volume two

well, so much for getting it out there, so much for the daily ritual of writing and revising, so much for everything i so desperately wanted to say but knew that if i took the time to ---

phone just rang, need to go get in my damn car to go look at something

yep, nice restart. back in an hour.

***

6 weeks later
i got an email from my friend Lyle yesterday. he came by my house to offer advice and expert opinion on some far-flung notions i had concerning the construction of decorative devices about the interior and exterior of the nascent abode.
well, he noted that he had looked at this blog and (almost non-judgementally) noted that i had not added anything in some time. well, that's about right. i could scroll through the proverbial litany of activities and excuses for not adding to this thing that i thought it would be so damn nifty to create and build upon BUT that would just be a waste of keystrokes and we all know that wasting keystrokes is not what the internet is about, right?

so, let's try again, shall we?

Lyle sent me a clever bit of stewed wordage that sliced and diced some of my work and fed it back in a lovely chafing dish with a side of pickled pomegranate seeds. i think he used one of those plastic and aluminum Ronco tools that are not sold in stores. he even teased me with the prospect of actually competing in the upcoming poetry slam at Shakori Hill Grassroots Music Festival in October. well wouldn't that be keen? i may even read the original so that his piece would have some framework for the audience to fit his little tapestry into, otherwise it would be another flag without a county, so to speak.

so, here's the plan:
start a new free magazine for the area. i put one together some time ago and kept it afloat for 12 issues. an acquaintance of mine archived the issues online but, last time i checked, his website went the way of the ether and all that digital diatribal dribble went poof. oh, well.

also, render and regurgitate. i will add to this little blog o'mine and i will make the time to craft something besides the usual self-referential crap that clogs the fiber optic drainpipe every few microseconds. i know that you could care less about the house i'm building or my kid losing his third tooth or the failing compost pile out back or the weird clear droplets that have been appearing on my windshield the past few mornings or the slight pain in my right shoulder that will not go away or the bitchin' pair of Tevas i found on eBay last week or the or the or the.

so, that's enough for now. it's Saturday here and i have chores.



here's a poem:

chapter 3, page 16

gas station food mart clerk with the misshapen child behind the playpen bars behind the register on the floor just below the creamy grey fog of newport menthol residue and rough men cracking

beep beep beep flicking of switches and gas goes where gas always goes and the girl outside the window on the side of the building mouths a "that's nice" to the jailed clerk and even from where i'm standing i can tell she's lying

and i know before we go in that there will be only one toilet and there will be no cold half and half and then the burning coffee in the bottom of the pot crams its way past everything else up both nostrils hard the door edging past the faded brass bell and the beeping is loud enough to be heard across the street and doesn't stop until the prisoner takes the cigarette from her perfectly nailed fingers and punches a button

and the stains on the blue lip of the coffee pot are older that our car older still than the bowl you strain not to touch as you try to pee faster than you ever have and of course the door has no lock

i'll just pay the nice lady with the mutant at her feet and get the hell out wait for you in the truck maybe fiddle with the ashtray reset something trying not to make eye contact with anyone and strain out the window for anything resembling a wind



can't lose momentum or we're both fucking dead.

***

talk to you soon?

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