Archives for category: Poetry

Not sure what I’m doing with all these social media thingies, maybe I’m leaving a intricate trail of remnants for my future self, or other folk that might be interested in this strange person that existed/reveled in obscurity. Anywho, here’s a poem that I wrote while I was in Mexico. 



The lady had a hooked hand.

Sanguine silk spilled down her body

as if she had opened a vein.

Femme fatale through and though.

With her hook, or with a look

she has ripped through many a heart.


The man with a wooden chastity

died in a fire.

As a matter of irony

it was on his wedding eve.

And his bride with a hooked hand

never received the key.


The child was to despise in time

and in his time to be despised,

A mask of human skin.

Obra certainly, for his kinsman.


The daughter never known,

the only one truly worthy of the throne.

As she never craved it, but understood

the responsibility that came with it,

as she should. . .

Lucky upbringing,

Perhaps because she was brought up

with just enough uncertainty.


People made of glass,

Sparkling and fragile

to the last.

Treated like divinity,

As if they were more important

than you or she.

The glass princess,

Tempered and unseen.





So apparently, it’s easy for me to post poetry.  That’s a good start. It’s been about a year since I’ve posted any prose anywhere. I think my many approaches have been plagued with false starts and many more failure to follow-throughs. Can’t really coherently explain why, I dunno, emotional shit. . . 

I just found where I stashed my journals, so, perhaps it will be a wellspring to encourage the habit of writing. 

This fell out of one of the books.

Office Place Rules


  •  Steal what’s plentiful and valueless
    • Ask, if it’s not.
  • Ask, If you can’t find something.
    • Answer with truth, if asked why.
  • Ask for help, if necessary.
    • Absolutely, necessary.
  • All meetings must have unique greetings.
    • If they don’t, then just start with ‘Hi!’
  • (:

Sunday, April 10, 2016

10:05 PM

Losing Time

My mother wasn’t a kind woman.

She had a deep love, for those that she loved.

But her words were always tinged with cynicism,

Her gratitude with emptiness,

Her delight with the knowledge,

But not the understanding,

That it is all fleeting.

A year has gone by since I’ve told stories of my life.

A year has gone by songless.

And though I’ve tried, to catalogue my experience.

I only feel dumbfounded, speechless, and delirious.

Time is a ride.

We are drivers, and passengers of time.

And sometimes in the backseat, we sleep.

Time is a ride.

A year has gone by,

With memories I don’t get to keep.

Greetings greetings everyone from San Jose. Everyone is happy and hopeful since the rains have revitalized the soil, and brought a respite from the drought conditions of the past years.  The sun is bright, and the library I’m writing from has lots of college students studying for winter finals.

Here’s a poem

I’ll die alone in a lighthouse

The weather wasn’t any better.
In the collection I was always meant to be.
May I be in heaven with only ugly people,
Because my weakness is easy to see.

The tempest was the wisest,
Of course it would be to me.
And sunshine was the shiniest,
I was truly free to break free.

But the snowfall has come and gone.
With another all too soon to be.
And now it’s a fog,
And I’m as blind as blind can be.

Wading through the weather,
Drifting on a wetter sea.
In the distance, they light fire,
But it’s not meant for me.

Without the weather,
We were meant to be together.
But to be, is to be weather.
Where for the worst or for any better.

Oregon seems to be a nice little vortex in which I can spend a lot of time.  For instance I’ve been taking part in a group called NEST where we search for signs of Red Tree Voles in various timber sales and proposed timber sales.  So, I’ve been in the woods again for the past month and a half, and it’s been great and a little harrowing.
So, eventually I’ll catch you all up but until then here is a new poem.

Bondage knot

I had a dream last night
About an unconnected thread.
It was tied in a knot
Thrown over a tree,
Then crimped and cringed,
Rubbed and roughed,
Eventually unknotted then knotted again.

And then it was pulled and pulled and pulled.
Our live are like these lines
We keep repeating to each other.
A thread unbroken,
Lies in the words unspoken.

If we are but a thread
In a tapestry of humanity,
The present crawling through the holes of instant.
When one is so distant.
Not weaved nor knotted nor braided,
Not hitched nor threaded nor stitched,
But frayed or cut and jaded.

It could be a web (of community instead),
Or even less complicated,
If only that’ls what I willed it to be.
I understand the entropy at the end.
Dissolution is where the earned pattern
Must ultimately be rend.
And in disrepair we will try to mend.
To prevent the tear,
To defend or extend the expectancy of the end.

Idealism is not a good cure for monotony.
A thread once broken is hard to see passed its faults.
And the reason to be,
Must never come free.
Or else we would soil
Where it is we must toil.
And then our lines would coil,
Make what was uncertain
Become certain.
And what was meant not to be,
To be.

So weave the broken with the unbroken.
Speak the speech once thought, unspoken.
Sneak away to the dark and
See the way to the spark.

The time is 1:02

Consciousness in a week at a friend’s house where there is always choice to interact or not to interact or to float on one’s way through our existence and even if this is going to be typed to the background of the ridiculous commercials that now happen on HULU it takes so long to get through a story that I might not want to do it anymore. If having the colors flash at you and all of the lines of thought bombard one’s consciousness to buy and buy and buy. I’m noticing that taking part in society is quite literally buying into it.

The time is 1:03

But enough of that, my journey west has been a bit of an interesting stay in Oregon of all states.  Tomorrow, I will finally leave this state after staying here longer than any other place since I walked away.  I mostly say that I stayed in Eugene while here,  when actually, it was here, in Myrtle Creek.

What an interesting place, from the mountains that look like my grandmother’s hands, and the light that sweeps from the cheeriest brights to the pensive grays and the dark times.  The farms of happy animals, and the wild lands that see more people that you’d expect, and the places that no one goes that are rapidly disappearing, replaced by places that people don’t want to go.

What interesting people, a gung ho older generation that seems to see the value in the environment beyond the resources that can be exploited.  The majority of the people in this place that oppose them and the most interesting thing is that it’s possible to change without changing their own views.  I don’t know if I could believe in people that have only bad intent.

I’ve been the loneliest and the most connected I’ve ever been while here, it’s annoying and nice. I’ve tried to be in love and fall in love and maintain it.  I have more friends now than I’ve had before.  And, not just friends as quantity, but people that I understand better than those I would only meet for an hour.  That is probably why I’m not really good at living anyplace for particularly long. It takes so much effort just to try to understand people.

Little town and big towns on the west coast are pretty much the same as little towns and big towns anywhere else.  The landscape however, is wildly different.  So, it’s pretty obvious that I could thrive here if I wanted to, but there is a darkness that leaves me wanting to stay on the edges.

Here’s a poem:

Contrast Sequence

The city has a pulse.

It beats me up inside.

It beats a drilling rain.

The city sheaths the long, forgotten cause

of making edges in the world.


The forest is a pause.

Of slow-time disintegrating purpose,

But coping with nature’s uncaring service,

A wanting to know,

Builds in earnest.

Why save an ungrateful goddess?


But when do those edges

Of glass and steel and concrete,

Bare forth a sharpness so neat?

People are divided in two

Over border-crossers of ledges and hedges.


The protection urge comes

From each who choose, for a common reason.

As the leaves in a darker season.

Choices to obey.

Or the choices of the rebellious, pernicious and precarious.

How can protecting life be treason?


In the blood of a community,

But only for a slow-time.

Gratitude is a forever more ever growing difficulty.

Because what is expected is having no expectations,

And all is forgiven because the cycles,

They change characters but not the story.

The many stories of the buildings of the city.


Separated from the wild,

Before I was even a child,

I knew not I would take to it so readily.

But I also know,

That I could never fully do it alone.



A poem I’ve been thinking about for the past year has culminated to this.

Little Web Jumper

Little web jumper I see you’ve arrived.
What you carry looks heavy and worn.
I hear you’re story and mine,
Are similarly derived,
But I can’t risk for this web to be torn.

You see, I’ve made all these connections
That must be fed and maintained and smoothed out.
So little web jumper I’m afraid
That no room can be made
For such a tenuous thread
That can so easily snap,
Or invite diseases and parasites
While we nap.

I see the little fires that can start
By inviting you too far in.
I see the cute’ lil knots with which
You attempt to patch my skein.
I see the trail you track,
And the trail that follows in your wake.
And I’m afraid little web jumper,
That I simply can not allow you in.

We’ve built this tiny web strong;
Its beginnings are allnso thin
That if you were to do something wrong,
Then that would prevent us all
From attaing what they call,
Freedom from sin.

Please little web jumper move on.
Before anyone connects,
Because this little web can only hold
Us that are already bold,
The protected, the shiny, the old,
Our community bought and sold,
And all the fears we’ve been told.
Of all the web jumper parasites,
Who would drain and strain and cause fights,
Who would connect and reflect and neglect.
So goodbye little web jumper.
I promise to miss you when you’re gone.