so after a few attempts at telling kori about pot and our relationship, i finally succeeded in getting it all out. i told her if it continues then we should not do this anymore.

shes been crying for almost two houra. and shes real distant.

journal... im beginning to feel cold and alone again. i lost dr mcbee. he was my comfort zone.

what do i do? the next right thing a voice tells me. but will i...? and what is it?

stop trying to control everything and let it happen as it will, mike. that is the next right thing.

they programmed me. those sharp motherfuckers. im a robot...

i have to put this here.

this is the second song i've written. it turned out way better than what i imagined. the first one i wrote, i took another look at today, and i don't really much care for the result. the fact that i did it was what felt so great. and i made a tune for it and all that. the experience of the process is what felt good. that it is possible, and that i can do it.

the magic of the second one is what i love. that, and the song itself. and the music. the process grew on number two. it started out very rough, and i didnt really care for the music. so it changed a little the next time i revisited it - i think it was the next day. the word arrangement changed, and most of the words changed, period. the chords changed with it. then it changed a little more when i wrote it on paper. i hammered out some more definite chords. developed the chorus. but the third change has been the most profound. all of the rough edges of the lyrics have been polished, and a third chord progression has been fit to it. it has changed so much from what it started out as.

i think of the times i would draw on the chalk table. what one idea brought, bits of pieces of it moved into the next idea, and the whole concept would become reborn. and after several attempts, it would be something i was somewhat, if not entirely, in love with. i wish the modern cave painting had been processed a bit more - i suppose there is still time. but this song? this song is me. and i love every bit of it today. i wish my voice was better, but it is what it is. smoking and lack of practice are my only obstacles.

today i thought in terms of something i learned somewhere from pat pattison - i think it was on his website. he would ask, what does this lyric do for the song? and so i figured if it didnt do anything, something else had to be roughed in.

tonight i have a finished product, and i see a little bit of the process i went through to get to this point.

i don't have a title for it yet. but here it is:

i see a flame burn in your eyes
and i feel the shame buried inside
i have the truth caught in a lie
and i see your shadow trailing behind

and i feel a void i feel
i feel a void i feel

dreamers weave dreams on a whim
but i spill my dreams three sheets to the wind
lose all the pieces within
tangled in hymns, twisted in sin

and i feel a void i feel
i feel a void i feel

memories come, and memories fade
and memories turn into dust as you age
oh i remember days when it'd rain
when memories paid for war that we waged

and i feel a void i feel
i feel a void i feel



i think my grasp of the rhyming concept is a little limited. they are all one syllable words. but on the bright side, i don't let the sound of consonants hinder me. it's all vowel based here.

anyways... i like it. and i'll keep it. for sure. this one fits better for the bucket list than the first one.

now starts the "where" writing

day 13

5 minutes

a cliff by the ocean

a sea of clouds hang dark and ominous overhead
the taste of brine hangs thick in the air
down below the jagged cliffside, ocean waves crash hard down below
rushing inland, reaching up to where i stand
the waves crashing sound like short rainstorms
the mist clings to the hairs on my arms
my face is wet with the death of waves
the ocean retreats and regroups for another assault
and in their absence are sharp rocky fingers of earth
they promise to catch me if i jump
and the sea promises she'll take me away when i land
together they seek to comfort me in the end

i wonder why i went for suicidal?

10 minutes

park bench in the city

mid-day on a park bench in the city
the hour of rush traffic bustles outside the park fence
a world of rush and turmoil outside patches of grass and trees
imprisoned to a world of prisoners
they watch as walkers stroll by
idle and patiently gazing outward
they sway in the gusts of wind
wind that passes like strangers on the sidewalk
carrying a message of car exhaust and pigeons
an old woman sits alone in the shade,
tossing flakes of bread onto the pavement
she finds joy in the moments of feast,
outside of herself as she watches the birds fend for themselves
they pick through the crumbs like wal-mart
selfish and bullying
big and small
she is breaking bread with a world that barely exists in the city
her clothes wreak with the stench of a street urchin
rolling along the bottom of the ocean,
collecting whatever may be in her path
today she is content with watching
reaping the benefits of providing for those she sees as less fortunate as herself
a broken woman, she pities those who are able to fly away to other homes
but are unwilling to part with the only thing they know
unwilling to grow up
restless pigeons
they shy away at her hand reaching out
but they can't tear themselves away from the promise of more
she is at peace with herself
because surely, if an old good for nothing bag lady has the heart and mind for empathy
surely, there are others out there like her
others more fortunate, who can fly and provide
there is idle chit chat among the flock when she has expended all of her crumbs
amidst the ominous shadow of patient flora,
at peace and in observance for those who are not rooted into the ground
they give her shade she cannot provide herself



i like what i did there. i think it was clever. and it is something that came to me as i rolled along. that's what i learned from that one. inspiration isn't forced. it is encountered.



90 seconds

hotel bar

last call for alcohol
late cries in neon lights
scribbling a phone number on the sheath of my room key card
she smells like rosemary
and scoffs when i ask for her to repeat her name
and yet she answers my phone call
the sound of adventure and mystery in her voice
last call for alcohol
and she skootches closer
her...



anyways... i skipped the real "day 12" because i felt exhausted. but i didnt see a point in giving up. so i made one mistake. it's ok. these reals are merely suggestions, not unbreakable laws of physics.

i like that i used the word "skootch." it's made up, i think? or if it's real, i don't know the spelling. so i used the logical system of a phonetic alphabet. but i changed a "c" to a "k" to avoid the confusion of symbol culture based on aesthetics over logic.

this was from yesterday, i forgot to post it:

last day of who writing, day 8

5 minutes

cyclist

he kicks down hard on the clutch
a mighty roar thunders from the garage,
his hand torquing the bike to life.
the smell of grease and smoke surrounds him
freedom rumbling beneath him
free like the wind in his hair
sunshine in his face
the freedom of itchy sweat and itchy leather on a hot summer day
the open road splayed out before him for miles
he can smell the honeysuckle alongside the rolling hills
putting miles between himself and home

10 minutes

ballerina

the world spins for not even a second,
and then it is still while her body spins
she does this to keep from getting dizzy
to keep her stomache from churning
she cannot see the audience,
just dark silhouettes behind a blinding light
silent spectators and classical music
she smells perfume and sweat.
her toes are sore from standing on them so much
and her muscles are so alive and active,
she knows every inch of where her body is going
one of the audience members is captivated by her beauty
he can't help but to notice all of her shapely features
her toned legs under spandex,
skirt wisping up high when she spins
he has grown excited the way men do at the sight of young supple flesh
oscar wipes beads of sweat from his brow
biting his lip and wondering what it would feel like
to run his fingers through her hair
to grip it in his hands and pull her head back
sucking on her tender neck
his undergarments tighten
and it becomes difficult to sit still,
fire burning hot in his loins.
she can't be older than sixteen at most, he muses
she age of impressionable experimentation, he ponders
oscar hates the feeling of jumpsuit orange,
but he is unable to contain the rush of hormones
it all comes so natural for him.
he feels alone in a crowd of proud parents
beethoven closes in on him

i know that was a little preverted. but i had to go with something that i was more familiar with. it was easier to think in terms of the prevert than it was the ballerina. ha. sorry.

90 seconds

puppy

the smell of new car comes second to the smell of new puppy
when they aren't shitting and pissing all over the house
loving yips and playful nips
the softness of being licked in the face
tongue tickling further and further down my ear
their eyes the namesake of baby-blue
padded feet on my chest

*****

and this is from this morning

day 9

"when" writing

5 minutes

summer rainstorm

my backyard is turning into pools of raindrops
the grass is drowning, each blade reaching upward
hands waiting for a hand
big drops are pelting down everywhere
but the sun is shining from a small window of sky
casting light onto cumulous clouds
a rainbow is stretching across the overhead canopy
my shoes squidge with each jump
i'm mesmorized by the spring from a gutter
digging trench

that was sort of cool, actually... everything was steeped in the sense of sight. but i felt like it was a good picture

10 minutes

graduation

i remember it clearly
or at least as clearly as i was afforded,
given the occasion:
it was another georgia summer,
over two hundred young bucks
tucked into neat columns and files
we stood there for two hours
stiff and rigid, sergeant major's voice booming over the pa system
occasionally bowing to the strong georgia wind
i felt a tightness from my first time wearing a beret
it squeezed my head so much i felt dizzy and ready to give up.
we were all so dichotomized standing there,
our families an array of colors swaying(swooning?) in the bleachers,
while we stand tall, our colors blending into one another
a sea of army green washing onto the beaches of normandy
my feet were terribly cramped inside my dress shoes
all shiny and plastic and new
georgia pine and perfume wafting on the breeze
we were a crowd of impatient privates,
standing at attention for the sake of what we had just been through for the last nine weeks
two more hours, i thought, and then it's over.
then i get to move on

i feel like "when" writing is where i'm at... that's the writer i want to be.

90 seconds

funny to think we have to practice wearing a ball and chain
right before the iron clasps tight to our ankle
all the people gather to stare
aftershave and perfume floating in the air
what is missing is the live band
swaying in the music
carrying me through the night
the last night im alive

haha, i havent been to a wedding since donnie crites' when i was a little boy. i eloped. no rehearsal.

*****

what is really cool about today is that i can see what it is they mean by "finding your voice." i can already feel my voice, but this is the process of learning to use it on command. what is also great about this process is, today i am able to understand why it is that people say "write what you know." i never went to graduation. i know nothing about ballerinas. but i remember graduating basic training. and i know what its like to be a pervert. so i went with my gut there. i think that was the right reaction.

at the end of this fourteen day exercise, i intend on analyzing my attempts so far. look for where my strengths and weaknesses are - listen for my voice. it's in there, somewhere. definitely.

also - thinking of asking angela to do some with me? i trust and respect her enough to bring her in on this. or, at the very least, she can start her own dreamwidth. or not.

day 6, "who" writing

i think i've over-personified what's into who's over the last five days. but i'm not that worried about it. it is what you make of it. pat says that "who" writing is looking at or through the eyes of specific characters. it is great for character development. you as "who is talking?" and "who are they talking to?"

5 minutes

sailor

alone at shore
his legs carry him further and further inland
his eyes brim with hope
scanning the horizon for his bonnie blass
her hair is the crimson of fire
and there amidst the crowd
his arms unfurl like big sails
catching wind towards his destination
they embrace, fire and sea
steam rising from a smoldering kiss
and together they row along
the wind at their backside
sails full

10 minutes

waitress clearing a table

clarissa hates her job
she claws at a wad of dollar bills lieing by the salt shaker. the smell of ketchup and vinegar assails her senses as she stalks dishes in a bin. another car pulls up in front of the window, and it's time for her to paint over her distaste for cleaning up after potential jackpots. all she has to do is shake, smile, and talk if it's a car full of men. she gets paid to feel pretty. clarissa wonders if this is how strippers feel. the rush of beauty and bills being stuffed down their panties. she can't tell which would be worse - always being treated like an object, or the smell of ketchup and vinegar. right now she hates to see the dirty fork that has been in someone's mouth. somebody's half-eaten hamburger is sitting in the paste of salad dressing. she stifles a gag reflex, and for the first time in her life she is seriously considering taking off her clothes for money. at least she could get better tips. and her customers wouldn't be so rude. it's only 2:30 and her feet are swollen and crying for a break.

90 secconds

priest

his voice booms in deep and ominous tones. he speaks with the authority of one who does not question his beliefs. his gaze pierces through my paper-thin soul, and i am unable to bear it. i hear the voice of hypocrites. loud and imposing. pushy.


*****

this whole day's worth of "creative effort" was a waste. that's not true. but i sucked at it, that's certainly the truth. fuck. i suck at this shit.

5 minutes

curb

rough road edge
clenched between my teeth
death is the taste of grit
sandpaper smooth to the touch
my tongue working
long strokes of the brush
painting every feeling of the day
onto

that went terribly. the last sentence was going to change it to graffiti. anyways...

10 minutes

bouquet

bouquet of bullets
springloads of fun
my nose burns with the impatience of gunpowder
thunder pierces the air
sound chasing light
bright flashes in the dark
fireflies at midnight
dancing in the trees
paparazzi flashes
carpet like thick uncut grass
searing heat burning flesh
shadow of the red cross looming
boots stepping on my grave
swaying in the hammock
i am lifted to the stirring of air and dust
the force pushes my eyes closed
voices shouting over the talk of engines
idle chatter amidst life and death

that one also went terribly. or at least it feels so. it certainly wasn't that long. i think my problem is i am thinking of times where i wrote more and felt more. john mayer said it's not "accumulative."

90 seconds

rain clouds

in a world of green and blue
how do skies become gray?
filled with dark omens
the ominous color of coming rain
billowing plumage of cumulous clouds
spread thick on the canvas of the overhead canopy

canopy? i think i just wanted to use that word. i don't know.

anyways. i have work. at the very least, i am being consistent.

morning of 6/18

"by now you should be more aware of the power of multiple senses to make an experience more real and engaging." maybe i'm doing it wrong, then. or maybe not. my senses definitely draw me in. i think i have to break through the damage of introspective writing.

5 minutes

umbrella

shelter me from the sky falling
in giant gulps
the smell of wet pavement
in the rhythm of rain on the road
a rainbow blossoms overhead
i stand beneath the canopy
solitary statue
the sky a mi(time)

10 minutes

hair

i am a creature of vanity
preening and sculpting
great beauty in the glass
a man stands looking back
monkey see monkey do
all alone at the zoo
hanging from the vine
my reflection and i
intertwined
it grows like grass
long and unkempt
against city ordinance
heavy when wet
i push against the grain
another board butchered
it splinters to the touch
more scrap for the fire
burning in a field of wheat
smokestacks billow and fade
clouds disappearing after rain
fingers parting between strands
thick rows of corn growing wild
in the pattern of crop circles
messages from above
the silent sounds of interstellar dialogue
an echo through space and time
random signals in the vacuum of meaning

90 seconds

feather

flotsam of the breeze
the armor of pigeons
the stuff of pillows
they move like dreams on the wind
awaken and they drif away
ebbing with the tide at bay
driftwood on the wind

i feel better about my ninety second trip this morning. now if you'll excuse me. i'm going to work. and i have counseling this morning.

*****

i didnt do any this afternoon. i came home and took a long nap. today i relaxed. and i'm okay with that.

this is a picture from work last week. a beautiful moment i found amidst the magic of turning things into places:




one of the things i wanted to start doing when i quit doing drugs was photography. i kept up with it for a short amount of time. it was a big thing for me before i broke my foot. i felt so proud to look, capture, and share. i think maybe i should consider doing it again. i'm just not sure what to take pictures of. i never was - it was more of something i set out to do, and made up as i went along. it's creative perspective. i liked it because it was the world around me from my point of view - what is it today that i find interesting in my environment.

i remember this picture i saw when i facebook stalked greg. a musician friend he had made took a sign that said "party" and blocked out the "p" and "y." very clever. although i think there is a lot of art outside of party, his approach is commend-able. he was actively searching for art. and i really liked the picture. maybe i'll keep that in mind.

i have another drawing idea i want to investigate. later, though. the inspiration is already on the table. i just have to bend my will to it.

also, my latest haikube poem:

our love is dead weight
in the city of eiffel
a bridge with no chance

"finished" another drawing. although now that i think of it, i forgot to draw the middle finger on the left side. plus the hands arent level or proportionate. and it becomes more pixelated when i upload it to livejournal and then link it onto dreamwidth.



it started off as a hand coming from a cloud. i got the idea from a tarot card. and then it became a tree/cloud. and then earth was added. i wanted to put buddha in there. but i thoight there was already a lot going on as it is. pixlr express seemed to interpret some colors i hadnt put in there. so im not sure exactly what impression it gives off. but i drew it. i liked drawing it except for the left hand holding earth. i came back to it like a week or so after i started to put that in to "balance it out."