I'm trying to communicate with you

This is for the people that are leaving posts. I am not smart enough to understand them.

グ リ ー を も dominates す る meets い サ イ ト[ス タ ー ビ ー チ]! Th を is all the rage し like と し て the posture を to disappear suddenly し た サ イ ト が now Soviet る! The love 経 験 が does not have い Fang でも Jan 単に to leave meets え る の が works as サ イ ト! ぜ ひ ご applies flexibly く だ さ い

The cold is near

I want to dip my hands in a barrel full of scratchy wool socks.

I will pluck out a pair of discounted misshapen army-regulated green stockings. They will go over the meaty part of my calf. They will cut off the circulation and keep my legs below the knees warm as I stand in the coldness waiting for everything and anything.

Sac

It was 1997 and I was in love with the freedom of living out loud. I had a job delivering copies and I drove all around the Sacramento area delivering goods. I experienced traffic like never before. Driving became a sport.

I had received an electric guitar as a birthday gift and I worshiped Stevie Ray Vaughn. His songs and techniques were all I could hear. I snuck into Old Town bars to here blues bands play and occasionally they would cover one of his tunes. In my delivery van I kept cassette tapes of SRV to learn his phrasing.

After I worked all day I would venture out into the city. The night was full of opportunity and the sky full of stars. I sat on the hood of my car atop one of the parking garages and watched fireworks light up the riverfront during Pioneer Days. The cool river wind blew at my face.

In the tunnel that stretched from Old Town to the Downtown Plaza mosaic art moved us along.

The farmer's market appealed to all the senses.

I was young and my pores were open to all that was this time.

I can still feel it.

I would go to the river front in twilight hours and catch glimpses of river otters hunting for food.

Even in the city I would look for hiding places where I could find nature. In capital park I climbed a tree and sat looking down at tourists.

I always wanted to be observing. I just wanted to be still.

The adventures are fun, but being -- just simply being, is the great challenge.

Create.

I haven't written on my dear blog in awhile. I decided to share some of the ramblings from my writing class journal:

"How would you describe the carpet? It is green and blue Berber.

Or you can say...

The carpet winds across the room; shattering the white of wall paint. It meets the chair legs and shows some classy reservation by not taking hold."

How would you describe the act of clipping your finger nails? They were long so I snipped them.

Or...

An inch would be too gross. They start to measure a 1/4 maybe and I start to feel uncomfortable. They get crooked, yellowed, and dirty. It is hard to play guitar. They snag on my sweater. When I splay them on the ground, I bid farewell to some more of my DNA."

The dryer of my mind

My energy was restless

under the sheets

when I was supposed to be listening

to the quiet menageri

I grinded my teeth

right down to where everything is naked and still

and still

you haunt me

like a lost

lost

bill

circling the realms of the dryer

of my mind.

Passion and bite

Sometimes it is not a superiority complex,

It is an aspiration complex.

Success may come but all we know is the struggle. We mourn the loss of the one who struggled and although your dreams are fulfilled you are left with this sadness and emptiness that this gift has given you. You are left to reconcile with this gift.

Wow Christian Slater got old and turned into a boring guy. I wanted him to turn into Spider Jerusalem.

Maybe I want to turn into Spider Jerusalem.

Or John Muir?

Mmmmhh, must ponder.

Bus Pass Day

Rain was a hallmark card that

fell from grace

and stumbled down the stairway of clouds

Slamming a door of sunshine

Running away with the rainbow of your absence.

So she's not home.

She's not home.

My shoes holler to be stripped down

and my jeans are guilty on the floor.

She is not home.

She is not home.

Shadows mind.

I mind.

Running around like a chicken monkey

Catching my breath between pots of coffee

standing at the bus

stop.

Wondering why people talk so loud?

Every other Wednesday should be mine to take.

Just to make sense of myself.

Just to make some sense.

Just to take hold of all the pleasure and pain.

I catch me stuttering in comments

left in boxes. Illuminated by whiteness

that is not there,

that is as real as nothing.

As real as pushing you away.

Technology

Sometimes I want to throw my cell phone and laptop into a tub of hot water.

Blog is a sound you make when you don't feel well.

Twitter is when you let something go.

Sharing should be more personal.

Not highlighted by so many damn emoticons.

For ME

I wrote a song today. It took shape as a woman walked by.

She sang "Is it still gonna rain"

And repeat.

The rain came about 4 o' clock.

The smell came 'round and let us out.

I ran with wet guitar inside

The green bugs crawled all over me

from the dill plants I intend to use for pickling

It dawned on me....

You aren't coming home today.

I set down the mail

And put down my keys

Watered your housplants and sat down for this

I sit here with wrists and muscles aching for soft things

I cradled my self like cartons of fragile eggs today

I needed to be soft

I need to hold on

Today is my beginning

Today is my song.

A call to arms

I have a proposal to all you pixel addicts.

Just think about this for a moment,

What if we could start a movement to save an essential American element?

An institution that keeps going in struggles and strife's. An almost invisible cog that works magic,

that intertwines the fabrics of our lives. How can a government organization be so personal and prolific?

I tell you if you do anything this year you ought to send a letter. Save the Post office. That's right! Buy a card, scribe a letter, make a note, send it to your aunt, your ma, your old lonely pa. Write it down, I'm literate and I'm proud.

Look at how paperless our society has become. We've nearly decimated the postal service. We can't do this. These brave folks are such a unique part of our culture. They walk our hoods, they handle our personals. They need our support.

I have family who live without the digital confines of communication, (beyond them really). How disappointing it would be to have the Saturday service cut off. That is one more day that gives someone a sense of purpose. The trek out to the mail box looking for that card, that something special that connects that person to the outside world. An old-fashioned sentiment that needn't go away. We like seeing our name in print on an invitation. We revel in that new magazine coming just for us. We need all that the post has to offer. I tell you nothing makes me feel more like an adult like going to the post office and buying stamps. The institution of forms and files and ancient boxes on the wall. I suspect you remember how to get there. I suspect you will answer this call.

Zip code, address, capitals and fire, tomorrow's mail will make me a liar.

Envelope, stamps and black ink, this day's mail will make me think.

Be the hero in your own comic today. Wear a cape and proudly type set your name with a capital. "I am a writing fool, I can make someone's day having given the right tool!"

laundry

in a mad dash for freedom

I purged and laundered my emotions

not forgetting to separate the darks from the lights

they sat separated

I realized

they didn't need to be

I tossed the painful bleak runny ones right on in with the

bright cheery ones

they mingled and forgave and

swallowed the colors of one another

in the end

they dried

and were worn again.

Sliding Glass

The throngs of bacteria

churn inside me.

My blood smells like metal.

I walked past large work benches

that have been scoured, ground down

and sanded to the gleaming fragments of their core.

"I can't get no satisfaction" plays over again

as I work the bass line

in my mind.

Your trickery and lament dispel the rumor mongers

that hold court

amongst The Rolling Stones.

Morrison's Ghost

The long night howling

From the window outside

pressing the issue at hand dear

the answer for you to hear,

Lost in the night for I can't find the road,

wandered too far from town

left the tavern alone,

went hunting down the green rolling

grass of the hills

and sought the ghosts of the past.

When you answer the night calling

lest you don't forget your way

more often than not you'll find

your lover won't stay.

Mystery will find you

but make no mistake

the green hillsides

are no saving grace.

The long night howling

from the window outside

pressing a hand dear

for you to hear.