coffeehammerman and the mummy

speaking pictures (draft)

wrapped up in the ever lengthening shroud of mundane and short-term projects,
wrapped up in the act of dodging projectiles,
wrapped up in trying not to puke at the sight of my own face.
oh shut up would you?
stop crying about what you might have done last night and crack a smile because you've got a bed to sleep in and another cadaver-in-waiting beside you that really cares.

waiting for the hammer to slow down
hiss of forced air,
forcing smiles
forcing limbs into uncomfortable positions.
neck hurts
shoulder hurts
tired of taking things apart in order to let others get in the way.

my way
yeah
my way
like god.

it's dark inside the stone room.
it's still with only the imagined echoes of the stone cutters
priests and sacrificial innocents.
(and not a hope for light)

how sad you must have been
when the oiled surgeons removed your brain with silver tipped spoons
and packed your viscera in jars of perfume
and gave your heart to the people to eat.
how delicate and how nice when the last block slid into place and the outside was eliminated from your worried world view.


i think i would like to be mummified
but i fear there is no way for it to happen.
no legal way.
nobody does that kind of work anymore...
at least not on purpose.

sept '06



So maybe a green burial would be a good thing. It worked OK for most of my pets. No ill effects noticed. The plants thrived above their small gravesites. One less 35 mil black plastic shroud and one less lump on the pile in the back of the truck that leaves the vets every Thursday afternoon and drives, without ceremony, to the county landfill.

Maybe so.

What do you want them to do with your mortal coils?

coffeehammerman looks both ways before writing

a short poem:

the angry neighbor or the busted headlight

pick at that hangnail and it will bleed

i look out of my window in the morning and wonder exactly where that limitless world went

then the garbage truck rolls by
crushing a squirrel
that got confused when crossing

--geo



started that short one last fall and just getting around to completing the thought. i've been energized as of late with another successful event at the Marketplace. it's great to see others come out and show another side of themselves.

writing is cathartic, yes, and it's therapeutic, sure. but it's also fun. how simply amazing that we have these 26 odd little symbols and we have turned them into the hammer, anvil, coin, cloak, needle, parchment, well and transmission of our civilization.

what would you be if you could not or did not write?

coffeehammerman steps to the edge of the map

so, looking forward from this house to the next and I'm thinking about how to make my footprint smaller. how do I make it less permanent?

standing next to other equally small mammals on the field of capital and cooperative love and thinking: how can we make this even smaller?

even as I'm typing into the eyes of unknown faraway points!

well.

here's another one:

endoftheworldpoem#1

locals are loud
tv is loud
door is loud
kitchen is loud

cartographer from east Tennessee yells across the less than 12 inch gap between himself and the isle of palms ex-deb twice removed from the shared joke and the smears of the past week
both shift uncomfortably and unknowingly from that then into this now
both are larger somehow

how do i small myself into a less recognizable box?
the echoes are too locating
signals too responsive
i'll get on the next wave and sidle out sideways into a less vertical hab

looking for a lighter fuel
sniffing out the fainter gas
digging a less shallow hole
and the locals dive into preformed habs
and the kids all question
and the answers are all the same less
and the walls fall apart

and the tape recorded message spat over longest wave is as heavy as the gold in my box

then we go to sleep
forever (ofcourse)



geo



thinking about how it all might or will end? respond. thanks.

coffeehammerman went outside

Hitch


Long memory for a bone:
the thumb that keeps stabbing
every morning after,
long after the ride
long after the disaster
the scene
the show.

Long before the rain gave way to mist,
giving way to haze and biscuits
over morning coffee

vomit.

**

I went out west some time ago. Twice across and back. Tried to hitchhike back with an acquaintance and gave up. Gave in to the plastic of last resort in Colorado. Hoofed it into an airport from an interstate off ramp.

Airports are not pedestrian friendly places from the approach. Once you're inside it's all open maws and mesmeric light shows. Jarring blurbs of important disembodied jetsam.
Spend, walk, drink, smoke, spend, sit, piss and on and on until the flight and the uncomfortable phone call to my ex-girlfriend for the ride home (where?) from RDU.

So with that the call is placed. Phone somewhere ringing.

Query: do you have a hitch log? Post your comment. Post your poem or whatever. Sign your sign. I stuck my thumb out and it got sucked.

geo

coffeehammerman and the voice at the other end of the line

hello

here it all could be, then. the setting up part was shockingly simple. three small steps, choose some names and agree to some -i don't have time to read these terms and conditions- and ding ding we're back in print.

except this time the print is pixilated and the back and forth will be faster.

several years ago i made a small magazine called dialtone. i wanted it to speak with many voices and represent what i have always felt: some art should be free. i solicited and typed and edited and flailed about in an old version of pagemaker, then an old version of publisher, took my proof to the copy store in Chapel Hill and spent $200 to make a magazine. sometimes more, sometimes less.

i got no money (very little, i think, there was one benefactor that helped out with cash and the occasional round of drinks at the bar). i produced 13 issues. i have them filed on my hard drive in various forms, i have a few papercopies of each as well, some crap in a box for my son to go through when i'm food for worms.

so what's the point now? the point is i need to write. as i sit at a desk some days now to make a living, as i need the practice keyboarding (calling it typing is too generous), as i think i might go nuts without the occasional distraction...well, let's just say i need to do it. besides, i've heard that folks from all over the frickin planet might read what i've written and might even respond to it. it's like dialing a random phone number, waiting for an answer, when the answer comes you just start talking and the party at the other end doesn't hang up.

at least i'll not know if you hang up.

my friend Lyle Estill has a blog. it is found from within the terrific website: http://www.biofuels.coop/links.shtml
take a spin inside this marvelous storehouse of information and energy. thanks, Lyle, for turning me on to this incredible medium.

i'm rambling right now, waiting for return phone calls. i'll get some threads together, weave some cables, cover some distance.

let's see what happens. remember, you've opened the page, read this far, in a way you've already said "yes".

geo