2208
Another month. Winter as strong as ever. Walking today I followed sound of crunch. Echoed with voices. Distant traffic. For moments my eyes glared at the dull calligraphy. Everything reinforced panic. The prison moment. So glad no one spoke to me. I sailed that yard for an hour then back to cell. Nothing to look forward to and only memories behind. Indulgence just doesn’t jive. Turning 50 in a few weeks. 49, 50, 51. My years in prison. I think this will be one of my last rambles. Masturbation. Anger is teaching me Zen lately. Taste is of Tao. Fucked existence. Oh yes it can get worse & yes is not bad. But what’s the point. My tiptoes thru fences barb wire redundant babble of fucking hos & getting over again & again & again. No I choose solitude without tongue. Pen.
You know that joy when you do your taxes and find an additional $200 - $300. Then the blow to the gut when it’s you owe. Friday I realized after a year that my additional subtraction was off. Way off in terms of my release. I need to serve 85% of my sentence not the 75% I thought. So when I thought I could apply in November it’s really not until March. So that was a relief knowing I get to hang out here for another 3 months or so. & I know it could be worse. That record is on auto-pilot.
Seriously I want & need to thank those of you who have not only stood by but have done so much to make this better. I never forget that. Frankly I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
I received a wonderful letter & a Columbia Law Review from Martha Grace Duncan. The review published a work of hers & I’d like to hit on a part of it & give my slight perspective. Part of it deals with teenagers convicted of crimes & how their lack – seemingly lack of remorse is held against them in a huge way. Now I’m just skating over the depth of this article because I want only to address my perspective. In it these “kids” are judged hard because for one they can sleep after their arrest. They make odd jokes & the aren’t running around crying & begging for mercy. Strange. When I get stressed – heavy stressed – I fall asleep. I pass out. The few days in booking I was driving everyone crazy cause I could not stay awake. With my bologna sandwich pillow or sitting backwards I slept probably 18 out of 24 hours if not 20. & emotion. I gather you figured out that I allow my emotions full reign. But as Kelly as my witness another John took over at sentencing & that John seems to be driving this truck. True for a few rare moments. First seeing Stacy or Kelly or relating stories of Evan’s death or how I miss Noah – I’m straight & yes there are a few decades between me & these teenage killers. But call it what you want – something takes over. You don’t yell fire in a crowded theater. Perhaps it’s a survival instinct. Perhaps it’s understanding the bad ass. Perhaps it’s shock. The beginning of the sleep walk. Perhaps it’s because they themselves are dead. You have to be dead in here. No matter how soft the prison I suggest if you ever venture in this area – kill your heart. Do not allow anything to reveal that you feel. Kill it. Stomp out that fire. I walk that tightrope & I’m exhausted. Tired of dreaming of remembering. & this is only 1 year for me. So I’ve elected anger as my governor. Let’s see some new laws. & speaking of such, this past summer 1 & 2 other poet buds were approached by a poet/publisher to do a book of ours. When he found out my crime he dropped it. No nothing. Over. Not only does he know nothing of me or what got me here but to me he represents that new American. Actually I call them pussies. Judgment holier than thou & think with facial hair & new beer or adopted child, that they’re cutting edge – hip- outlaw. No discussion. Believe the government is never wrong & put all bad things in a box under their bed.
My point is not to bitch but to thank those of you – my friends-family-strangers that even I with the new title of convicted sex offender isn’t the new disease – pariah. & I thank you for your words, support, thoughts. I deal with it myself in here men who have raped their children, neighbors. Men who have slaughtered their families. Ate next to them. Slept in the same cell. It confuses me. But right now I have to shut off the switch & listen & understand there has to be a reason. Right? Doesn’t there? & thank you Martha Duncan for all your work, kind words & opening my mind.
Saw Julian Schnabel on tv Sunday. What an amazing artist – director. Can’t wait to read The Diving Bell & Butterfly. You all should go see it. I’d love to get your opinions on.
I wrote the above earlier today. Stuck in the muck that makes me me. Even I need to get away from self. Walk & sleep. Try to forget. To remember Spring. Pizza. What a kiss sounds like. A magician I do best to conjure realize muck too thick & time stops. As evening moved to 9:00 pm turned off distractions. Supped on “Little Steven’s Underground Garage”. Said fuck you to the universe & stop dumping tons of bad karma at my feet. As I turned on radio prone for attack Johnny River’s Secret Agent Man. Who needs pizza.
Later.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
12508
Friday morning it’s been nearly 2 weeks since move to front yard. Rick, friend from back yard new celly. I sit at a desk window to left Aerosmith on radio way too much coffee within. If I had my glasses on I could see those on way to work, but I don’t. Hammett might have said it best, in The Dain Curse, “Put enough people in jail, and cities wouldn’t have traffic problems”. Could it be better said? In college and slightly before discovered Cain, Hammett, felt better than Columbus. Some knob in gay ass column dropped statement that this weekend he’ll be reading H Miller in some bookstore. Dude, that’s like letting your loved ones know how many times you shake it, off. This world kind of sucks. Never use H Miller as some prop as some jack off in mirror. Why, first you sound major dar-dar, then as if dignity remains by some one else’s accomplishments. Never use Henry’s name in vain. So anyway finished Capote. Found out dear James never met, but got as close to Edmund White, which is double-barreled. Letter from my mother brings everything home, drifting towards death our words the blanket we grasp. Father still hanging in there though. Sounds he’s truly a trooper. I wish we could eliminate the capacity to think. Just imitation. No question heavy deliberations. I see my name on envelope, her handwriting brings me right into the room sitting next to or across from & we talk & all “this” evaporates. Mom writes nice letters, a Polaroid. Instant, though she wrote over 2 days. She works so hard. My mother & I have a strange but I think great relationship. In one moment I can hate her with all my blood & then next seeing the world thru her eyes or an attempt to. Without question I got my hang up about honesty from her. Well, both my parents. Dad worked a lot anyways. They grew up rough & we grew up less rough therefore our children less er. Eventually our family genes will create bliss. Until now, just honesty. You could and can ask my mother anything, anything and expect not just that she’d answer but answer completely. We grew up Catholic. Upper middle & lots & lots of booze. Anxiety. We were cats in brown paper bags. Frankly Dylan Thomas could have sat at our table. When I first saw Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? I was so happy. I guess we weren’t so strange. The best and fairest assessment is we embraced, ate and wrestled passion & we were taught how to pin & possess that hot little demon. So my point I guess is nothing doesn’t or can’t make sense to me with the exception of mowing the grass. I was, to I’m sure your surprise, a rowdy child. Rowdy is an understatement. So I would escort my parents at a very early age to antique stores auction houses. Dust dirt grime are major turn-ons I love ancient wood, brass and crystal
chandeliers. Love funky barns & basements. So either I’d deal with antiques or become a serial killer. The verdict is still out. Ha! Anyway this is a long way of saying fuck is it cold outside. Like grab that frigid monster and put all bad memories on hold. Wander eyes out the window & relish your skin. Lap your coffee kitten & remember your existence matters. Seal all you love as envelopes mail carbon copy to self and spend morning sockless. I dreamt last night of Colette. Woke up 10yrs younger. Remember the first time she laughed & drank state coffee, alone. I’m blessed. Terrific friends, the most perfect family & memories that make me laugh at birds as peers. I don’t like it that my father is dying. I don’t like it that I’m here & can’t hold him. I don’t like it that I’m weak. That I give into stupidity. That with all “this” knowledge & experience I still fall down the stairs. Like a bug on my back. Squirm in the darkness & Kafka says, “Stop your belly aching” ha!
I wish the press & public would let people grieve & I wish that they’d realize that perhaps it’s better to leave some things alone & sometimes not. I’m saddened by such another young death. I’m saddened by the paper time newscasts to broadcast & knit-pick every detail. As an artist you are given a certain fame in life & this country seems to drag endlessly way beyond. At the end of the day we need to honor we need to allow a certain process to exist. Are we?
I started this ramble petty. Let the guy with strange glasses proclaim his plan to read Tropic of Cancer at local bookstore. Not only who am I, but anyway to get Henry’s work into another’s hand is cool. Sorry.
If any of you are near Oshkosh hit up the college radio station with some requests. Nice station. Not enough true punk though they are doing some sweet new wave. No Belle & Sebastian. I know that’s a strange stretch. But.
So my celly is great & it’s cold as hell.
Later.
Friday morning it’s been nearly 2 weeks since move to front yard. Rick, friend from back yard new celly. I sit at a desk window to left Aerosmith on radio way too much coffee within. If I had my glasses on I could see those on way to work, but I don’t. Hammett might have said it best, in The Dain Curse, “Put enough people in jail, and cities wouldn’t have traffic problems”. Could it be better said? In college and slightly before discovered Cain, Hammett, felt better than Columbus. Some knob in gay ass column dropped statement that this weekend he’ll be reading H Miller in some bookstore. Dude, that’s like letting your loved ones know how many times you shake it, off. This world kind of sucks. Never use H Miller as some prop as some jack off in mirror. Why, first you sound major dar-dar, then as if dignity remains by some one else’s accomplishments. Never use Henry’s name in vain. So anyway finished Capote. Found out dear James never met, but got as close to Edmund White, which is double-barreled. Letter from my mother brings everything home, drifting towards death our words the blanket we grasp. Father still hanging in there though. Sounds he’s truly a trooper. I wish we could eliminate the capacity to think. Just imitation. No question heavy deliberations. I see my name on envelope, her handwriting brings me right into the room sitting next to or across from & we talk & all “this” evaporates. Mom writes nice letters, a Polaroid. Instant, though she wrote over 2 days. She works so hard. My mother & I have a strange but I think great relationship. In one moment I can hate her with all my blood & then next seeing the world thru her eyes or an attempt to. Without question I got my hang up about honesty from her. Well, both my parents. Dad worked a lot anyways. They grew up rough & we grew up less rough therefore our children less er. Eventually our family genes will create bliss. Until now, just honesty. You could and can ask my mother anything, anything and expect not just that she’d answer but answer completely. We grew up Catholic. Upper middle & lots & lots of booze. Anxiety. We were cats in brown paper bags. Frankly Dylan Thomas could have sat at our table. When I first saw Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? I was so happy. I guess we weren’t so strange. The best and fairest assessment is we embraced, ate and wrestled passion & we were taught how to pin & possess that hot little demon. So my point I guess is nothing doesn’t or can’t make sense to me with the exception of mowing the grass. I was, to I’m sure your surprise, a rowdy child. Rowdy is an understatement. So I would escort my parents at a very early age to antique stores auction houses. Dust dirt grime are major turn-ons I love ancient wood, brass and crystal
chandeliers. Love funky barns & basements. So either I’d deal with antiques or become a serial killer. The verdict is still out. Ha! Anyway this is a long way of saying fuck is it cold outside. Like grab that frigid monster and put all bad memories on hold. Wander eyes out the window & relish your skin. Lap your coffee kitten & remember your existence matters. Seal all you love as envelopes mail carbon copy to self and spend morning sockless. I dreamt last night of Colette. Woke up 10yrs younger. Remember the first time she laughed & drank state coffee, alone. I’m blessed. Terrific friends, the most perfect family & memories that make me laugh at birds as peers. I don’t like it that my father is dying. I don’t like it that I’m here & can’t hold him. I don’t like it that I’m weak. That I give into stupidity. That with all “this” knowledge & experience I still fall down the stairs. Like a bug on my back. Squirm in the darkness & Kafka says, “Stop your belly aching” ha!
I wish the press & public would let people grieve & I wish that they’d realize that perhaps it’s better to leave some things alone & sometimes not. I’m saddened by such another young death. I’m saddened by the paper time newscasts to broadcast & knit-pick every detail. As an artist you are given a certain fame in life & this country seems to drag endlessly way beyond. At the end of the day we need to honor we need to allow a certain process to exist. Are we?
I started this ramble petty. Let the guy with strange glasses proclaim his plan to read Tropic of Cancer at local bookstore. Not only who am I, but anyway to get Henry’s work into another’s hand is cool. Sorry.
If any of you are near Oshkosh hit up the college radio station with some requests. Nice station. Not enough true punk though they are doing some sweet new wave. No Belle & Sebastian. I know that’s a strange stretch. But.
So my celly is great & it’s cold as hell.
Later.
Monday, February 4, 2008
12108
conversation with Evan Henry
they complain
when it’s freezing
& again as it snows
when they come
to prison &
when they’re released
i’m bugged
now i get
appreciate
Tom Petty
Pink Floyd
ramen noodles
the old minister
got a point
why MLK day on his birth?
why not murder. assassination?
we sweep too much
under
we owe that man
honor
conversation with Evan Henry
they complain
when it’s freezing
& again as it snows
when they come
to prison &
when they’re released
i’m bugged
now i get
appreciate
Tom Petty
Pink Floyd
ramen noodles
the old minister
got a point
why MLK day on his birth?
why not murder. assassination?
we sweep too much
under
we owe that man
honor
11808
After count, prison is like dumping a lb of sugar on an ant hill, pure chaos. Imagine alphabetizing yr mother’s underwear. Pure strange. It’s freezing here and I’m reading Capote by Gerald Clarke. What a brilliant writer/life. Capote that is. Clarke writes a solid book but Truman is a gas. Can you imagine he & Tennessee Williams sitting around and drinking or just traveling the high seas with “that” crowd. Anyway, that life read in here is so dreamy such a marvelous escape. When I was reading the Ginsberg bio I was dragging my feet. It’s as if I didn’t come to the end he wouldn’t be dead but not it’s alright. Just another fact of.
I got moved Monday. Why don’t know about 20 +. I was as you might remember across from program 3 which are the guys straight from seg. But Slim didn’t want to move and I didn’t care so we stayed & got moved anyway. I’m in the front yard. Major adjustment. No toilet in my cell. I kept getting up and peeing in the corner. ( just kidding). This more of ½ house/crazy bin. Very low-key. Quiet as hell. Guys are cool. Remember Rick from way back? He’s here so we asked to cell up, perhaps Tuesday. Rick is the reason, like Aaron, why I get pissed in here. They both are aware of their actions, both considerate, looking out while so many of these inmates can’t see the forest thru the trees. So I’m here with Rick, Mike & ole Frankenstein. Cool, cool. I get to see Aaron at leather and when we bead. Bittersweet. The great thing is that we actually get along. Don’t look that gift horse in the mouth. Got a desk in here & window that opens. When I saw Kelly last Saturday I mentioned a guy cutting himself with a soda can & she was like, “you can have soda?”. Yeah, this ain’t medieval England. It’s prison not the dark ages. In here they want you to be accountable. Work on identifying & hopefully “changing” your “bad/anti-social” behavior. First day here Rick introduces me to a bud. We talk and I blahh my crime. We talk, laugh at my stupidness. Today Rick tells me another bud asked about my crime. He knew. Word gets around. It’s what I want. Use the system that’s in place. Less introductions. Be blunt. Lay it out. Lay it down. Brother. So it goes. So we go.
Got my first issue of Vogue. Yep, here I am reading Vogue. Is that queer or what? Smells great & reminds what it was what it can be…the torture. Got some letters. Need to catch up. Don’t panic. We’re getting out some poetry, BARREN, poise swill. A SERIES OF # LITTLE POEMS. Kelly will get them all run. You can get a copy for postage $$, ok? Probably $3. I’ll leave it all up to K, ok.
Turning 50 next month. My brother Mark wants to visit with his sons. I think it’s great but I don’t want them to feel bad. Mark suggests bringing Noah. I’m not so sure. It would be amazing but only if…I learned a while back with all my hospital bs that it’s harder for the visitor than the patient. Only once was I truly dying but I had no clue, so in here I’m kind of broken in. Used to it. But if something good can come out of it, sure. A song , a story, a reunion. But no heartbreak. At least not for me. Relatively speaking I have no time. There’s guys in here that watch their children become adults and bring their kids. That sucks. I’m not in that boat.
Getting some books shipped in. Very excited. Want to read The Diving Bell & Butterfly. Julian Schnabel is a God. Love Love his work. His mind. Now there’s someone to piss in your fireplace! & I ant to get, Other Voices, Other Rooms. Capote’s first. I adore his words. My mother always said “Only a fag could write a book like In Cold Blood. Such pain such beauty”. Is true.
Well we lost a few great ones, Mike Goldberg, painter friend of the poets. Sweet guy & Ettore Sottsass. Amazing designer. You might remember my orange typewriter earlier. He designed that. A true sword.
Later.
After count, prison is like dumping a lb of sugar on an ant hill, pure chaos. Imagine alphabetizing yr mother’s underwear. Pure strange. It’s freezing here and I’m reading Capote by Gerald Clarke. What a brilliant writer/life. Capote that is. Clarke writes a solid book but Truman is a gas. Can you imagine he & Tennessee Williams sitting around and drinking or just traveling the high seas with “that” crowd. Anyway, that life read in here is so dreamy such a marvelous escape. When I was reading the Ginsberg bio I was dragging my feet. It’s as if I didn’t come to the end he wouldn’t be dead but not it’s alright. Just another fact of.
I got moved Monday. Why don’t know about 20 +. I was as you might remember across from program 3 which are the guys straight from seg. But Slim didn’t want to move and I didn’t care so we stayed & got moved anyway. I’m in the front yard. Major adjustment. No toilet in my cell. I kept getting up and peeing in the corner. ( just kidding). This more of ½ house/crazy bin. Very low-key. Quiet as hell. Guys are cool. Remember Rick from way back? He’s here so we asked to cell up, perhaps Tuesday. Rick is the reason, like Aaron, why I get pissed in here. They both are aware of their actions, both considerate, looking out while so many of these inmates can’t see the forest thru the trees. So I’m here with Rick, Mike & ole Frankenstein. Cool, cool. I get to see Aaron at leather and when we bead. Bittersweet. The great thing is that we actually get along. Don’t look that gift horse in the mouth. Got a desk in here & window that opens. When I saw Kelly last Saturday I mentioned a guy cutting himself with a soda can & she was like, “you can have soda?”. Yeah, this ain’t medieval England. It’s prison not the dark ages. In here they want you to be accountable. Work on identifying & hopefully “changing” your “bad/anti-social” behavior. First day here Rick introduces me to a bud. We talk and I blahh my crime. We talk, laugh at my stupidness. Today Rick tells me another bud asked about my crime. He knew. Word gets around. It’s what I want. Use the system that’s in place. Less introductions. Be blunt. Lay it out. Lay it down. Brother. So it goes. So we go.
Got my first issue of Vogue. Yep, here I am reading Vogue. Is that queer or what? Smells great & reminds what it was what it can be…the torture. Got some letters. Need to catch up. Don’t panic. We’re getting out some poetry, BARREN, poise swill. A SERIES OF # LITTLE POEMS. Kelly will get them all run. You can get a copy for postage $$, ok? Probably $3. I’ll leave it all up to K, ok.
Turning 50 next month. My brother Mark wants to visit with his sons. I think it’s great but I don’t want them to feel bad. Mark suggests bringing Noah. I’m not so sure. It would be amazing but only if…I learned a while back with all my hospital bs that it’s harder for the visitor than the patient. Only once was I truly dying but I had no clue, so in here I’m kind of broken in. Used to it. But if something good can come out of it, sure. A song , a story, a reunion. But no heartbreak. At least not for me. Relatively speaking I have no time. There’s guys in here that watch their children become adults and bring their kids. That sucks. I’m not in that boat.
Getting some books shipped in. Very excited. Want to read The Diving Bell & Butterfly. Julian Schnabel is a God. Love Love his work. His mind. Now there’s someone to piss in your fireplace! & I ant to get, Other Voices, Other Rooms. Capote’s first. I adore his words. My mother always said “Only a fag could write a book like In Cold Blood. Such pain such beauty”. Is true.
Well we lost a few great ones, Mike Goldberg, painter friend of the poets. Sweet guy & Ettore Sottsass. Amazing designer. You might remember my orange typewriter earlier. He designed that. A true sword.
Later.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
1908
6:00
6:00 and still working
12 hour days are really getting old
Is my job my life?
It seems to be the majority of it
I need to get ahead, bills need to get paid
What else would I be doing anyways?
I have no one to go home to
Not much of a life to live
I could be feeding the poor
I could be helping the elderly shovel their walks
I could be helping little kids find their missing pets
I could be spending time with those that need a positive role model
I could be saving the world
But would that really happen?
Not likely
I’d probably just be sitting at home, thinking about how bored and lonely I am
6:00 and still working
What have I become?
There’s so much more to life than this
Do I really need the money that bad?
There’s places to go, people to see, lessons to learn
Yet here I sit
The good employee, the one who stays to make sure all gets done
The one who fixes other’s problems
The one who is always here
Staring at numbers all day
I thought I would do so much more
Thought I would help others, would make a difference in the world
What difference am I making staring at numbers all day
Spending my life behind a desk?
It’s time to wake up
And take my life back
-tc
6:00
6:00 and still working
12 hour days are really getting old
Is my job my life?
It seems to be the majority of it
I need to get ahead, bills need to get paid
What else would I be doing anyways?
I have no one to go home to
Not much of a life to live
I could be feeding the poor
I could be helping the elderly shovel their walks
I could be helping little kids find their missing pets
I could be spending time with those that need a positive role model
I could be saving the world
But would that really happen?
Not likely
I’d probably just be sitting at home, thinking about how bored and lonely I am
6:00 and still working
What have I become?
There’s so much more to life than this
Do I really need the money that bad?
There’s places to go, people to see, lessons to learn
Yet here I sit
The good employee, the one who stays to make sure all gets done
The one who fixes other’s problems
The one who is always here
Staring at numbers all day
I thought I would do so much more
Thought I would help others, would make a difference in the world
What difference am I making staring at numbers all day
Spending my life behind a desk?
It’s time to wake up
And take my life back
-tc
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
1808
Elvis’s birthday. Whether the word is sung, mumbled or sprayed, it’s what we got. Separate from silence. The monkey’s fish, elegance. If I could I’d spend my life distilled. Reduced. Common denominator . Truth. If I wanted I could describe prison. Invite you in. Participate. But I’d rather make into wine. Soup. A stew. Fry your tears. Simmer your joy & shake & stir your anger overwhelmed desperation. Sometimes I need same from friends, no gory details. Then I need a 4 page description of rain and the puddles outside their yard. How does this relate to Elvis? Let me attempt explanation. Mother. Southern birth. A hip melody. A military haircut. A lack of regard for electronics. A love of peanut butter sandwiches & wrestled strange girls in undies. Priscilla. Lisa Marie. Drugs to wake you up. Drugs to put you to sleep. The Judy Garland regiment. American. & the breath of the Atlantic. Died quietly on a toilet. A boy’s life.
Prison isn’t so different. Sometimes I crave the cuffs. The quiet. The get away with. The brotherhood. The everything you want/need reduced. Count on a finger while your ship vast & glorious. This an iron-clad row boat. Sure it keeps afloat. Struggle to remain. On-center. Either you become Zen Buddhist or anarchist. River or basement. Window or door. Breath or gasp. Spit or shiver.
The college rock station in Oshkosh seems to be back from Christmas break. I heard Bright Eyes last night. Like my first shower in weeks.
Think of your Elvis.
In continuing with Romantic Outlaws, “we too use criminals and prisons to exalt our lives, to comfort ourselves in the face of our finitude, to defend against despair.”
“Criminals readily lend themselves to the category of greatness because they are, by definition, people who refuse to be limited by the rules and scruples that circumscribe normal lives.”
She, Martha Grace Duncan, then goes on to “other” kind of criminals, “who attracts us by his exotic qualities also embodies an intriguing mix of difference and similarity.”
I really enjoyed this book. She’s rather poetic though not so lofty to be lost but enough to engage & provoke. She got me to read Great Expectations. My relationship to Dickens was, how you say, “stay the fuck away”. Paid by page or paragraph the dude’s language is thick. Not glorious as the pain of Kerouac or Farrell or the French. But now after wrestling with this rather solid tome. I can say I danced with Dickens and though I’m not the first for next dance I will not shy. The story is wonderful. A child comes upon a criminal. The criminals of then as some now, were/are of the boogey-man kind. He actually delivers the next morn, mincemeat, pork pie & brandy. That vision itself compelled me to finish I guess for me Dickens is a packed closet. Look & linger for treasures reside. Thank you Duncan. Wow – just thought of Robert Duncan. Now there’s some sideburns. Poetry. Jess & Wallace Berman. I digress.
Outlaw, notorious or habitual criminal, weakness of the state. An outlaw was one because of “acts” was placed outside protection of the law. Now you sell dope & write poetry. For me it’s Merle Haggard. Neal Cassidy. Genet. Brendan Behan. Not some college punks who smoke dope stolen from mother’s underwear drawer. “Beauty” I suggested, is a positive aspect of life that is unaffected by penal confinement.” I think some of my favorite comparisons are that of criminal to child, “Criminals are, of course, free in their refusal to abide by the laws that other people obey, whereas children symbolize freedom in their incarnation of limitless potential.” I’m bouncing around a bit. So much of what I read applies to myself, to others within here. The strange & sad part I need to admit so so often, prison is not a deterrent to crime. It is truly a lifestyle. A belief system. A reality. Whether it be the flaws of man’s laws or the temper(ment) of the criminal. Whether social, political or individual. Outlaws. Criminals. Inmates & convicts dictate more of life then some want/can admit. Sad truth though, is some could be avoided/prevented. For now we remain. Off to the library.
Elvis’s birthday. Whether the word is sung, mumbled or sprayed, it’s what we got. Separate from silence. The monkey’s fish, elegance. If I could I’d spend my life distilled. Reduced. Common denominator . Truth. If I wanted I could describe prison. Invite you in. Participate. But I’d rather make into wine. Soup. A stew. Fry your tears. Simmer your joy & shake & stir your anger overwhelmed desperation. Sometimes I need same from friends, no gory details. Then I need a 4 page description of rain and the puddles outside their yard. How does this relate to Elvis? Let me attempt explanation. Mother. Southern birth. A hip melody. A military haircut. A lack of regard for electronics. A love of peanut butter sandwiches & wrestled strange girls in undies. Priscilla. Lisa Marie. Drugs to wake you up. Drugs to put you to sleep. The Judy Garland regiment. American. & the breath of the Atlantic. Died quietly on a toilet. A boy’s life.
Prison isn’t so different. Sometimes I crave the cuffs. The quiet. The get away with. The brotherhood. The everything you want/need reduced. Count on a finger while your ship vast & glorious. This an iron-clad row boat. Sure it keeps afloat. Struggle to remain. On-center. Either you become Zen Buddhist or anarchist. River or basement. Window or door. Breath or gasp. Spit or shiver.
The college rock station in Oshkosh seems to be back from Christmas break. I heard Bright Eyes last night. Like my first shower in weeks.
Think of your Elvis.
In continuing with Romantic Outlaws, “we too use criminals and prisons to exalt our lives, to comfort ourselves in the face of our finitude, to defend against despair.”
“Criminals readily lend themselves to the category of greatness because they are, by definition, people who refuse to be limited by the rules and scruples that circumscribe normal lives.”
She, Martha Grace Duncan, then goes on to “other” kind of criminals, “who attracts us by his exotic qualities also embodies an intriguing mix of difference and similarity.”
I really enjoyed this book. She’s rather poetic though not so lofty to be lost but enough to engage & provoke. She got me to read Great Expectations. My relationship to Dickens was, how you say, “stay the fuck away”. Paid by page or paragraph the dude’s language is thick. Not glorious as the pain of Kerouac or Farrell or the French. But now after wrestling with this rather solid tome. I can say I danced with Dickens and though I’m not the first for next dance I will not shy. The story is wonderful. A child comes upon a criminal. The criminals of then as some now, were/are of the boogey-man kind. He actually delivers the next morn, mincemeat, pork pie & brandy. That vision itself compelled me to finish I guess for me Dickens is a packed closet. Look & linger for treasures reside. Thank you Duncan. Wow – just thought of Robert Duncan. Now there’s some sideburns. Poetry. Jess & Wallace Berman. I digress.
Outlaw, notorious or habitual criminal, weakness of the state. An outlaw was one because of “acts” was placed outside protection of the law. Now you sell dope & write poetry. For me it’s Merle Haggard. Neal Cassidy. Genet. Brendan Behan. Not some college punks who smoke dope stolen from mother’s underwear drawer. “Beauty” I suggested, is a positive aspect of life that is unaffected by penal confinement.” I think some of my favorite comparisons are that of criminal to child, “Criminals are, of course, free in their refusal to abide by the laws that other people obey, whereas children symbolize freedom in their incarnation of limitless potential.” I’m bouncing around a bit. So much of what I read applies to myself, to others within here. The strange & sad part I need to admit so so often, prison is not a deterrent to crime. It is truly a lifestyle. A belief system. A reality. Whether it be the flaws of man’s laws or the temper(ment) of the criminal. Whether social, political or individual. Outlaws. Criminals. Inmates & convicts dictate more of life then some want/can admit. Sad truth though, is some could be avoided/prevented. For now we remain. Off to the library.
Monday, January 14, 2008
1308
I can’t help myself. I think constantly. Words bombard as bats in a barn. Most of the time a distraction appears & I’m off in la-la. Now it’s different. Reading a brilliant book. Romantic Outlaws, Beloved Prisons by Martha Grace Duncan. I mark & remember words, sentences, thoughts, paragraphs for later recall. I can’t now. She just quoted John Brewster’s the use of solitude in prisons. “It has been recommended, both by the practice and precept of holy men, in all ages, sometimes to retire from scenes of public concourse, for the purpose of communing with our own hearts, and meditating on heaven.” Wow! Then Solzhenitsyn –“Rejoice that you are in prison. Here you can think of your soul.” Mind-fucking blown. Early after work I went out in the yard. It’s below zero & I and an older guy who’s jogging are the only ones out. It’s beautiful. Cold enough to breathe deep. Warm enough to feel as if your blood has been replaced by love. The horizon white silent. Awe. ½ hour I wander. When was the last time I ever went walking in freezing weather to enjoy/worship her beauty. Never. I’ve never. Well sober. Sure I’d be in my Li Po mode and wander thru blizzards with a bottle of wine but today I was/am totally naked. I’m sure me exclaiming about the beauty/positive of prison is odd. Sorry but that’s the truth. Strange thing, as a younger man I turned my back on poetry & monastic life. Now look at me. Can we truly run from ourselves. Don’t get me wrong – I adored & adore my life. Raising a family with a wonderful woman. Having the 2 glorious sons never would I change that. Yes, I’m greedy. I will serve on my terms. I dedicate my life to love and poetry. But for awhile it was without written document. Love of a man & woman. My path perhaps a bit winding. This is not a monastery by name but in function, truly. This is not the kind of information for the authorities but even Thomas More claims in A Man for All Seasons “Except it’s keeping me from you, my dears, it’s not so bad.” So then lets ask ourselves what is prison & who is in it? The guards or the cons? You or me? Reality obviously me but here I am – fed, clothed, watched. I have a library, crafts, a computer, typewriter, human contact, a cell. I can stay “here” or I can “leave”. More is so correct. Not all inmates have this kind of “view”. Many burn with anger, injustice, denial. Others, this is better than the outs. It’s an amazingly complex situation. Perhaps romanticize it. Not my intention. I question it. I question everything. But now I have to accept the fact that this is a part of my destiny. Whether to have kept me alive or to “live” thru. To force a separation to prove to myself that “that” only exists on a physical plane. I hear your voices. I feel your lips. I can hear you chew. I like you, are a part of each other’s dream. Dreams. Words as electricity carry impulses. Delivers information. Yes I crave your arms, Your stupid talk. Your complaints. Someone who I was reading (can’t remember) made a comment that when Thomas Merton “left” and lived his monastic life that was harder because he made a choice. As the true “man”, Jean Genet proclaims “ my good, my gentle friend, my cell! My sweet retreat, mine alone. I love you so! If I had to live in all freedom in another city, I would first go to prison to acknowledge my own, those of my race.” Now you getting my drift?
Got some wonderful cards, letters, gifts. Thank you Joel. Such a perfect! Elaine, forever in awe. Julie & Jonathan, you read my thoughts. And Julie, I post my “downs” because I want you all with me. I’d be a liar to say this is a carnival. It’s a circus and sometimes clowns are depressed. With all your love I feel quite selfish. & Kelly without you this “this” would not exist. I think how important words & their meanings mean to me so with total consciousness, I thank you.
This thing I’m writing is in 3 parts. 1st is Strike Hard Old Diamond. 2nd is Killing Time. 3rd not sure of title, perhaps Only Sky? What do you think? The whole pie is called Circumambulate. What a fantastic term, means to circle on foot. A part of a ritual. Something Ginsberg was known to do. Something we prisoners do. Something existence calls for.
I know this is all heavy so I will end with stupidity. At breakfast an inmate said I suffer from gluttony. I think my weight is around 150 now. My body fat ratio is amazingly low. I can count my ribs. I’m happy to tell you the truth. He was pissed because some buddies offered me their food. Yes. I said I’d end with stupid. Since there are no fat singers here’s something I wrote a while back. Later & love.
morning prayer
for the faggots the cons
Genet, our holy patron saint
pluck those brinks & cinders
from our blood-soaked vision
mend broken fingertips
& we shall scatter blossoms.
pithy memories.
impossible multitudes.
I can’t help myself. I think constantly. Words bombard as bats in a barn. Most of the time a distraction appears & I’m off in la-la. Now it’s different. Reading a brilliant book. Romantic Outlaws, Beloved Prisons by Martha Grace Duncan. I mark & remember words, sentences, thoughts, paragraphs for later recall. I can’t now. She just quoted John Brewster’s the use of solitude in prisons. “It has been recommended, both by the practice and precept of holy men, in all ages, sometimes to retire from scenes of public concourse, for the purpose of communing with our own hearts, and meditating on heaven.” Wow! Then Solzhenitsyn –“Rejoice that you are in prison. Here you can think of your soul.” Mind-fucking blown. Early after work I went out in the yard. It’s below zero & I and an older guy who’s jogging are the only ones out. It’s beautiful. Cold enough to breathe deep. Warm enough to feel as if your blood has been replaced by love. The horizon white silent. Awe. ½ hour I wander. When was the last time I ever went walking in freezing weather to enjoy/worship her beauty. Never. I’ve never. Well sober. Sure I’d be in my Li Po mode and wander thru blizzards with a bottle of wine but today I was/am totally naked. I’m sure me exclaiming about the beauty/positive of prison is odd. Sorry but that’s the truth. Strange thing, as a younger man I turned my back on poetry & monastic life. Now look at me. Can we truly run from ourselves. Don’t get me wrong – I adored & adore my life. Raising a family with a wonderful woman. Having the 2 glorious sons never would I change that. Yes, I’m greedy. I will serve on my terms. I dedicate my life to love and poetry. But for awhile it was without written document. Love of a man & woman. My path perhaps a bit winding. This is not a monastery by name but in function, truly. This is not the kind of information for the authorities but even Thomas More claims in A Man for All Seasons “Except it’s keeping me from you, my dears, it’s not so bad.” So then lets ask ourselves what is prison & who is in it? The guards or the cons? You or me? Reality obviously me but here I am – fed, clothed, watched. I have a library, crafts, a computer, typewriter, human contact, a cell. I can stay “here” or I can “leave”. More is so correct. Not all inmates have this kind of “view”. Many burn with anger, injustice, denial. Others, this is better than the outs. It’s an amazingly complex situation. Perhaps romanticize it. Not my intention. I question it. I question everything. But now I have to accept the fact that this is a part of my destiny. Whether to have kept me alive or to “live” thru. To force a separation to prove to myself that “that” only exists on a physical plane. I hear your voices. I feel your lips. I can hear you chew. I like you, are a part of each other’s dream. Dreams. Words as electricity carry impulses. Delivers information. Yes I crave your arms, Your stupid talk. Your complaints. Someone who I was reading (can’t remember) made a comment that when Thomas Merton “left” and lived his monastic life that was harder because he made a choice. As the true “man”, Jean Genet proclaims “ my good, my gentle friend, my cell! My sweet retreat, mine alone. I love you so! If I had to live in all freedom in another city, I would first go to prison to acknowledge my own, those of my race.” Now you getting my drift?
Got some wonderful cards, letters, gifts. Thank you Joel. Such a perfect! Elaine, forever in awe. Julie & Jonathan, you read my thoughts. And Julie, I post my “downs” because I want you all with me. I’d be a liar to say this is a carnival. It’s a circus and sometimes clowns are depressed. With all your love I feel quite selfish. & Kelly without you this “this” would not exist. I think how important words & their meanings mean to me so with total consciousness, I thank you.
This thing I’m writing is in 3 parts. 1st is Strike Hard Old Diamond. 2nd is Killing Time. 3rd not sure of title, perhaps Only Sky? What do you think? The whole pie is called Circumambulate. What a fantastic term, means to circle on foot. A part of a ritual. Something Ginsberg was known to do. Something we prisoners do. Something existence calls for.
I know this is all heavy so I will end with stupidity. At breakfast an inmate said I suffer from gluttony. I think my weight is around 150 now. My body fat ratio is amazingly low. I can count my ribs. I’m happy to tell you the truth. He was pissed because some buddies offered me their food. Yes. I said I’d end with stupid. Since there are no fat singers here’s something I wrote a while back. Later & love.
morning prayer
for the faggots the cons
Genet, our holy patron saint
pluck those brinks & cinders
from our blood-soaked vision
mend broken fingertips
& we shall scatter blossoms.
pithy memories.
impossible multitudes.
1108
First year of incarceration almost over. The yard is frozen as was my face. Tomorrow things back to normal. I don’t really get into things here, a # of reasons, why bore you & why let you into the secret, criminals are stupid. Well, the ones who get caught. I’m amazed at the ones who narc on each other. Unsolicited. Just wander up to the desk, blah blah. Or the guy a few cells over asks a CO, “do I seem gay?” How stupid can one be? But a # of days ago a few of us sitting around the table drinking coffee. One is reading a book on the “Enforcer”. I ask if he read “Brutal”. He did. Matter of fact he’s from the area & was in one of those gangs from there. We talk a while. He’s got like 15 years. Mentioned he dealt coke. Was the reason for all this time. No robbed a bank vault. He got $7,500. Did he get away with it? He did it because his kid was losing his home. There are a lot of justifications for crime. Both good & bad. I have to admit here’s someone I respect fully. The kind of guy you want living in your unit. Like my buddy Aaron. Smart. Great talent in leather, beading. All around solid guy who lost way too much of his life here. I told him today he’s truly someone who got fucked. He’s remaining positive. Turning 30 doesn’t look or seem a day over 23. A rarity to remain so clear headed. You have to pick or choose in here or you learn how to make silk purses out of sow’s ears.
Enjoy the eve?
I was in bed by 11. Listened to Emmy Lou Harris.
This book ( I Celebrate Myself ) & the life of Ginsberg is amazing. When you think about all the social, political, poetic changes because of him. From his relationship to WC Williams, Ezra Pound, Neal Cassidy, Kerouac, Robert Frank, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, on & on. His travels. His openness. Support of young poets. His lust. How he would exist in these times. This is one of those rare books that you welcome distractions. Slow down take your time reading. An inspiration. By Bill Morgan. I think he wrote one about Gregory Corso. Reading in here is strange. I really focus on my failure then I get to his travels to Cuba where he has an affair (one-night) with a 17yr old. Castro’s Cuba. Not only is he with some one under age in a communist country but it’s 1965. Now, he’d be in prison for life.
Just finished a little thing with 3 poems. BARREN-poise-swill. I have no idea what to think of it. It was nice to write. Layout. I’m in a vacuum here. No one to discuss much. Definitely not poetry. Everyday I think I’ll never write again then something kicks my foot & another poem. It’s rather consistent. I just don’t know what to think. Get it? There are some nice lines I have to admit & I’ll end with a section from BARREN
why I could
named his mouse, soup
kept a yr
every shakedown
knew where to hide
how many yrs later
we sit, imagine
our hero
smaller than glove
more important than cap
we sit serene
surmise he’s
dead.
The “why I could” is a series of poems that play with the notion & early poem in series, “why I don’t fuck in prison”
As strange as one might think, sex is an odd character within. And my boss told me the story of soup.
Just got Ron Padgett’s New & Selected poems. Super. If you haven’t gotten it get it. & thank you.
I’ve never liked January. I can’t imagine it being much better in here. Then again I have experienced some amazing things I wish you could touch my temples and all this could/would be revealed.
Yeah?
Oh & this is not a blog. It’s a blot. From a distance. Up close it’s scribble. A night time drool. Never certain & rarely smooth. Though I remain. Here. & you, there. How far? You to decide.
To a good year. Later.
First year of incarceration almost over. The yard is frozen as was my face. Tomorrow things back to normal. I don’t really get into things here, a # of reasons, why bore you & why let you into the secret, criminals are stupid. Well, the ones who get caught. I’m amazed at the ones who narc on each other. Unsolicited. Just wander up to the desk, blah blah. Or the guy a few cells over asks a CO, “do I seem gay?” How stupid can one be? But a # of days ago a few of us sitting around the table drinking coffee. One is reading a book on the “Enforcer”. I ask if he read “Brutal”. He did. Matter of fact he’s from the area & was in one of those gangs from there. We talk a while. He’s got like 15 years. Mentioned he dealt coke. Was the reason for all this time. No robbed a bank vault. He got $7,500. Did he get away with it? He did it because his kid was losing his home. There are a lot of justifications for crime. Both good & bad. I have to admit here’s someone I respect fully. The kind of guy you want living in your unit. Like my buddy Aaron. Smart. Great talent in leather, beading. All around solid guy who lost way too much of his life here. I told him today he’s truly someone who got fucked. He’s remaining positive. Turning 30 doesn’t look or seem a day over 23. A rarity to remain so clear headed. You have to pick or choose in here or you learn how to make silk purses out of sow’s ears.
Enjoy the eve?
I was in bed by 11. Listened to Emmy Lou Harris.
This book ( I Celebrate Myself ) & the life of Ginsberg is amazing. When you think about all the social, political, poetic changes because of him. From his relationship to WC Williams, Ezra Pound, Neal Cassidy, Kerouac, Robert Frank, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, on & on. His travels. His openness. Support of young poets. His lust. How he would exist in these times. This is one of those rare books that you welcome distractions. Slow down take your time reading. An inspiration. By Bill Morgan. I think he wrote one about Gregory Corso. Reading in here is strange. I really focus on my failure then I get to his travels to Cuba where he has an affair (one-night) with a 17yr old. Castro’s Cuba. Not only is he with some one under age in a communist country but it’s 1965. Now, he’d be in prison for life.
Just finished a little thing with 3 poems. BARREN-poise-swill. I have no idea what to think of it. It was nice to write. Layout. I’m in a vacuum here. No one to discuss much. Definitely not poetry. Everyday I think I’ll never write again then something kicks my foot & another poem. It’s rather consistent. I just don’t know what to think. Get it? There are some nice lines I have to admit & I’ll end with a section from BARREN
why I could
named his mouse, soup
kept a yr
every shakedown
knew where to hide
how many yrs later
we sit, imagine
our hero
smaller than glove
more important than cap
we sit serene
surmise he’s
dead.
The “why I could” is a series of poems that play with the notion & early poem in series, “why I don’t fuck in prison”
As strange as one might think, sex is an odd character within. And my boss told me the story of soup.
Just got Ron Padgett’s New & Selected poems. Super. If you haven’t gotten it get it. & thank you.
I’ve never liked January. I can’t imagine it being much better in here. Then again I have experienced some amazing things I wish you could touch my temples and all this could/would be revealed.
Yeah?
Oh & this is not a blog. It’s a blot. From a distance. Up close it’s scribble. A night time drool. Never certain & rarely smooth. Though I remain. Here. & you, there. How far? You to decide.
To a good year. Later.
Friday, January 11, 2008
122607
False Starts, Malcolm Braly. Memoir of San Quentin.
“The trouble with these jails”, Mick was saying, “is I can never figure whether I’m sleeping in the can, or shitting in the bedroom.”
“We walk and talk and the months pass. I seem neither to change nor to suffer very much. I am only waiting for my life to begin. But I am one of those who keep a tight lid, and underneath a lot is going on. I’m learning I’m mortal.”
“Anything could happen at any moment. The logical prediction was bullshit. The true nature of reality was madness.”
“If we depend on God for justice and mercy it’s only because we know He has all of eternity to straighten out His files.”
“The hardest part of serving time is the unpredictability. Each day moves like every other. You know nothing different can happen…..a month from now, six months, a year, you will be just where you are, doing just what you’re doing, except you’ll be older.” (kind of like living in suburbia)
About a certain though general C.O…“Our humor was made from our suffering and he wanted to share the joke without sharing the pain”…later he writes, “the only quality we admired in any bull was consistency.”
Great book. Check it out. I’m ½ thru.
Later.
False Starts, Malcolm Braly. Memoir of San Quentin.
“The trouble with these jails”, Mick was saying, “is I can never figure whether I’m sleeping in the can, or shitting in the bedroom.”
“We walk and talk and the months pass. I seem neither to change nor to suffer very much. I am only waiting for my life to begin. But I am one of those who keep a tight lid, and underneath a lot is going on. I’m learning I’m mortal.”
“Anything could happen at any moment. The logical prediction was bullshit. The true nature of reality was madness.”
“If we depend on God for justice and mercy it’s only because we know He has all of eternity to straighten out His files.”
“The hardest part of serving time is the unpredictability. Each day moves like every other. You know nothing different can happen…..a month from now, six months, a year, you will be just where you are, doing just what you’re doing, except you’ll be older.” (kind of like living in suburbia)
About a certain though general C.O…“Our humor was made from our suffering and he wanted to share the joke without sharing the pain”…later he writes, “the only quality we admired in any bull was consistency.”
Great book. Check it out. I’m ½ thru.
Later.
122507
Christmas and my gift. Silence & I refuse to talk with anyone annoying. (Eliminated my celly amongst a few others). And magically cold November rain appeared on the radio. Nothing lasts forever…hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain…sometimes I need some time alone. Amazing song. Prison has truly turned me on to Guns & Roses. Metallica. Heavy metal. I guess. And cake. I adore prison cake. Stale, thick and reminds me of a wedding. Sweet. Way too sweet frosting. I have no idea why. You? It’s quiet today. The snow. Hush of crunch. The ice & sadness lingers. I meander on this gravel road. Realize in more ways than not, I’m blessed. When the boys were little Christmas was huge. After Colette left I agreed she could have the boys on the actual holiday. For me it’s never the day/date. It’s the practice/sentiment of. I love giving gifts early. Hated to wait. Colette would do the tree/the food so it’s natural what’s left for me. So being in prison on Christmas means nothing. It’s the distance all the other days. Well you know what they say – no pain no gain. ZZ Top on radio now. Stretching me a tad. We visited Muddy Water’s birth/home place years ago. Just a square of 4 walls. Log. No roof. Someone was going to restore (guy @ Stackhouse records in Clarksdale told us). He also told us one of those bearded guys – Billy? got himself a part log and had a guitar fashioned. I prefer happy Christmas to merry. That & a few random gifts I’ve been mailing out is all I have to add.
I’ve lead a good life. Crazy marriage. More insane childhood. 2 fantastic sons. Traveled the south parts unknown with them. Shared their dreams/nightmares. Loved with all my soul. Then turned a corner & another chapter. Met most of my heroes. Saw Johnny & June at Grand Ole Opry. Smoked dope with Ginsberg & Burroughs. Won a sex-discrimination suit (it was settled). Published some if not my favorite American poets. Make breath with beauty. Fell in/and in love more times than can count. Shook Jessie Jackson’s hand. Got shot at. Some amazing concerts. Bowled wit Bob Mould. & opened my heart & home to so many. Fell off the horse way too many times. Saw the exact moment when both my sons became men Saw them love. Saw them hurt. Saw them perform. & had my ass kicked so many times. My regrets are only 2. Leaving Noah in this time & Evan leaving instead of me.
Sometimes I need some time alone.
Bless & keep you.
Later
Christmas and my gift. Silence & I refuse to talk with anyone annoying. (Eliminated my celly amongst a few others). And magically cold November rain appeared on the radio. Nothing lasts forever…hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain…sometimes I need some time alone. Amazing song. Prison has truly turned me on to Guns & Roses. Metallica. Heavy metal. I guess. And cake. I adore prison cake. Stale, thick and reminds me of a wedding. Sweet. Way too sweet frosting. I have no idea why. You? It’s quiet today. The snow. Hush of crunch. The ice & sadness lingers. I meander on this gravel road. Realize in more ways than not, I’m blessed. When the boys were little Christmas was huge. After Colette left I agreed she could have the boys on the actual holiday. For me it’s never the day/date. It’s the practice/sentiment of. I love giving gifts early. Hated to wait. Colette would do the tree/the food so it’s natural what’s left for me. So being in prison on Christmas means nothing. It’s the distance all the other days. Well you know what they say – no pain no gain. ZZ Top on radio now. Stretching me a tad. We visited Muddy Water’s birth/home place years ago. Just a square of 4 walls. Log. No roof. Someone was going to restore (guy @ Stackhouse records in Clarksdale told us). He also told us one of those bearded guys – Billy? got himself a part log and had a guitar fashioned. I prefer happy Christmas to merry. That & a few random gifts I’ve been mailing out is all I have to add.
I’ve lead a good life. Crazy marriage. More insane childhood. 2 fantastic sons. Traveled the south parts unknown with them. Shared their dreams/nightmares. Loved with all my soul. Then turned a corner & another chapter. Met most of my heroes. Saw Johnny & June at Grand Ole Opry. Smoked dope with Ginsberg & Burroughs. Won a sex-discrimination suit (it was settled). Published some if not my favorite American poets. Make breath with beauty. Fell in/and in love more times than can count. Shook Jessie Jackson’s hand. Got shot at. Some amazing concerts. Bowled wit Bob Mould. & opened my heart & home to so many. Fell off the horse way too many times. Saw the exact moment when both my sons became men Saw them love. Saw them hurt. Saw them perform. & had my ass kicked so many times. My regrets are only 2. Leaving Noah in this time & Evan leaving instead of me.
Sometimes I need some time alone.
Bless & keep you.
Later
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
122307
Shaved to Sweet Child of Mine. Kelly got her unc k fob. Soon Stacy with “hold fast” bracelet. My broken radio. Noah. Amanda. Evan Henry & my box of prison leather. A will a way. I prefer black. Leather. Morning. Coffee. Elaine sent journals (refused by institution. You can’t have things from home. I have no home. Besides it’s from NYC). I do get her letter. Both in my hands and in my heart. She’s great. A call for Genet. REM on radio. I prefer to sit & wait. Freedom? Define and make strong argument and perhaps I could love you. See you. Rain & snow. We’re stranded. I need a fire. Smell of smoke. Chard memory. I keep them here (point to pocket). Nothing is necessary. Needed. Pancakes. Just like my mouth in Key West. Pancakes & red wine. Caught a crab. Thought Tennessee Williams tried to pick me up. More than likely. Regret not sleeping with Ginsberg. But had just fallen for Colette. No mixed metaphors. He taught me to meditate. Fell asleep while he read Blake. Corso shared his brandy. Burroughs called my friend by the wrong name. Many years later Ginsberg in Milwaukee. Me, Evan, Colette, Noah & Bill D. went to pick him up at Mitchell. “Hi” I said. “We’ve met in Naropa”. “Yeah”, I remember”. “No you don’t”. “Yeah, you were skinnier”. Sadness. I guess we did love each other. See each other. Recognize. He had that talent. Remember, Evan was into his movie camera. Filmed Ginsberg coming down escalator. Zoom in. Out. Dizzy. Gently. Ginsberg reaches to Evan “Let me show you what Robert Frank taught me”. “Steady”. When poet becomes father. Gentle God. Beyond tongue. He knew. Me. My sons. My/this/our life. Share(d). Alice Notely told me years later, later. That summer of Naropa, her sons Anselm & Eddie tormented Corso. She had such warmth in her breath. I can still feel it. Mother. Poet. Example. Goddess. I adore women. The capacity of. The miracle. With/without birth they remain. Perfect. Perfection. I an ant at their picnic. I seek that flame. Gentle. Silent. Music. Sleep. Never silence here. Unless a storm. Yes. A storm. From that I’ll wander. Later in the white.Rain. Thickness.
I had fallen asleep after we ate. In my dream Evan came to me. Reminded me that he’s still dead. It’s good I’m in this cell. It’s like I’m within my within. Otherwise? Alex my therapist said you’re insane for 6 months after a death. I think Noah, Amanda, Anna, Emily, Tim, Jason, Miggs, Reed, Jackie, Danimal, Jimmy all wandering mad following Colette. Our confusion – anger – bitterness – sadness, parasites chewing breath. Never answer. Never. Never answered. After count I screamed in my celly’s face. I realize I need to go outside. Ice & snow dictate my wander. Snow blows as smoke rises. Smoke steam all illusions. All illusions concede to madness. I look over the yard and there were winter has conquered I recognize the sea of Japan. Grey and ignored she rests miniature. Japanese ghosts float from her water. Sound of dripping. Dripping. Plucking. There are no birds out. Where have they disappeared. To. From. Another why. Because I slip slide along. My face burns. Beard frozen I’ve become first & last in yard. I name this feeling after you. Youwhom. I’ll never know. Meet. Question. Feel heat. Give the tears I’ve saved in my pocket. You the only who knows the truth of this day. Yesterday. My tomorrow. You care? Or am I another accident. You slow take notice of. God I love Guns & Roses. Queer? Or am I just tired? Alone. Within. Without. Remain.
Asked librarian the other day , “queer books?” “What?” “Queer?” “Yes. You want homo-erotic?” “No, queer”. Anyway, it seems here they separate “certain” books. No Stein, Genet. Rimbaud. They do have Mann. Woolf. Anyway, I found some nice books – Winter Birds, Dream Boy by Jim Grimsley. Great reads. Very well written. Both heart breaking. Winter Birds sweet in it’s torture. Reminders. Just finished Edinburgh by Alexander Chee. One of my favorites. Hope I can find more by him. A must for anyone who digs a solid book. Great movements. Again, heart breaking. From here got a book on Deadwood and life in prison. Kind of like reading a book about drowning in the middle of the Pacific. These books were donated by an inmate. I’ll read them all (may 20) books like pancakes. Great against the palate. So sweet going down. Had no idea I adore both. Perhaps my love on the outs I’ll name pancake!
Well as Liddy says about the Irish say about this time, “the season is upon us”. Yes, we love each other. Homeless are grateful for a new used jacket and turkey. At least the day accomplishes something. Too bad America is more concerned with lawns not humans. Not all of course. But I see more kept lawns than needed.
Woodland Pattern is having their poetry marathon end of Jan, 2008. Check it out. Some amazing. Some sweet. Some whatever. But it’s ours. Community. Breath. Text. Use it. & It takes care of a large part of their budget. Do it & throw in an extra buck or 2 for me.
Hope all is well. Sweet. Desired. & warm. Love like there is no tomorrow.
Later & some love. Maple syrup
& Joni Mitchell.
Shaved to Sweet Child of Mine. Kelly got her unc k fob. Soon Stacy with “hold fast” bracelet. My broken radio. Noah. Amanda. Evan Henry & my box of prison leather. A will a way. I prefer black. Leather. Morning. Coffee. Elaine sent journals (refused by institution. You can’t have things from home. I have no home. Besides it’s from NYC). I do get her letter. Both in my hands and in my heart. She’s great. A call for Genet. REM on radio. I prefer to sit & wait. Freedom? Define and make strong argument and perhaps I could love you. See you. Rain & snow. We’re stranded. I need a fire. Smell of smoke. Chard memory. I keep them here (point to pocket). Nothing is necessary. Needed. Pancakes. Just like my mouth in Key West. Pancakes & red wine. Caught a crab. Thought Tennessee Williams tried to pick me up. More than likely. Regret not sleeping with Ginsberg. But had just fallen for Colette. No mixed metaphors. He taught me to meditate. Fell asleep while he read Blake. Corso shared his brandy. Burroughs called my friend by the wrong name. Many years later Ginsberg in Milwaukee. Me, Evan, Colette, Noah & Bill D. went to pick him up at Mitchell. “Hi” I said. “We’ve met in Naropa”. “Yeah”, I remember”. “No you don’t”. “Yeah, you were skinnier”. Sadness. I guess we did love each other. See each other. Recognize. He had that talent. Remember, Evan was into his movie camera. Filmed Ginsberg coming down escalator. Zoom in. Out. Dizzy. Gently. Ginsberg reaches to Evan “Let me show you what Robert Frank taught me”. “Steady”. When poet becomes father. Gentle God. Beyond tongue. He knew. Me. My sons. My/this/our life. Share(d). Alice Notely told me years later, later. That summer of Naropa, her sons Anselm & Eddie tormented Corso. She had such warmth in her breath. I can still feel it. Mother. Poet. Example. Goddess. I adore women. The capacity of. The miracle. With/without birth they remain. Perfect. Perfection. I an ant at their picnic. I seek that flame. Gentle. Silent. Music. Sleep. Never silence here. Unless a storm. Yes. A storm. From that I’ll wander. Later in the white.Rain. Thickness.
I had fallen asleep after we ate. In my dream Evan came to me. Reminded me that he’s still dead. It’s good I’m in this cell. It’s like I’m within my within. Otherwise? Alex my therapist said you’re insane for 6 months after a death. I think Noah, Amanda, Anna, Emily, Tim, Jason, Miggs, Reed, Jackie, Danimal, Jimmy all wandering mad following Colette. Our confusion – anger – bitterness – sadness, parasites chewing breath. Never answer. Never. Never answered. After count I screamed in my celly’s face. I realize I need to go outside. Ice & snow dictate my wander. Snow blows as smoke rises. Smoke steam all illusions. All illusions concede to madness. I look over the yard and there were winter has conquered I recognize the sea of Japan. Grey and ignored she rests miniature. Japanese ghosts float from her water. Sound of dripping. Dripping. Plucking. There are no birds out. Where have they disappeared. To. From. Another why. Because I slip slide along. My face burns. Beard frozen I’ve become first & last in yard. I name this feeling after you. Youwhom. I’ll never know. Meet. Question. Feel heat. Give the tears I’ve saved in my pocket. You the only who knows the truth of this day. Yesterday. My tomorrow. You care? Or am I another accident. You slow take notice of. God I love Guns & Roses. Queer? Or am I just tired? Alone. Within. Without. Remain.
Asked librarian the other day , “queer books?” “What?” “Queer?” “Yes. You want homo-erotic?” “No, queer”. Anyway, it seems here they separate “certain” books. No Stein, Genet. Rimbaud. They do have Mann. Woolf. Anyway, I found some nice books – Winter Birds, Dream Boy by Jim Grimsley. Great reads. Very well written. Both heart breaking. Winter Birds sweet in it’s torture. Reminders. Just finished Edinburgh by Alexander Chee. One of my favorites. Hope I can find more by him. A must for anyone who digs a solid book. Great movements. Again, heart breaking. From here got a book on Deadwood and life in prison. Kind of like reading a book about drowning in the middle of the Pacific. These books were donated by an inmate. I’ll read them all (may 20) books like pancakes. Great against the palate. So sweet going down. Had no idea I adore both. Perhaps my love on the outs I’ll name pancake!
Well as Liddy says about the Irish say about this time, “the season is upon us”. Yes, we love each other. Homeless are grateful for a new used jacket and turkey. At least the day accomplishes something. Too bad America is more concerned with lawns not humans. Not all of course. But I see more kept lawns than needed.
Woodland Pattern is having their poetry marathon end of Jan, 2008. Check it out. Some amazing. Some sweet. Some whatever. But it’s ours. Community. Breath. Text. Use it. & It takes care of a large part of their budget. Do it & throw in an extra buck or 2 for me.
Hope all is well. Sweet. Desired. & warm. Love like there is no tomorrow.
Later & some love. Maple syrup
& Joni Mitchell.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
121607
My poetry becomes single words spread out like box cars. Early 20th century subdivisions. Reality here is such. If I didn’t appreciate Buster Keaton I fear I would have swung from sheet attached to some make-shift gallows a long time ago. In fear of redundancy & laughter there is truly nothing to write about. The comparisons, the explanations are pointless. There is & there will be no way for me to give you any perspective. Any reality. Any anything of what prison is but I’ll try to tell you what it isn’t/doesn’t.
It doesn’t taste like chicken. It isn’t a circus. It isn’t like sitting in a closet all day to get the “idea” of. It isn’t just flat. It doesn’t inspire. It isn’t insipid. Though it’s full of such Americans. It just isn’t. It doesn’t. It isn’t terror & it doesn’t move fast enough. If boredom was a basketball – the hoop exists between breath that you could only visualize when your mind was totally blank. Play one on one with yourself. Intrinsic self-flagellation. Well that’s my opinion. As Lewis & Clark tired & some what succeeded, I will attempt to document this wilderness. This urban jungle. This stepped on bag of chips. This shut the fuck up.
A dear co-worker from back in the 90’s at Citizen Action was gunned down & few weeks back. Chris Roberson, father of three. My time & experiences with him was really positive. A solid guy. My prayers & heart goes out to his friends & family, to his mother, Cassandra, a truly wonderful person.
Later.
My poetry becomes single words spread out like box cars. Early 20th century subdivisions. Reality here is such. If I didn’t appreciate Buster Keaton I fear I would have swung from sheet attached to some make-shift gallows a long time ago. In fear of redundancy & laughter there is truly nothing to write about. The comparisons, the explanations are pointless. There is & there will be no way for me to give you any perspective. Any reality. Any anything of what prison is but I’ll try to tell you what it isn’t/doesn’t.
It doesn’t taste like chicken. It isn’t a circus. It isn’t like sitting in a closet all day to get the “idea” of. It isn’t just flat. It doesn’t inspire. It isn’t insipid. Though it’s full of such Americans. It just isn’t. It doesn’t. It isn’t terror & it doesn’t move fast enough. If boredom was a basketball – the hoop exists between breath that you could only visualize when your mind was totally blank. Play one on one with yourself. Intrinsic self-flagellation. Well that’s my opinion. As Lewis & Clark tired & some what succeeded, I will attempt to document this wilderness. This urban jungle. This stepped on bag of chips. This shut the fuck up.
A dear co-worker from back in the 90’s at Citizen Action was gunned down & few weeks back. Chris Roberson, father of three. My time & experiences with him was really positive. A solid guy. My prayers & heart goes out to his friends & family, to his mother, Cassandra, a truly wonderful person.
Later.
121507
There’s no question that prison is a “heavy” place. It’s rather ridiculous to even say it. It’s so obvious. But between the silence & the constant din of hostility you go blank. You allow yourself your death. Removal from this world for you have been removed. Isolated. Deemed criminal & shipped away. Not quite as scenic as Australia. We have a landfill in our back yard. The constant nothing. An empty nightmare. You only know it’s a nightmare because it ain’t a dream & it ain’t reality. It’s what’s been brushed off the table. Crumbs. Broken shattered dust bits of a once life. The remains of . Hibernation.
Just finished The Irreversible Declining of Eddie Socket. A solid book. Sometimes choppy but a great read. In here, salt in the wound. AIDs & the lives withing. It tells the story of one thru his & the lives of his lovers, friends & family. Heartbreaking. A must to read. This is how I spend my time. Digging a hole in society’s cancer & hunkering down. Society’s failure. i.e. that means us - all of us. America is dying slowly.
There’s no question that prison is a “heavy” place. It’s rather ridiculous to even say it. It’s so obvious. But between the silence & the constant din of hostility you go blank. You allow yourself your death. Removal from this world for you have been removed. Isolated. Deemed criminal & shipped away. Not quite as scenic as Australia. We have a landfill in our back yard. The constant nothing. An empty nightmare. You only know it’s a nightmare because it ain’t a dream & it ain’t reality. It’s what’s been brushed off the table. Crumbs. Broken shattered dust bits of a once life. The remains of . Hibernation.
Just finished The Irreversible Declining of Eddie Socket. A solid book. Sometimes choppy but a great read. In here, salt in the wound. AIDs & the lives withing. It tells the story of one thru his & the lives of his lovers, friends & family. Heartbreaking. A must to read. This is how I spend my time. Digging a hole in society’s cancer & hunkering down. Society’s failure. i.e. that means us - all of us. America is dying slowly.
121307
Near Wild Heaven – a tremendous subtle REM song. Mike Mills lead singer. Michael, Berry & Buck back up. A solid mansion Beach Boys happy American. Just a sweet song. Always had/have fond memories of. Some times you reach into snow & find a lost toy.
“Pee in the sink she said.
There dishes in the sink.
The have to be washed anyway.
But I found it difficult to pee in the sink because the idea excited me”
Kafka Was The Rage, Anatole Broyard.
“There was a sentence, for example, in a book or surrealism that stuck in my mind: “Beauty is the chance meeting, or an operating table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella.”
As Mallarme said, “if a person of average intelligence and insufficient literary preparation opens one my books and pretends to enjoy it, there has been a mistake. Things must be returned to their places.”
“The lonely poet, great wheel barrow of the swamps”. Tristan Tzara
Near Wild Heaven – a tremendous subtle REM song. Mike Mills lead singer. Michael, Berry & Buck back up. A solid mansion Beach Boys happy American. Just a sweet song. Always had/have fond memories of. Some times you reach into snow & find a lost toy.
“Pee in the sink she said.
There dishes in the sink.
The have to be washed anyway.
But I found it difficult to pee in the sink because the idea excited me”
Kafka Was The Rage, Anatole Broyard.
“There was a sentence, for example, in a book or surrealism that stuck in my mind: “Beauty is the chance meeting, or an operating table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella.”
As Mallarme said, “if a person of average intelligence and insufficient literary preparation opens one my books and pretends to enjoy it, there has been a mistake. Things must be returned to their places.”
“The lonely poet, great wheel barrow of the swamps”. Tristan Tzara
12907
It’s not that I have to. Rather want to. Believe piano as instrument of Sundays. Naughty. Angelic. Serious & quite light. The piano for me is mystery. An abandoned isle, hope. Something so large so profound. Confusing. Daunting & yes, overwhelming. I’ve always wanted a lover who could play the piano. Sit upon a stool & gaze. Befuddled. I guess that’s why they’re dreams. They exist in our quiet. Our true lonely. Our/that inward. A piano guts me as did my heart surgeon. After my surgery I couldn’t/wouldn’t come of my delirium. Everything was white light & so so slow moving. I couldn’t comprehend if I was dead or living. I truly didn’t care. So beautiful & their voices. The morphine drip straddling two worlds. Content with both. Either or.
A few tributes to John Lennon today & yesterday. How he came into how he left our/this world. A true artist. Magician. Strange how someone so far away, so distant, can & did take such a place with me. I know he struggled/worked/loved every day he was alive. Hero.
Reading a wonderful bio of Allen Ginsberg. Bill Morgan, author, begins chatting of Allen as a hero & yes, without question, he was a hero & like John, could transcend & change so much of this rather petty, corrupt world. Both not just strong believers of, but practitioners of love.
Thinking this weekend of what I truly miss. Of everything, what would or do I want. Frankly it’s so simple. Just those few – family, friends – without question. I wrestle every day what is prison. What is it to me? Truly digging down deep. Looking thru my eyes & attempting thru others. Prison is simply the attempt of removing love. Removing the individual practice. The belief of. Guys just babble here. Words are spewed worse than the exorcist. Words are rocks against windows. Against the walls. Society. Everything. Words are puke here. Wasted. Stupid & full of self-pity. Bitterness. It gets very frustrating. So in sorting out I have to dig thru all this bile. Stupidity. Bravado. Just to find or attempt to find some truth. A truth. & it comes down to love. Being forgotten. Forgetting. A surrender not to hatred but to hope. To love. Here, prison is a lie. Perpetuated by our & by our I mean the inmates, giving up. Rolling over. An un dignified surrender. This is not a judgment. It’s my observation. My judgment frankly, only matters to me of me. I will not give up on love or hope. On the light that exists. Has & will continue to exist. I know you are out there & to some extent that’s good. Alright. But frankly I’m talking to myself. Not to hear myself talk, never. But it’s out of responsibility. Out of my purpose. My beliefs. I grew up with some “odd” truisms. “Never say never” to this day, the word/thought never freaks me out. The other one was “never put it down on paper ‘cause people can hold it against you”. It is feelings, thoughts, observations. But I don’t want to know what it is, though I do. It is the “now we shall judge your stupid thoughts, your sad comments”. Your truth. This blog is not to educate. Entertain you. It’s my “fuck you”. My failures. My sadness. My humanity. My humility. My weakness. My joy. My love. When I emerge from this cell I don’t blink. Everything & I mean everything, has potential for disaster. For humiliation. For stupidity. All of life is such as this. It’s a trade off. I understand so much now it’s scary. I straddle that line between sanity & insanity every moment. I think I straddle it. Truly it doesn’t & it’s never existed. I talk to men who have raped their own children. & they talk of what the weather might be or of the fuckin Packers. They talk as if I care they are alive. That they matter. & I study how their eyes register & their mouths move & their fingers settle. & my wandering gets the best, the worse of me. I wonder & add my 2¢. Walk away & pray.
Prison is a remarkable experiment. One that will never work as such. Too many variables. Control subjects? Prison is stone soup. A shell game. A never saying never. A very fucked up situation. I watch myself change my face. My chest. My belly. My heart. My mind. What shall I give up. Give away. Hide away. I watched 2 friends talking today. The angle of their arms. The cloth that wrapped. The floor tile. The walls. The lights. A great photo. Reminded me of an asylum. Nursing home. A warehouse. Wander from one moment to next. Voices rumble as traffic. Shuffling of cards echo foot steps. Banter. Occasionally announcement. One might judge. Boredom. And at first, second glance, yes. But no. Within those mechanisms is a dance. A subtle ballet. Movement without question. Painfully reactive. Pure survival. No one looks like they know what’s going on. Everyone rigid. Ready to explode. To laugh. To cry. The convict’s drama. Concerted.
Later.
It’s not that I have to. Rather want to. Believe piano as instrument of Sundays. Naughty. Angelic. Serious & quite light. The piano for me is mystery. An abandoned isle, hope. Something so large so profound. Confusing. Daunting & yes, overwhelming. I’ve always wanted a lover who could play the piano. Sit upon a stool & gaze. Befuddled. I guess that’s why they’re dreams. They exist in our quiet. Our true lonely. Our/that inward. A piano guts me as did my heart surgeon. After my surgery I couldn’t/wouldn’t come of my delirium. Everything was white light & so so slow moving. I couldn’t comprehend if I was dead or living. I truly didn’t care. So beautiful & their voices. The morphine drip straddling two worlds. Content with both. Either or.
A few tributes to John Lennon today & yesterday. How he came into how he left our/this world. A true artist. Magician. Strange how someone so far away, so distant, can & did take such a place with me. I know he struggled/worked/loved every day he was alive. Hero.
Reading a wonderful bio of Allen Ginsberg. Bill Morgan, author, begins chatting of Allen as a hero & yes, without question, he was a hero & like John, could transcend & change so much of this rather petty, corrupt world. Both not just strong believers of, but practitioners of love.
Thinking this weekend of what I truly miss. Of everything, what would or do I want. Frankly it’s so simple. Just those few – family, friends – without question. I wrestle every day what is prison. What is it to me? Truly digging down deep. Looking thru my eyes & attempting thru others. Prison is simply the attempt of removing love. Removing the individual practice. The belief of. Guys just babble here. Words are spewed worse than the exorcist. Words are rocks against windows. Against the walls. Society. Everything. Words are puke here. Wasted. Stupid & full of self-pity. Bitterness. It gets very frustrating. So in sorting out I have to dig thru all this bile. Stupidity. Bravado. Just to find or attempt to find some truth. A truth. & it comes down to love. Being forgotten. Forgetting. A surrender not to hatred but to hope. To love. Here, prison is a lie. Perpetuated by our & by our I mean the inmates, giving up. Rolling over. An un dignified surrender. This is not a judgment. It’s my observation. My judgment frankly, only matters to me of me. I will not give up on love or hope. On the light that exists. Has & will continue to exist. I know you are out there & to some extent that’s good. Alright. But frankly I’m talking to myself. Not to hear myself talk, never. But it’s out of responsibility. Out of my purpose. My beliefs. I grew up with some “odd” truisms. “Never say never” to this day, the word/thought never freaks me out. The other one was “never put it down on paper ‘cause people can hold it against you”. It is feelings, thoughts, observations. But I don’t want to know what it is, though I do. It is the “now we shall judge your stupid thoughts, your sad comments”. Your truth. This blog is not to educate. Entertain you. It’s my “fuck you”. My failures. My sadness. My humanity. My humility. My weakness. My joy. My love. When I emerge from this cell I don’t blink. Everything & I mean everything, has potential for disaster. For humiliation. For stupidity. All of life is such as this. It’s a trade off. I understand so much now it’s scary. I straddle that line between sanity & insanity every moment. I think I straddle it. Truly it doesn’t & it’s never existed. I talk to men who have raped their own children. & they talk of what the weather might be or of the fuckin Packers. They talk as if I care they are alive. That they matter. & I study how their eyes register & their mouths move & their fingers settle. & my wandering gets the best, the worse of me. I wonder & add my 2¢. Walk away & pray.
Prison is a remarkable experiment. One that will never work as such. Too many variables. Control subjects? Prison is stone soup. A shell game. A never saying never. A very fucked up situation. I watch myself change my face. My chest. My belly. My heart. My mind. What shall I give up. Give away. Hide away. I watched 2 friends talking today. The angle of their arms. The cloth that wrapped. The floor tile. The walls. The lights. A great photo. Reminded me of an asylum. Nursing home. A warehouse. Wander from one moment to next. Voices rumble as traffic. Shuffling of cards echo foot steps. Banter. Occasionally announcement. One might judge. Boredom. And at first, second glance, yes. But no. Within those mechanisms is a dance. A subtle ballet. Movement without question. Painfully reactive. Pure survival. No one looks like they know what’s going on. Everyone rigid. Ready to explode. To laugh. To cry. The convict’s drama. Concerted.
Later.
Friday, December 21, 2007
120107
“Can music save your mortal soul?” Yeah, no question. Snow lingers in the wings. I wait for the fall as we all did as children. No school. No church. No stinky grandparent kisses. Big hunks of ham. Snow = silence. Helter skelter of the sweetest kind. An undressing of the universe dropping her sweet white bits of linen. Cotton. Butterfly flesh. Snow what a Godsend. What a tickle. “Cause fire is the devil’s only friend”. So we launch our love with snow cones & balls & forts. Ice skating. Prison is neither bleak or excited. Now it’s muffled. Sound travels a short distance. For that I thank the cold, snow, wind. Slip into the day. Co-conspirator & whistle “this will be the day that I die”. Ha! Yesterday the winds brought snow, snakes, as we were upon the desert. Perfect undulations. Hypnotic flat ground belly dancing. A magician. Fragrance. Nice remembrance. I was there. Totally. You know the scents. A slight closet off the side. Just big enough to slip in – out – before anyone notices. A perfect moist kiss & glimmer of eye, “hi”. I’m not an escapist. More explorer. Never a room I won’t enter. Exit stage left. Not much to read in Details.
Flat. Nice looking but at a distance. “That’s a nice animal” back to my world. DNA is a mixed bag. Tons of men in underwear. What’s with that fetish” My God. Either white briefs or nothing. Cotton. Remember to keep clean in case of an accident. Which is odd in this book Brutal. The author beats the hell out of a guy & interesting he totally evacuates. So much for mother’s advice. But in DNA they review a fantastic movie by a master, Querelle by Jean Genet. Rainer Fassbinder directed. Watched with Colette probably 20 yrs ago. She felt it “so depressing”. I was, “yeah”, kind of like when I was talking to my mother about True West by Sam Shepard. I thought that was a great play. My mother hated. Oh well. To each it’s own. Querelle is an adventure some consider it Fassbinder’s best. Either way see it. Brad Davis, casualty of AIDS is main character. Genet can do no wrong. Few more articles pretty good. But all this underwear. Like a Victoria Secret’s catalog with some great text. Kelly sent me a photo of Ezra Pound by Richard Avedon. Way cool. This weekend I’ll read. Catch up on letters. Wash clothes & yes, shower. I’m cutting back 2-3 a week now. Not that every day crap. Don’t really stink. More relaxed. Way relaxed.
Later.
“Can music save your mortal soul?” Yeah, no question. Snow lingers in the wings. I wait for the fall as we all did as children. No school. No church. No stinky grandparent kisses. Big hunks of ham. Snow = silence. Helter skelter of the sweetest kind. An undressing of the universe dropping her sweet white bits of linen. Cotton. Butterfly flesh. Snow what a Godsend. What a tickle. “Cause fire is the devil’s only friend”. So we launch our love with snow cones & balls & forts. Ice skating. Prison is neither bleak or excited. Now it’s muffled. Sound travels a short distance. For that I thank the cold, snow, wind. Slip into the day. Co-conspirator & whistle “this will be the day that I die”. Ha! Yesterday the winds brought snow, snakes, as we were upon the desert. Perfect undulations. Hypnotic flat ground belly dancing. A magician. Fragrance. Nice remembrance. I was there. Totally. You know the scents. A slight closet off the side. Just big enough to slip in – out – before anyone notices. A perfect moist kiss & glimmer of eye, “hi”. I’m not an escapist. More explorer. Never a room I won’t enter. Exit stage left. Not much to read in Details.
Flat. Nice looking but at a distance. “That’s a nice animal” back to my world. DNA is a mixed bag. Tons of men in underwear. What’s with that fetish” My God. Either white briefs or nothing. Cotton. Remember to keep clean in case of an accident. Which is odd in this book Brutal. The author beats the hell out of a guy & interesting he totally evacuates. So much for mother’s advice. But in DNA they review a fantastic movie by a master, Querelle by Jean Genet. Rainer Fassbinder directed. Watched with Colette probably 20 yrs ago. She felt it “so depressing”. I was, “yeah”, kind of like when I was talking to my mother about True West by Sam Shepard. I thought that was a great play. My mother hated. Oh well. To each it’s own. Querelle is an adventure some consider it Fassbinder’s best. Either way see it. Brad Davis, casualty of AIDS is main character. Genet can do no wrong. Few more articles pretty good. But all this underwear. Like a Victoria Secret’s catalog with some great text. Kelly sent me a photo of Ezra Pound by Richard Avedon. Way cool. This weekend I’ll read. Catch up on letters. Wash clothes & yes, shower. I’m cutting back 2-3 a week now. Not that every day crap. Don’t really stink. More relaxed. Way relaxed.
Later.
112907
Depression hits here like a retarded bat attempting to exist a closet. I’m stuck on a city bus from hell going backwards into time. Imagine if Jules Verne took that one toke too many. I’m that odd Frenchman in Hogan’s Heroes glued to radio. Though I can only accept messages on mine. No outgoing. Received an important message from Radiohead – “just like an angel, your skin makes me cry”. If I were you & you know me, perhaps you might not want to reveal yr present location. Just kidding. I’d be stuck on a street corner babbling, “they’re eating people, soylent green!” or perhaps I’ll tell all of thing 1 thing 2. Either way Dr. Doolittle my patron saint.
Reading Brutal. Relating to gangsters. Oh the joy of cracking heads. Wiping the world of fuckwads. Why isn’t there a movement against square people. Where do they come from? Too dull for circumstances. Not everyone needs to be out there. Some contrast. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s here. If it’s not on tv it doesn’t exist. I’m back in high school. So I will tuck my bat under mother’s hats & wait ‘til dawn to howl. Or dinner. “Ding dong bell pussy’s in the well. Who put her there?” Your skin does make me cry & just knowing we’ve touched…I do actually enjoy smashing pallets. Yuk. Now bad music. Oh well. I’m off to la-la land.
Later.
Depression hits here like a retarded bat attempting to exist a closet. I’m stuck on a city bus from hell going backwards into time. Imagine if Jules Verne took that one toke too many. I’m that odd Frenchman in Hogan’s Heroes glued to radio. Though I can only accept messages on mine. No outgoing. Received an important message from Radiohead – “just like an angel, your skin makes me cry”. If I were you & you know me, perhaps you might not want to reveal yr present location. Just kidding. I’d be stuck on a street corner babbling, “they’re eating people, soylent green!” or perhaps I’ll tell all of thing 1 thing 2. Either way Dr. Doolittle my patron saint.
Reading Brutal. Relating to gangsters. Oh the joy of cracking heads. Wiping the world of fuckwads. Why isn’t there a movement against square people. Where do they come from? Too dull for circumstances. Not everyone needs to be out there. Some contrast. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s here. If it’s not on tv it doesn’t exist. I’m back in high school. So I will tuck my bat under mother’s hats & wait ‘til dawn to howl. Or dinner. “Ding dong bell pussy’s in the well. Who put her there?” Your skin does make me cry & just knowing we’ve touched…I do actually enjoy smashing pallets. Yuk. Now bad music. Oh well. I’m off to la-la land.
Later.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
112807
Broke apart 4 pallets this morning. Took less than an hour. Ate 8 hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Toast, coffee, oatmeal. Finished The Member of the Wedding last night. Slim was sleeping. The last delicate pages wrapped a truly wonderful book. Of course without question tore what was left of my liver out. Why am I reading such melancholic books? So heartful & crafted. Yet I try to respond to all that is given. I guess my luxury is the indulgence. The unquestionable losing of one’s self. McCuller’s writing is quite unique. A southern Nietzsche. “The show is over & the monkey’s dead”. John Henry quoted as he settle himself in the next to the last bus seat beside her father. “Now we go home & go to bed.” Much earlier in a fragment of a thought Frankie asks, “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that I am I & you are you?” Amazing conversations thru out this book. A twelve yr old girl, her black housekeeper & her little cousin John Henry which in my world ironic cause John Henry means Evan Henry. Any more & perhaps I might spoil this book. Just finished The Old Man & the Sea. Hemingway. I got one word for/of Ernest – Dignity. A profound writer. Maybe in this day & age hokey. Fuck that. He’s brilliant. So is this book. Never saw the movie with Spencer Tracy. Don’t need to guess Ernest wasn’t too pleased. The dignity of Ernest.
New Graham Parson’s I believe re-released. Can’t wait to hear that. What a musician. Poet. Legend. American. Rebel with a clue.
Later.
Broke apart 4 pallets this morning. Took less than an hour. Ate 8 hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Toast, coffee, oatmeal. Finished The Member of the Wedding last night. Slim was sleeping. The last delicate pages wrapped a truly wonderful book. Of course without question tore what was left of my liver out. Why am I reading such melancholic books? So heartful & crafted. Yet I try to respond to all that is given. I guess my luxury is the indulgence. The unquestionable losing of one’s self. McCuller’s writing is quite unique. A southern Nietzsche. “The show is over & the monkey’s dead”. John Henry quoted as he settle himself in the next to the last bus seat beside her father. “Now we go home & go to bed.” Much earlier in a fragment of a thought Frankie asks, “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that I am I & you are you?” Amazing conversations thru out this book. A twelve yr old girl, her black housekeeper & her little cousin John Henry which in my world ironic cause John Henry means Evan Henry. Any more & perhaps I might spoil this book. Just finished The Old Man & the Sea. Hemingway. I got one word for/of Ernest – Dignity. A profound writer. Maybe in this day & age hokey. Fuck that. He’s brilliant. So is this book. Never saw the movie with Spencer Tracy. Don’t need to guess Ernest wasn’t too pleased. The dignity of Ernest.
New Graham Parson’s I believe re-released. Can’t wait to hear that. What a musician. Poet. Legend. American. Rebel with a clue.
Later.
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