| I taste a liquor never brewed (214) | ||
| by Emily Dickinson | ||
I taste a liquor never brewed – | ||
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sensory...epicurious...sleep
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Sabicas
Ripples kept entering my brain pond today!
I tried to work, but jotted down verse in between.
I listened to flamenco. Moved my fingers against the invisible strings.
In my mind I saw my good intentions floating in a pond.
Not a clear pond,
One without a bottom perhaps?
Still waters swayed by a pebble's fist of rage.
The motion reached the shoreline.
The water will be calm again, despite the best efforts of the universe today.
I cringed when I saw I was about to be struck.
It could have been much worse.
I haven't a scratch. Just a few waves to ride out.
I tried to work, but jotted down verse in between.
I listened to flamenco. Moved my fingers against the invisible strings.
In my mind I saw my good intentions floating in a pond.
Not a clear pond,
One without a bottom perhaps?
Still waters swayed by a pebble's fist of rage.
The motion reached the shoreline.
The water will be calm again, despite the best efforts of the universe today.
I cringed when I saw I was about to be struck.
It could have been much worse.
I haven't a scratch. Just a few waves to ride out.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Lessons from things....post 67
"How did I think up my drawings and my ideas for painting? Well I'd come home to my Paris studio in Rue Blomet at night, I'd go to bed, and sometimes I hadn't any supper. I saw things, and I jotted them down in a notebook. I saw shapes on the ceiling..."-JM
The spoke and ballerinas from days wake have left my body tired.
I crave sleep and dreams so sweet.
My desire of endless want, has turned my lips red, and chapped from salty remnants of sweat and dirt I don't wish to wash.
At night the smell of the grass comes through my basement window,
Here I am to breath again.
Soft breaths cool my chest. My body weeps no more on this day.
Something went right, something feels good deep within.
I feel like I am on the bench at temple.
The man that sits next to me recites the dharma, and drifts off to sleep on his Sunday morning. I am the silent observer of this,
And I am the Sunday morning.
I am the slumber.
I am the embodiment of that.
Can you feel the embrace of this?
Questions aren't coming. I don't have any. The only perplexity is the imprint on the pillow.
Will the gravity of night's last kiss take hold, and fill me enough to be alone?
I unfurl.
I crave sleep and dreams so sweet.
My desire of endless want, has turned my lips red, and chapped from salty remnants of sweat and dirt I don't wish to wash.
At night the smell of the grass comes through my basement window,
Here I am to breath again.
Soft breaths cool my chest. My body weeps no more on this day.
Something went right, something feels good deep within.
I feel like I am on the bench at temple.
The man that sits next to me recites the dharma, and drifts off to sleep on his Sunday morning. I am the silent observer of this,
And I am the Sunday morning.
I am the slumber.
I am the embodiment of that.
Can you feel the embrace of this?
Questions aren't coming. I don't have any. The only perplexity is the imprint on the pillow.
Will the gravity of night's last kiss take hold, and fill me enough to be alone?
I unfurl.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Carpe Diem!!!
Ok.... So I went to Trade Up music on Alberta to fiddle around after my appointment 'cus I needed to feel good. Anyways, played with the electrics (not really), went upstairs to the acoustics, sat and plucked. Plugged in one, that was fun. Looked over the cases. Caressed a couple accordions. Sat with this 159 dollar used Olympia, pretty acoustic/electric. Gray haired dude, with Hawaiian flowered BB King, shirt enters my space...I say, "hey what do you think of this one." He turns and says "I don't know let me hear it." So I strum some stuff, he says, its ok. Let me see. The necks a little outta whack," he checks the action, plays really good, says, "let's try another." So we picked up something worth twice as much (his idea) as the black, Olympia with built in tuner, and mismatched pickguard (selling point for me) but we found an Epiphone, passive electric/acoustic, beautiful good price, $179. Great tone. I like the action, the cutaway. It was sweet. He left after some encouraging words of wisdom. His name was, Bruce. Said he knew someone with my name. "...And to take care, and wished everyday could be as good as this one." Anyways...The beautiful part was Bruce said it was important that I invested wisely, but also, fell in love with the guitar I chose. So I came home to look at the two I already have, and, I don't love them, not in that way. I love the first one. My first I bought at the pawn shop in Fresburg with my buddy June (and she doesn't speak to me ever since I walked out on that job.). It's broken now, put away with strings too tight broke the neck.... And the other, well Jake gave me for Christmas our first year living together, so it's real special, but I don't feel bad trading in the one he gave me, 'cus knowing Jake, he'll be happy if I'm happy, and playing the guitar (besides Jake is in Costa Rica zipping through the jungles like a monkey). So...yeah, Thanks Jake! I mean really, I cheated on the guitars I have by going to the music store...I fell in love with that Epiphone. I'm going to go get it and bring it home and make it mine. -R
Ardha Matsyendrasana
I'm awake. I have on a favorite outfit. My friend told me never to say the word outfit. Torn-Blue jeans; Black-T. Phone's charging. So am I.
I have a tickle in my throat. Is it the soymilk? I have to go to the doctor again. Then more bike riding today. Weather is supposed to be good. I had the best time at the thrift store yesterday. How appropriate for me. I find great mementos second-hand. I found a little silver statue of Don Quijote, man from La Mancha. It stands four inches tall at most.
I road home with a backpack full of goods.
8 records.
2 cd's.
Opened the window, let music out, fresh air in.
Dinner with b.
Tofurky and beer in my belly.
It was a simple, good, birthday.
Here's todays astrological outlook:
I have a tickle in my throat. Is it the soymilk? I have to go to the doctor again. Then more bike riding today. Weather is supposed to be good. I had the best time at the thrift store yesterday. How appropriate for me. I find great mementos second-hand. I found a little silver statue of Don Quijote, man from La Mancha. It stands four inches tall at most.
I road home with a backpack full of goods.
8 records.
2 cd's.
Opened the window, let music out, fresh air in.
Dinner with b.
Tofurky and beer in my belly.
It was a simple, good, birthday.
Here's todays astrological outlook:
General Daily Horoscope for everyone...When the Moon is in Pisces the Fish, we are more sensitive to feelings that swirl around us like water. We could even imagine that we are all swimming in the same ocean, sharing the sea that flows similarly through each one of us. This vision of oneness that is often reserved for poets and mystics is available today to anyone who has an open mind. Still, the Sun's alignment with austere Saturn reminds us that our boundaries are necessary for survival.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Calling myself into the grass, dirt pushes into my nose, reminds me of what is real
Push me into oblivion. I was not there before....
The gray skies above me were shadows of what could be. I heard you cry. You heard mine. I was looking. I came. I saw. Regret. Red turned into something other. Paint drizzles alike. Pushed me there. They pushed me to look. Posters faded on poles staples tore the edges.The images hardly recognizable after the weather had come.
Marbles thrown all about....
There are those like minded who come to you in the night. They meet you in out of the way places longing to explore you. Like a shooting star they look to see if you chase. When you follow...they slow down just enough to let you grab hold. When you ask, "what next?" They giggle, shy away, play chase me once more. The chase, the race, no winner. Just the players and the stage. Longing looks. Fiery gazes.
Bob Dylan lyrics.
Souls emerge ripped like paper. The skin catches on fire and puts it out with tears. The wind whispers scents of her. was she ever there? What was that in the palm of your hand? Was that all there was to hold onto? A Halloween costume? A stolen bag of candy?
Was that a bridge between the houses of Frida and Diego? A bridge of trust? Why was it so small?
Days were easiest walking to and from the parking lot alone. Just done writing an article on the state of the world vs. the state of me. I was editor-in-chief. Summer's drink has brought on tomorrow. This is my glimpse, a telescope, an eye on thirty
with the moon blocking my view.
A gift on an absurd day
New favorite poet.......
The Archipelago Of Kisses
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end
of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women—those you write poems about
and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction
lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast
as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power
never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely
a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,
as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long
regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light
of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing
into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses
I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out
of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years
to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate
to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.
Jeffrey McDaniel
The Archipelago Of Kisses
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end
of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women—those you write poems about
and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction
lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast
as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power
never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely
a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,
as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long
regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light
of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing
into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses
I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out
of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years
to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate
to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.
Jeffrey McDaniel
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Crumbs
Life is full of crumbs.
Sifting though the blankets I find remnants of me.
Channels whiz by and I see moments of reality.
I don't want to have my 15 minutes of fame.
I want my name emblazened on a book,
with pages full of me.
I want my name to be famous.
I want a lifetime of infamy.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Passion Underfoot Onward Still
I feel like a member of the Lewis and Clark expedition.
Or of that same tribe.
In my mind
I'm an explorer, running along shore whilst the other men sail slowly downstream.
I walk with big steps in my moccasins that are wearing thin.
I stride through tall grass above my waist line.
At sunset the men from the boat have gone ashore to set up camp, and supper awaits.
The fire roars, invitations to sit near accepted, it burns my face when I sit close, but it is too good to turn away. It warms me to the core from a long days wary walk.
I hold my head down and absorb smoke, blessings, and a fullness I haven't felt in awhile.
The moon is full overhead and the blanket of stars comforts me back to small, lulling me to slumber under.
I tuck in, my bedding surrounds my tired soul, bones and still I become.
There is more than a days journey ahead. Desire pushes us onward. The ocean we will reach, and it will greet us with open arms, accepting us, because we knew it was there.
We only had to cross an eternity's worth of land, dried grasses, muddy waters, and dirt , using only our hearts as a compass to find it.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
goofy inspired sun tacos
In my crispy shell I shall pile on a days worth of nothingness.
I sprinkle a dash of noodling, a smidgen of sipping, a taste of lime, lingering on my lingua.
I melt a colorful amount of queso de loveliness onto my sunshine tastiness awaiting my crunch. Yum yum time for lunch.
I sprinkle a dash of noodling, a smidgen of sipping, a taste of lime, lingering on my lingua.
I melt a colorful amount of queso de loveliness onto my sunshine tastiness awaiting my crunch. Yum yum time for lunch.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Fingers are sore
Yeah so playing my guitar all day and loving it. Didn't wanna eat or nothing. And one of the most inspirational musicians to me right now is this woman. I happen to think she is one of the best-best bitches in rock n' roll right now and if you don't see that you're blind. Amen.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Procrastination, confession, messin'
Tired, worn out, pooped.
Thirsty, sheisty, feigning fast.
Lost, bewildered and lazy.
Melancholy, yet content.
Mad, broke, hungry, loss of appetite, bloated.
Lack luster, brewed out-drunken no more.
Found my heart in a glass jar on the floor.
Shoe box runneth over with my bills to pay. I think they will again be late. Gas up more.
Bike helmets aren't cheap but neither are ambulances.
I need a check up. I'm anxious for a sunny day.
Can't lay in the grass when its raining.
Beer can dented, tooth broken. Mn m's stale. Bed a mess. Coffee's needin' to be ground.
Gotta make Tofurky sandwich for lunch and get my head focused for wheels on the ground.
I'm explaining all these things because I'm really okay. Thankful, fine, had a great day!
Thirsty, sheisty, feigning fast.
Lost, bewildered and lazy.
Melancholy, yet content.
Mad, broke, hungry, loss of appetite, bloated.
Lack luster, brewed out-drunken no more.
Found my heart in a glass jar on the floor.
Shoe box runneth over with my bills to pay. I think they will again be late. Gas up more.
Bike helmets aren't cheap but neither are ambulances.
I need a check up. I'm anxious for a sunny day.
Can't lay in the grass when its raining.
Beer can dented, tooth broken. Mn m's stale. Bed a mess. Coffee's needin' to be ground.
Gotta make Tofurky sandwich for lunch and get my head focused for wheels on the ground.
I'm explaining all these things because I'm really okay. Thankful, fine, had a great day!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
10 Hours
In ten hours I will clock into work....
I think of this with an ounce of hurt. Why must the week start with such anti-bliss? I work to live, to eat, to buy gas. I don't live for work. I am a dreamer. I dream of days filled with sun shining on my face and on the top of my head. The sun will eat the evidence of my pale confines. The sounds of song pull me through the week. The singer is a siren who promises weekends filled with pleasure. I crash upon the rocks every time. Tonight I write to express this desire of the things to come. Oh the audaucity of hope! I hope to shed some of this congestion and insecurity. My snot filled tissue is remnants of what was. I drink to futures. Salud!
I think of this with an ounce of hurt. Why must the week start with such anti-bliss? I work to live, to eat, to buy gas. I don't live for work. I am a dreamer. I dream of days filled with sun shining on my face and on the top of my head. The sun will eat the evidence of my pale confines. The sounds of song pull me through the week. The singer is a siren who promises weekends filled with pleasure. I crash upon the rocks every time. Tonight I write to express this desire of the things to come. Oh the audaucity of hope! I hope to shed some of this congestion and insecurity. My snot filled tissue is remnants of what was. I drink to futures. Salud!
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