Bouncing off Trans

The verticle smile calls us with a siren song of pleasure. The sea we sail as men is not so wonderful, a life of puffed out chests cock of the walk egotistical crap is not totally fulfilling so when we answer those silky folds it rarely goes perfectly swimmingly as we are easily led by the thought of what we think we hear.

Isn't love great
it opens
it closes
and leaves
hearts
awake
sometimes wounded
oft times freed
the power
of sensation
fire, ice, and bleed

On the lack of inspiration

My head is empty of ideas.
There are no warm phrases to light my way to the next sentence.

I find no angst stuck to my shoe
no humor bubbling on up and through

I find no message
that calls out for use
the ryme and reason
is out of season
everthing feels loose


I wonder
when I can feel to write
where does it comes from
and where does it go

I like to feel
to write
with warmth, with phrases that light the way to the next sentence.

Illiteration

I was in a real bad brood mood
the breed need and search
for the right love glove, (Ok a little bit much)
chasing the walking stalkings
without enough bunny money
to ease the pain my akward
educated vegetable manner
inevitably brought

Yeesh this sounds really suburban
(this is a non sequetur cc validation of a title "werdcast"

Functional Illitterature

Wannabe boss dogs

A whats in for me moment

A life of competetive cruelty

Unchained hate

What woke me was the sound of my dogs barking incessantlly. I figure one of the dogs had lost it, so I got out of bed, put on my pants, grabbed a flashlight, and went to the back door. All of my dogs are a little crazy but this racket was way out of line. I opened the door and started for the pens, this usually quieted them down for when the "boss dog" was coming, it either meant food, a taste of freedom, and if it was a real good day both, the barking just kept right on. As I approached the pens I could see all the dogs were tearing at the doors to their cages claws frantically trying to tear the cyclone fence that the cages were made of. I was getting more than just a little pissed, I had just worked a 15 hour day just got down to sleep and now this shit.

I remember

• I remember the smell of summer air, heavy with the rain, noticed just in time to run for cover. Tennessee thunderstorms made me so high.

• I remember I would run outside without a shirt with my hairless adolescent chest soaking wet and puffed out as lightning and thuder crashed and flashed around me.

• I remember I felt like I was a god.

• I remember the summer storms of lust, lust so strong I would cum if I moved right/wrong.

• I remember doing so, often.

• I remember the sound of hounds barking in the distance, one of my neighbors treeing a racoon.

• I remember catfish from the Cumberland River.

• I remember my Mom saying "you want to eat that fish then skin it yourself."

• I remember how timeless it felt, no thought of any-time but it's own lost "now."

• I remember when I lost that feeling of timelessness, it was when I joined the service.

• I remember that it was after my last plea to be rescued by my parents from basic training.

• I remember I cried for about five minutes and stopped.

• I remember I went in to the PX bought a six pack of beer, drank it, and walked back to the barracks.

• I dont remember crying so freely ever since.

• I remember that I was more than human once, I was young, innocent, and immortal. I go back to that summer place by walking the streets my heart's intense city and when I get there I play for an hour or two.

Intense City

Variations on themes from Trans and friends.
Her heart was burning and I watched the light,
felt and began to write.
Some of us commiserate
co-misery ate our fill
Some of us jumped in and burned along with her
I watched the light, felt and began to write

Hearts are sometimes filled so much that they are bursting with life; love, joy, hate, fear, hunger all individually or every one at once... filled so, those we encounter in our hearts intense city are lost and what else might get lost there, ourselves?
an intense city the heart, it never ever sleeps but it always smiles and always weeps.

what is the heart?
a fire bright
candy apple red
caress
of broken glass
and velvet

Touch Me! Feel Me!Love Me!Heal Me!
A verse from Tommy I think

This part is a response to a blogger "Cynthia"
There is in the heart an intense
city whose streets and sidewalks
are alive with inviting smiles and awash with the blood of joy and lust and love and raw raw passions. There is also the lament of lost loves and the broken parts of hearts scattered in the alleyways, those alleyways less lit by that warm side of the soul.
An intense city the heart :)

Anger or Fear?

If the population of a nation must have a strong emotional component to act in any politicaly meaningful way, which is more constructive?
Anger will move people to change things, sometimes drastically with violent means.
Fear will move people to be sheep, unquestioning, eyes closed to the "bad things" happening around them.
Love will move people to help one another, compassionately reaching out to their fellows in support.
Hate will move people to swing machetes at their neighbor of 20 years.

I fear that we have too little love in our society to save it and the anger that this engenders is not good for the future.

Precarity?

The wages of deregulation, privatisation, and sheer stupidity on the part of some European and South American Governments have created a new movement of the socially mobile, albiet downwardly so, called Precarity. This is the condition of holding with only your fingernails a precarious purchase on the lowest rung of the social ladder. I found the mention in Adbusters.

The Senate eats their hat.

You have got to check out George Galloways Hearing in the Senate Homeland Security Ninnies Club. It is 45+ minutes of wonderful in thier face down dressing, with every thing but cussing. George Galloway is a member of the British House of Parliment who the Amerikan Senate has accused of dealing with bad people like the Saudi Crown Prince and the Arab Emirates Sheik.
BBC Video of entire Hearing

The Old Hound

I remember Otho Williams and his ranch across the street.
I remember the old hound dog we had to kill because he had an incredibly bad case of mange.
I remember the gun, a twenty-two long rifle and how the bullets shined as Otho loaded it.
I remember the cattle on Otho's ranch and his story about his favorite pet bull that one day played just a little too rough with him and gored him through the chest, it caused him to have a lengthy stay in the hospital. He said he still loved that animal.
I remember the summer rains in Tennessee, the smell of wet dirt just before a drenching.
I remember it rained that day.
I remember looking and looking to find the hound so we could shoot him.
I remember the feel of the rifle in my hands, just a cold piece of steel.
I remember not thinking much about the dog or the fun we had together playing, him nipping at my arm and yipping in mock ferocity.
I remember another dog, our old English sheep dog named Jude.
I remember how he bit me one morning as I walked into the house.
I remember he wasn’t there when I came home from school that afternoon.
I remember Otho holding the hound and gently stroking him and quietly telling me to aim carefully.
I remember when the rifle chuffed the dog leapt up and started howling a terrible cry.
I remember an "Oh shit" and feeling like a monster.
I remember spending the next hour and a half trying to find and catch the dog. We followed his pained howling through the fields.
I remember finding the dog and Otho pulling the trigger to silence the old hound.
I don't remember where Otho told me to aim.
I don't remember any tears.
I don't remember the dog’s eyes or his tail wagging.
It is almost as if the old hound, because I had betrayed him, refused to inhabit my memory.
I will always remember that hound was an animal that trusted me.


This was from an exercise in a creative writing class in 1995/96 called appropriatly the "I remember exercise." I nearly cried when I read it aloud to the class.

An ode to Jonnie

I can't tell Jonnie's story without skateboards. A skater's path, is one of hard unfeeling concrete that is full of potholes and traffic. As a philosophy Skating is a non-verbal protest against a far too conservative establishment. In action it is voicing that protest by performing upon it's yellow twisted gnarly spine a long, loud, and aggressive railslide. A skater's primary fuel, second to beer, is his anger, an inate hostility, a qualified hatred of all obstacles in his path. The only truth a skater really knows about is crisis on concrete, pulling a trick off perfectly, and party, party, party.
Jonnie was an agro skater; he would skate with his entire being; he would skate until somthing broke whether it be the skateboard, the pavement, or himself. Jonnie went through his life on a skateboard. Jonnie was also an artist, and Jonnie's skater's heart made all his art a mixture of brokenglass and vomit; it was angry, painful, but above all, it was true.
When looking through the odd peices of Jonnie's art that we all had brought to the party held in his memory, I was struck by the intensity of feeling I had experienced. Everyone of us had a piece of Jonnie's art work to bring, I brought my Colors, he did the crossed skateboard and hockey stick logo. I think the one piece of art that was the most revealing of Jonnie was his antithetical Wellspring Man. This picture was a small black and white sticker made to stick on skateboards and stop signs. The picture depicted a sitting man whose head was an open commode in the process of being flushed. The man's hands were tightly gripping the open rim of his skull and his facial expression was tortured. I think that in some ways Jonnie was the Wellspring Man. Looking at the original picture I could feel Jonnie's anger, through his art I could almost sense the skater's hate that it engedered in his soul.
Jonnie was never untrue to his friends; he told all of us to goto hell. But despite Jonnie's sandpaper personality, he was liked by all of us. Our respect for Jonnie was not built on any need that he fulfilled or any of the "gimmee gimmees." Jonnie was more an experience, never expected, never boring, and always full of life. And it was this I think that we respected most: He was a better "skater" than any of us; he skated from the depths of his soul.
I remember the afternoon my girlfriend came home and told me about Jonnie's death "Oh Damn" was all I said. Jonnie died trying to ride a great white horse and skate at the same time. Jonnie died a long way from home, up north chasing a piece of himself that he had lost or forgotten at one of his lifes too many parties.
As a skater, I play the game of life in my own way, I am a skating fundementalist, with stress on the fun and mental aspects of the game. I don't believe that Jonnie played the game so hard it broke him, I think Jonnie was just too damn heavy for the thin ice of this life. I know that Jonnie the skater, the artist, and rebel is now in Valhalla. He's up there making Old One Eye blink his single eye in suprise at the airs he's pulling off. In conclusion all that I can say is "See ya, Man."

A chaotic poem

An interesting approach to life
war
innocents
dreamers
and children
walk
in one door and
out the other end
come pretty little boxes draped with flags
or untidy little piles of dirt poor rags
if we were to count
the number of people
that have died
as combatants
and civilians
in the
wars of this world
which would have the highest talley
the number of those alive today
or times total calculated dead.

I think sometimes that broken images
can show more than a crystal clear
photo.
Pieces of a broken mirror give broken images
but each piece is perspective in and of itself.
the hardest part is context, a red cloth becomes a
pile of saffron or the blood on a bandage or a stain
from yesterdays cherry pie...
broken images reflected, lost, and then found again
does the eye see it
as many pieces of the world scattered
or as the world reflected in many windows shattered
many makeup mirrors held in many smooth soft hands
in a broken mirror's melted sands
what is art but the view from the artist's shard
harmonic reflections
disonant deflections
shadow deceptions
and piece, pieces?

Open for Questioning Ranting On

I am going to Rant, Rant, Rant.
What do you think of Biodiesel or SVO (straight vegetable oil)as a diesel replacement?
Is George the spawn of Satan?
Is Social Security safe?
Will we vote republican in the next election?
How many Wars have been fought since we discovered fire?
If history is written in blood, whose blood is it?
Will there ever be another NHL Hockey season?
If red = republican and blue = democrat, who does white represent?
Can a simple question bring about a widening of awareness?
Ranting, ranting, ranting.
Individualistic seeking of profit limits the possiblity of peace,
competition is indeed good but the how and where of it's expression
is at present creating a non-harmonious world where people spin away
from each other, social interaction is defined in a general sense as a
whats in it for me moment (Generalizations are not bad)
A whats in it for me moment!
There is one phrase that needs a song.
Rant, rant, rant, on.
Ok I am just bleating in the wilderness,
waiting for
that one whats in it for me moment.
Poetry?
What is your most important question?
leave a comment posed as a question.

We are all just sheep
bleating in the wilderness
eyes rolling clockwise
for the direction to travel
in safety

what is it like to be a cow?
must suck,