No Blood Tonight

I will not draw blood tonight
I will not watch the entertainment
surrounding the death of life
the alter of this dark world
channel 8
or channel 5
it all depends upon
your cable provider
Say goodbye to the torture
or the subtle indication of it
Say no more
to the wallowing in the deep red dreams
of some writer without a soul
this song will not be sung
this dream will shatter
I
Am changing channels.

The Monsoon Comes, and She is Singing

Sheila Chandra,
I dream of meeting you
If you by chance read this,
shoot me an email
I'm just some guy
in Portland, Oregon
moved by your song
your voice
your hypnotic trance
Just shoot me an email
and I
will reply
dreaming of some swirling sensation of sound
you swirl within my mind

The Nanny

My wife enjoys the Nanny
it cracks her up
who would have thought
this would be my lifelong companion
she will not even read this
because she has no interest
in such dull things
Green Acres
Simply Quilts
House Hunters
now that's something interesting
now that's something of interest
I remember when I
was the sun moon and stars
call me Pluto
no longer a planet
just a dwarf
orbiting in some strange elliptical path
at the outermost fringe of her heat
colder than you can imagine
Out here
the universe seems so vast
I can see the edges of our solar system
The universe is so vast...

One Thousand Nine Hundred and Fifty Seven

Space was penetrated. Sputnik alerted mankind to the fact the science was no longer fiction and we were headed toward the stars. Or at least the outer layers of our atmosphere, thin and comprised of a three part oxygen molecule. Later, we would realize that aerosol spray was partly responsible for the dissolution of this ozone layer, and roll-on deodorant took on an environmental mantle. Rewind to the delivery room of Pocatello General Hospital, sometime after midnight. Modern medical science had eliminate all sensation of pain below the waste of Audrey Helen Hussey Williams, and her baby boy was delivered with only the slightest tug from the attending physician. The twentieth day of the sixth month of the 5th decade of the 20th century, at approximately 1 a.m. This is my birth.

backwards, into dreaming, I fall

before I wake up
I know everything
there is to know
about the day ahead of me
I will wear pants
brush my hair and teeth
communicate more or less
masticate more or less
vegetate more or less
return to point A
and close my eyes
again

Food, In Focus

Pres
Pres B
PreZ bee
Presbyopia
when I eat
get too near my dinner
and edges blur
civilized men sit upright
far from the food
I hunch down
like an animal
and wonder
what exactly it is
I'm ingesting

What about Austin?

There was a few weeks suspended in time when I thought I might be moving to Austin, Texas, and embarking on a new life. But this was not to be. Instead, I now have the same set of walls, in the same state of remodelling, and the same set of circumstances, aided by the smallest of molecules called CnH2n+1OH

My Meatloaf is My Life

What would you like for dinner tonight?
I don't know, what do we have...?
Meatloaf.
Meatloaf sounds fine.
Okay. But are you sure you want meatloaf?
What else is there?
I could thaw some chicken, and make Ginger Glazed Chicken, but that would mean we won't eat until 9 p.m.
But I'm hungry.
I could make Mac and Cheese...
Meatloaf is fine.
Are you sure?
If that's the best option, yes.
How's the script going?
Slow.
Do you want broccoli or corn?
Corn.
Really? Broccoli would be a better choice.
Okay then, broccoli.
You'll have to run to the store then, because we don't have any fresh broccoli.
Why do you suggest broccoli, if we don't have any?
Because it would go well with the chicken.
But I said meatloaf was okay.
Well, if you really want meatloaf, then it won't be an issue.
Okay.
All right then.
All right.
Meatloaf it is.

Crossing the Demarrara, Yet Again

On the way to the Parika ferry, first you cross the Demarara river, deep and dark, on the spine of a vintage world war 2 pontoon bridge, each steel plank shifting with the weight of your auto and the others that squeeze by coming from the opposite direction. They all drive on the left, you know. Former British Colony. More than a decade has passed since I saw this place, since I sat on the decrepit wooden docks where the Parika Ferry would disgorge its load of humans, sweet fig bananas, chickens in crates and carambola (aka starfruit). I had no intention back then, of sitting here tonight listening to the rain on the roof, tapping away at these keys, my grand adventure but a recollection. My intentions were much more interesting back then. My heart much more joyful and firm. The filter of time has made those moments seem better than they were. Either I will go mad, or continue my suburban slumber. If only my memory could not recall the dark, mysterious waters that lapped against my imagination. Perhaps then, I could be content with the monotonous sound of this Oregon rain.