follow me to the water's edge and disappear with me from sight and smell.

Resurface with me on the shores of Mexico.

We'll blend.

We'll toast.

To the moon and our enigmatic existence.

Monday, May 23, 2011

You made the full moon linger just for me ~ do that with your kisses please!

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Coffee to a Tees!

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Wednesday, May 04, 2011

I want to be your sanctuary. Not your priest.

I am a heap.

If I am honest - I want you without all your mess.

Twirp, Tweety, and Carl

They each have two fluffs and look just like old men.

Their eyes are still closed so when we touch the side of the nest, their fat little heads wobble on their 'stretched to the limit' scrawny necks!

One little guy didn't make it. :(

The nest is getting smaller and smaller, and they can see us now. And we can pet them. Mama and Papa Robin don't seem to mind at all.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

I'm mad I was knocked over before I could let go of the handle bars.

I'm glad you didn't wait until I was coasting, arms out, and heart exposed.

You were only thinking about you. About how you felt. Your problems. Your fears. Your anxieties.

The whole time you never asked me about mine. You never asked me what my fears were. What made me anxious.

They are that you won't want me.

That I won't make you happy.

That I won't make anyone happy.

So I'm mad because when you knocked me over, I fell.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

High Fiver Robert Zimmerman

Make You Feel My Love

When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love

When the evening shadows and the stars appear
And there is no one there to dry your tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love

I know you haven’t made your mind up yet
But I would never do you wrong
I’ve known it from the moment that we met
No doubt in my mind where you belong

I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue
I’d go crawling down the avenue
There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do
To make you feel my love

The storms are raging on the rollin’ sea
And on the highway of regret
The winds of change are blowing wild and free
You ain’t seen nothing like me yet

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true
Nothing that I wouldn’t do
Go to the ends of the earth for you
To make you feel my love

Sunday, April 17, 2011

separation anxiety

you make me use words that taste like vending machine pickles. words with calloused elbows in sweat shops fabricating rips in the knees of my bargain bin cargos.

words no one ever gets away with.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Coastal Boy

I want to judge a chili cook-off and give you a prize for being hot. I want to take to you the fair, ride the wheel up to the top. You're the smile I fall asleep to and the bod I dream about. Tell me how you'll kiss my body 'til I'm begging you to stop!

You're my only sunshine, make me happy when I'm blue. Hold me tight my only sunshine, don't let go 'til I say to.

I want to drive you to the country tie you up inside the barn. I want to take you for a ride on my tractor 'round the farm. You're the eyes I fall asleep to and the man I dream about. Tell me how you'll win me over with your looks and boyish charm.

You're my only sunshine, make me happy when I'm blue. Hold me tight my only sunshine, don't let go 'til I say to.

You can sail out near that island we can see from the bay. You can hold me close and kiss me 'til the boat starts to sway. I'll be the face you fall asleep to and the girl you dream about. Whisper sweet things in my ears while I look at you and say..

You're my only sunshine, make me happy when I'm blue. Hold me tight my only sunshine, don't let go 'til I say to.

Don't let go 'til I say to.

Hello Little Birds To Be.

Sunday, April 03, 2011

It Rains for Me

I knew you were talking about the rain when you said it would be alright.

But I opened my eyes anyway and kept to the horizon.

Salt water and bullshit stung my face.

You said once the rain stopped the water would be smooth.

Like glass.

So my soul gave my conscience the thumbs up and went in search of calmer seas.

And found them.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

It's agitating that she is fretting about not having butter for the biscuits when it's taking everything I have to not call and cancel the whole thing.

I expect I could blame it on the lack of butter, but he would know immediately it's because I am afraid.

That's dramatic. And presumptuous.

I would never use butter, or the lack there of, as an excuse for anything. And he wouldn't know - immediately.

But isn't butter an easier explanation for the past 30 years.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Wayfarers and Such - Exercise #2

Dark men in dark corners can be overheard whispering such things as "Passion should be stirred by simply buying fruit at the market." This is exactly why Woody Allen spends two weeks a year in Paris. One would assume life as a pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers would be all visions of gumdrops and celebrities, but if you're Mr. Allen's concaved black rimmed glasses, you may not have a stomach for all the passions of the romantic city. "Psst, Iris!" "Psst." Iris peers over the edge of the provincial vanity she’s sitting on to see Black Sock with a Hole in the Toe, mangy and old at best, on the floor trying desperately to get her attention. With an heir of annoyance, Iris snaps, "I don’t know what it is about this city that makes you a sentimental basket case, but if I have to hear one more time about how Brad Pitt almost bought you right off Mr. Woody’s feet on a dare, I’m going to scream." Black Sock with a Hole in the Toe said, "Mais non, haven’t you been listening to Woody talking about changing his image? He’s been desperate for so long to stir his personal pot, I would think you'd be slightly more concerned than you appear." "If I were to freak out every time Woody mentioned changing his image, I'd be in a 50% OFF loony bin." Iris' confidence was built on years of public recognition. She was almost as famous as the producer himself! Woody hadn’t been photographed in 30 years without her. She had mastered capturing the light and angles of his face to please the paparazzi. "I’ll admit your confidence brings a slight comfort, but I would stake my threads there was talk of big chang..." "Shhh!" Iris cut off Black Sock with a Hole in the Toe just as Mr. Allen emerged from the shower and picked up Iris and placed her on his nose. She wasn’t just a part of him, she was him.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

The Original Artist

Psalm 19:1 The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.

As my focus shifts from one ambitious tree to the next their branches begin to emulate rivers. Each limb surges forward creating tributaries and creeks. Blossoms dance like campfire. Buds crackle and illuminate rosy shoulders. They are still and calm like sand banks to the eye, but chirp and flutter like a mighty current. Canaries in canoes sway against the breeze. Happy tubers grasp branches and avoid dark nooks. As my senses catch up to the warm sun against my cheeks I wonder at the similarities. God must have known how we would assimilate his creation. He knew the resemblances would be his artistic signature.

It's natural to follow artists we love. Even if we are not great art critics, we recognize the works of those we find appealing. We know their style because we like it and it speaks to our senses. We gravitate to their interpretations of reality.

Have you ever thought about how the first artistic interpretation was spoken from God's lips, THE original artist, into being? We are just a room in His museum. His work is below us, above us, and around us. It is clearly His. We would know it in any gallery in the universe. We would know it in any pawn shop, street stand, corner market, or art festival. God doesn't even have to sign his name and we know it's His.

But would we recognize an imposter? A fake?

The greatest artists are recognized by their style, special signature, and in some cases careful examination. There are many forgers out to recreate the works of great artists in order to deceive and manipulate, but the experts who have studied the artist, know the art and its authenticity. They know because they are familiar with every stroke, every dot of the eye, and every wrinkle in the canvas. When we pray and study God's word He reveals to us special evidence that helps us recognize His creation and will for it.

Hebrews 11:3 By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.

Hebrews 13:8 Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

(New International Version, ©2011)

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

It's Against The Law To Pawn Your Dentures In Las Vegas

Flutterby!! ~ A 2005 La Feroce Bete Post

The names of Popeye's four nephews are Pipeye, Peepeye, Pupeye, and Poopeye!

No piece of square dry paper can be folded more than 7 times in half!

Over 2500 left handed people a year are killed from using products made for right handed people!

A 'jiffy' is an actual unit of time for 1/100th of a second!

It's against the law to pawn your dentures in Las Vegas!

There are more plastic flamingos in the U.S, than real ones!

Bats always turn left when exiting a cave!

You'll eat about 35,000 cookies in a lifetime! Wow!

A giraffe can clean its ears with its 21-inch tongue!

Slugs have 4 noses!

In Tokyo, they sell toupees for dogs!

In the year 2000, Pope John Paul II was named an "Honorary Harlem Globetrotter."!

Men are 6 times more likely to be struck by lightning than women!

The original name for the butterfly was 'flutterby'!

It is against the law to mispronounce the name of the State of Arkansas in that State.

In Tennessee, a law exists which prohibits the sale of bologna (sandwich meat) on Sunday.

There are four cars and eleven lightposts on the back of a ten dollar bill.

Friday, February 18, 2011

House Near a Mill to John and Elaine

Dear John and Elaine,

I am so very honored you thought of me when it came to the care of your pets and home.

I was intent on following your written instructions to the letter and settling into your poopsies' routine. I wanted to make sure I acclimated to them and not them to me. After feeling my way around and re-introducing myself with a string of indecipherable ramblings about how cute and sweet they were, I walked with them from room to room.

Your house made me want to name it or maybe just sing it out like an old Southern Hymn (this is where I pictured Cherry pews, stained glass, and Sister Berta in a thin white dress fanning familiar spirits and harmonies).

Plaster walls forgive me
Hardwood floors release me
Just As I Am, Just As I Am

I listened to the tub quote Kahlil Gibran's friendship prose as I brushed my teeth. Sweet Pea and Little Bit blamed the Nag Champa and porcelain pitcher for mixing up the postcards in the kitchen, but I know it was them.

In the evening Emma, Sam, and I talked about the day while love notes pinned to cork boards flapped like white cafe curtains. Your high ceilings playfully threaten to tie us to the moonlight with ribbon and wrap us all with twine to the sun. Sam teased them back as shadows passed and Emma crossed them off her list.

Most hours I thought about flipping through your books. While the lights were on they appeared stacked together in purposeful pillars but once the lights went out I could here them playing chicken on each other's shoulders.

Just before I turned in, I heard Emma snoring and Sam's fan and all the house listening to an encore of porch chimes clonking ancient stories like Shaman aboard a train.

Your house is rich and kind; which I imagine, as I tend to do - is a mirror image of your souls.

Thank you for letting me fill your shoes and bowls. Sam and Emma delighted me and Sweet Pea and Little Bit renewed my faith in snobby kitties.

Your home is a confirmation for humanity. Every room captures love.

Your walls and fridge represent passion and creativity.

But your passion for West Greenville demonstrates humility, faith in mankind, and love. Love to be experience and shared by all... who live.

Again, Thanks.


PS. Sam passed gas so badly, Emma and I had to leave the room and convene in the kitchen for prayer.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Some Suicides Are Never Recorded - a writing exercise.

if I suffer at this
think how I'd feel
among the lettuce-
pickers of Salinas?
I think of the men
I've known in
with no way to
get out-
choking while living
choking while laughing
at Bob Hope or Lucille
Ball while
2 or 3 children beat
tennis balls against
the wall.
some suicides are never
C. Bukowski

The aroma of fresh brewed Brazilian Peaberry swirled around inside her nostrils with almost enough authority to distract her from the blatant glances of disapproval. No matter how she tugged the man-made materials they kept their pucker. A returned glare from tired eyes confirmed she was quite aware of how ridiculous she appeared. Sporting an ill fitting acetate/polyester blend leisure suit on this balmy afternoon paled in comparison to the last ardent?.. 24 hours.

Just a day before Sadie was sketching a cityscape on the light teal plaster wall in her downtown apartment. She had been anticipating this day off for weeks. That morning she rolled out of bed, grabbed a cotton tank - leaving her PJ bottoms on the floor next to the chair that had become a temporary wardrobe. Sadie wasn't as particular when it came to her bedroom as she was with the rest of her apartment. She liked the old cracked tub in her bathroom and the creaky wood floors in the living room and keeping everything tidy showed off those special amenities. The complex had been built in the forties and fit her like a glove. She spread her plans out on the carpet. Her paints and water bucket sat on a drop cloth she had spread against one wall.

Two pots of coffee and four skyscrapers later, Sadie heard a strange thud from the unit above. She was used to the familiar raps and thunks that came from Mr. Bukowski's third floor studio, but this one was different. It had purpose. The rhythmic pounding normally associated with Mr. B's one man Foxtrot, was unlike this thump that clotted her thoughts and swelled in her brain until she couldn't concentrate on brush strokes and had to check on her hermit neighbor.

Mr. Bukowski had lived in apartment 3B for 22 years. Everyone called him Mr. 3B. Sadie liked him from the beginning. But she liked most old people. They delighted her and always had wonderful stories to tell. She learned he was divorced and had two sons. One son lived in Taiwan and worked placing orphans with American families. The other son, his youngest, was adventurous. He would write every month about a cliff-hanging escapade he was on and where he was headed next. He was always travelling from one natural phenomenon to another. Mr. B was proud of his boys. He missed them but they always kept in touch. Lately though, he seemed disconnected. He still checked in on Sadie, but he kept conversation short. She knew he hadn't heard from his youngest in a couple of months.

Sadie went to the corner of the room between her only two windows and knocked on the water pipe a couple of times. Three knocks meant I'm home and safe. Five knocks meant goodnight. She had been communicating with her neighbor like this for years. Most of the tenants thought Mr. Bukowski was weird because he never left his apartment, but Sadie knew better. He was very concerned for her well-being. He insisted she let him know when she was home. Sadie didn't mind. She cherished him and always checked on him too. Although recently, grumpy and distracted more suited his demeanor. Two knocks were just a hello. And he would always knock a happy beat back, but today she got no response.

Panic gripped her and without thought to her bear legs, she bolted up the one flight of stairs and pounded on his door. "Mr. Bukowski." "Mr. B, It's Sadie." Sadie pressed her ear against the door, but heard no sound. Instead her senses broke into a memory of her college friends huddled around a campfire roasting marshmallows... "Mr. Bukowski!", Sadie yelled louder. She ran back down to her apartment and rummaged through her junk drawer for the spare key he had given her. When she returned, the memory had manifested into white smoke. She struggled with the lock but it was the door that seemed to be stuck. She yelled for help and continued to throw her body against the wooden barrier. With a bruised shoulder, a deep breath, and concentrated determination, the next jolt jarred the door open. Flames surged toward her but she could see Mr. Bukowski on the floor just a few feet away. Sadie closed her eyes tightly and ran toward his still body. She thought she heard sirens in the distance.

Bright light forced itself on Sadie's retinas. She tried to focus on the images around her. A northern accent had her shoulders pinned down and was telling her she was a brave and very lucky girl. Voices around her were barking orders and taking charge. Sadie let her eyes close again.

The unusual clothes were the first thing she noticed. She itched. All over. Immediately Sadie knew she was in a strange room. A small woman, who she identified as another neighbor, sat sleeping in a chair close by. A feeble sense of humor grasped Sadie as she noticed their suits were identical in style. Sadie got up and without the hindrance of an IV, left the room.

It was morning again and the sun was shining. She was tired, thirsty, and confused. All she could think of was Mr. Bukowski and his body on the floor. She could remember running towards him. She remembered trying to wake him and someone running in after her. She knew he was gone.

As Sadie walked back to her complex, she saw the trucks first, and then the rubble. Sadie and 14 others had lost everything. She turned around and walked to the closest coffee shop. She couldn't shake the feeling that the fire had started somewhere in Mr. Bukowski's heart, but she would never really know.