Saturday, June 30, 2007

juxtaposed drowning!?

i have no ores for the hours
but this black inner tube to navigate the
umatilla- both unimpressive and unassuming,
impassive? no, but nearly impassable
in places, in spaces with depth and dimention,
and depths too where i can't see the rocks.
did god make these waves, or did they make him?
it is another question for another day.

i dreamt last night that i was on the beach,
the ocean was there too
and i lay between them, the two,
mediating the ebb and flow of their
conversations when a girl
washed upon the shore, a friend of mine
from some time ago;
someone had died, and she arrived
just in time for my ocean dream,
neither of us could awake so they took her
away, and then the scenes, they died, or changed

and today i'm floating on river
that will eventually reach the swelling sea.
there are islands, or unsuccessful forks
and deer cross ahead and climb the steep banks.
the rocks are conspiring, they are growing
life now passes by quicker.

through the window on the door i see her
lying in a hospital bed, but her face is blurred,
or obscurred like dreams always do,
talk to me, wake up before i do
her voice lingures still when no words are said.

i am holding onto a branch, pulled by the current,
matt is approaching and we meet, touch, fall
and i am floating under water, dragged along the rocks
i cannot stand, i hold on until i can regain my tube.
matt's tube passess me, matt still clinging to the tree
i chases it into the swell and sucken limbs
the current is now pressing and i am pinned.

she is awake but she is a child,
throught the door i see a little girl
getting ready for bed as i drift away,
but she always was a child to me,
and i believe she always will.
these thoughts will monopolize the coming day
and make everything feel unreal.

i cannot touch, cannot move and being pushed
under i hold onto the dead branch.
my body is soar, weary
i know i have to stay above, to fight
the current, through the pain,
but first i must let go

Monday, June 11, 2007

every afternoon

and how does the other half live?
a caramel swirl, some foam,
a pearl-skinned girl with hypothetical concern,
she doesn't know
but she does have a way of
shifting my thoughts, or concerns,
her name is, it's on the tip of my whatever,
even i still have much to learn.

we shift in chairs sometimes
and sometimes strangers
walk past with steps,
measured or heavy, amiable and thoughtlessly
shuffling their soles on hardwood,
stepping easily, lazily through life;
nudging tables and touching stools, or chairs,
who do they belong to?
the desire to touch that which is in the way;
brushing the walls, chairs, bricks and mortar grooves,
sometimes slides along my finger tips.
she delivers my drink, nimble fingers and parted lips,
i search my pockets for words to say,
coins, a thank you, a thimble,
a kiss!
there is an always of things to touch,
and of things in your way.

main street creeps with cars
circling the block for my amusement,
life is outside, but not within these
parochial means, or seats,
and despite my best efforts of thought
and theory, we are all sentient beings,
i think.
where is my concern? where did she,
o these diminishing returns.
make room for another drink of whatever,
make room for all that i have to unlearn.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

why am i here again?

8/29/2006...

Each day here presents itself with its own problems and tendencies; people fail in work and relationships; bonds are formed and perceptions, good and ill, mesh so the the lines become more distinct as to who here is wanted and who is wanting. Backbiting, disingenuous, melodramatic, fallible; people. I am no longer amazed at the dysfunction and social atrophy of our little community, only slightly amused at the juxtaposition of intention and absurdity. Jeremiah is heart-broken, Solomon speaks of vanity, Sartre of nothingness, while J- and B- can only console each other for their senseless pains. They sympathize with each other and discuss the useless qualities of sympathy; one must be strong and stay positive. More persons arrive and tenitive plans are laid for the next season, so much better than this, our current blunder, but no one really knows, one can only romanticize this occupation so much; more talk concerning the nobility of optimism and avoiding the 'self perpetuating web of depression and feeling sorry for ones self.' No, that's not it, one must stare absurdity in the face, name it, and then move on, feel your pain and realize that everyone feels the same way. Smiles and weary souls breed retarded children, we are going to condescend, mess-up, miss the point and do it all over again, one might as well be honest with themself. This is certainly a comedy of errors and I am without a fellow spectator; I too have become a player. I hate writing about work, about how it goes and how that affects me, but my mind is so stultified by the lack of intellectual breath, like all this smoke in my lungs I am consumed with too many social issues that reek of humanity and infect my spirit, I feel rot inside. It would be a lie, however, to say that I have not learned anything from my peers, for certainly I have, I suppose something about them, about us, will appear in a poorly constructed short story I will write in the abstract future, but I am too weary right now. I think I just need someone else to make myself feel better; another person I can project myself onto in order to feel my own reflection and reassure myself of my own existence...