Kenn Mitchell's Poetry

1st draft of a new poem, really????

2011-10-07T09:15:00.000-07:00

at last, summer is over, the cooler (darn almost cold) nights are bringing back the rains. Work continues, ever changing with the new (and still poorly functioning) software from the Gods of Memphis. Oh well, i am considering (not certain how seriously at this point) in bidding out of shipping and trying my hand at something else in the mill, as it getting really frustrating and difficult to deal with the mess this software has created and as in all walks of life, they just continue to pile on new features and jobs that we don't really have the time or extra personnel to deal with. Ain't life a cher o' bowlies?

anyway, worked on a new poem this morning, really! a new poem! first one in maybe 8 or 9 years. Is it the start of me returning to writing? Not certain and not likely. Just was listening to some Bo Ramsey music, and this poem started in the back of my head.

THIS POEM BEGINS WITH A BO RAMSEY RIFT (1st draft)
(10-7-2011)

Bo Ramsey tells me
my dreams are so fragile
Paul Stookey tells me
to tell it on the mountain
while Dylan informs me
i ain’t goin’ nowhere

what to do?
all my prophets old & dying
sending conflicting messages -
just like politicians
in an election year

it is October finally
& the returning rains
offer little comfort

the sweat of labor
has again lost its magic luster

older now & my bones ache
i question the dreams of my youth
the passions used, abused
& lost

& i wonder if anything was really
worth the prices paid

still, when the alarm rings
i find it a necessity to put on
those worn work boots

that in itself
i suppose
is an answer for now

purchase, consolidiation, government approval in the wings

2011-09-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

not much to report. worked a ton of overtime in August, but survived somehow with only a very sore knee and a major strain on the brain. The past week of vacation helped a lot. Made it up to Dee Wright Obveratory in the Cascades (more of a site to observe the highest peaks in the Oregon Cascades than anything else). Been 20 or more years since we've been there.

Work continues to be a farce. Let it suffice at that. The great IP is trying to buy Temple Inland paper company. We have no idea how/if/when it will affect our mill and of course all the managers are acting as perfect robots saying it should have little if any affect on our future - which could mean anything, really. So we shall see how things unfold .... just what we all need, a little drama. It really will have little effect on my future, as i hope to be able to retire within 3 years, and these purchase, consolidation, government approval things usually take a couple of years to complete.

Summer should be winding down, thankfully. It hasn't been the hottest summer but, i can feel a bit of fall in the early morning air. Now if there were just a few sprinkles with the mild chill .....

today's poem is from 1:98, and it's another montage poem. (if you hadn't gathered, montage was probably my favorite type of poem.)

THE LANGUAGE OF LIES

1
the language of lies

it is not the wind over bare trees
promising summer
as it is not the dirty river
promising clean drinking water

2
buy from me the rain.
the air that i breathe.
lilies of the valley.
flowers on the wall.

3
dreams, like Achilles, flaunt their potential,
but the funeral is always
what is remembered.
i tell you, we live for something other than simple dreams -
fear or necessity, each day a hejira,
faith not as spectacular as sainthood
but profound, i mean, it's epic stuff
to face co-workers with their daily psychosis,
to ward off the black cough of despair,
the burnt pages of promises forgotten.

4
O, to be the black dog in the rain
dancing with the ghosts
of a better time.

O, to be the whisper
that sparkles
the eyes of children.

5
her hair smelled of tangerines
lips contained more magic
than i would ever comprehend.

the ocean in her fingers -
then i scrapped my knees
& splashed into the tide pools.

storms from the distorted waters
never to subside.

6
god made demands upon stone
before he made promises.
some insist they survive.
the rain. even fire
merely mask the events, the facts.

even if the legends are not historical
hope remains, at least, there could be
peace on earth, in the individual,
by design or accident.

7
soldiers here - so many masks
so many uniforms, i am never certain
whose side i am on
or what i have chosen to fight for.

but, hurrah, for our side,
& damn the bastards that resist.

i, myself, burn the documents -
in hopes nothing survives,
not even records of their insanity.

i hope, only dust, ash, to greet
the next generation of explorers.

8
ice-storms -
the highway will reveal nothing.
you will learn the dialog of patience.

darkness will be the sound of your voice.

9
mother, may i have a future. may i dream.
one step at a time.
no giant steps allowed.
simon says go to the back of class.
you forgot to say the magic word.

hospitals, doctors & needles, Oh MY!

2011-06-22T14:36:00.001-07:00

spent last night in the emergency room, thinking i possibly was having a stroke. it didn't turn out that bad. the hospital tests revealed other issues, and i probably should see my family doctor fairly soon and have a set of stress tests and more blood tests on my liver to clear up some ambiguities that appeared last night. basically, last night seems to have been a combination of lack of sleep, stress and "other" factors resulting in "complications".

no - the comment section will not be opened in the immediate future. i am not looking for sympathy, contact or anything else, just mentioning what's shaking, and that (as seems to be the norm) posts will be irregular at best in the future. Anyway, such is the state of affairs.

a poem from 12:27:93

FOR GRANDFATHER: JONATHAN NORTHUP

you: who took up a gun when you were not old enough to understand killing upon the wet fields of a 1917 france
who spent the rest of your life trying to give back life
like you could resurrect those eroded bodies with goodwill & dreams

the giants would never win the world series in your lifetime
though you prayed near perfect prayers

& as i now lay in your dying stance
the only birthday i can recall:
i was 16 & you were two months ahead of a coffin
& you brought a goose for my dinner

i still taste the rich syrups
as i remember your yellow smile
telling me the giants would be back
as long as someone believed in them

you: who took pain on a detour, laughing at the dreams of your grandchildren upon the wet leaves of eucalypus field
who gave the tools of dreaming to those who had not yet learned
smiling that yellow smile: believing the dead that forgive live forever

an old poem, and i don't like rhyme

2011-06-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

here is an older poem, one i actually rhymed, which i don't like .... just a quick update, to show the blog isn't actually dead, but close .... still no comments allowed. i am just too tired of the crap comments, and i don't have the time to sift and edit them out anymore.

here is another from 12:93 -

PUNK

little johnny jerk: took three snorts of coke
shot his old man twice in the head
& asked the cop why he couldnt take a fucking joke

spammers

2011-06-11T16:12:00.000-07:00

comments have been disabled, since i have gotten over 500 spam comments to every one or two legit ones.

that all may be a mute point. this blog has lost it's focus (obviously) and i am working so much overtime lately, i do not have time for it. Possibly it will be regenerated in the near future, but no promises.

again, sorry for the removal of comments, some of them were very worthwhile, but the spammers have won this round .....

OK, i have an update - stop holding your breath!

2010-12-16T14:13:00.000-08:00

Work has been tough ... ain't it always, everywhere? Lots of overtime. The new computer system is still clear as wet concrete ... the mill is "going Live" the first week of March. Oh joy.

But hey, The Giants won the World Series, so life has to at least headed in the right direction, or so the soothsayers tell me. Anyway, i celebrated the victory, remembering my grandfather who took me to a half dozen games in the 60's, when the Giants were real contenders, but alas, never won the big one.

todays poem .....

FROM A LINE BY HOWARD MOSS

i learned long ago
never to promise the impossible.

it is december here
where roofs call to dark skies
the impracticle dream
of becoming mirrors -
if only for a moment,
to be saint-like,
to glisten
& show the skies
their beauty in dark reflections.

i learned long ago
never to dance in the dark gardens
of prosperity
& expect them to be there tomorrow.

it is december here.
the cafes are all full]of cheap holiday banners
& waiters that could be photographs
serving stale biscuits
to patrons drunk on christmas swill.
i walk the wet pavement
as if a dog
seeking shelter.

i learned long ago
never to believe in ghosts.

it is december here
& i stare into the wet skies
as if a telescope
peering into the great beyond -
wondering what it would take
for our lonely hearts
to be together again -
if only for a night.

i learned long ago
never to expect the impossible.

one giant step backwards

2010-09-23T10:24:00.000-07:00

first classes on the new computer system are behind us. Talk about a step into the past ... the thing was created when DOS ruled and only has been updated on an irregular basis. No mouse, no icons. it's all "F" keys, tab and arrow around the different screens.... oh, it's certainly not going to help speed things in shipping up anywhere. I am certain the usage on the paper machine (which is much less than in shipping) is going to be loads of fun as well. 3 more classes (4 hours each) before we go "live" with the beast.

Cooler the past few days. Summer seems to have wound down. Fall is coming, but not here yet. i expect at least another blast or two of Summer trying to survive. The rains of the past few days are gone. Just clouds. Need to get on the roof and Moss-B-Ware it for the winter. But starting night shift tonight, so it'll have to wait for a week or so, at least.

today's poem is from 12:97. Written for a friend in Singapore, when we still had occasional letters exchanged.

GIVING THE VOICE SANCTUARY
-for siti

as god pouts - rain.
rain. rain.
mascara runs down
your cheeks, some would
mistake as tears.

my voice is a stutter,
as the wind
through awkward fingers
of old & deformed trees.

carve your dreams
in the bark, if you will.
the wind will exchange them.
somehow i will know -
even across oceans, continents.

as god farts - thunder.
thunder. thunder.
the uncertainty of your laughter
is an unreturned echo.
but i have heard
& attempted to give the voice sanctuary.

roll my bones
against the fates.
there are no odds
when dreams are involved.
eternity is a concept worth violation
in the vernacular of dreamers.

Mt. St. Helens visit

2010-09-07T16:59:00.000-07:00

Vacation ended far too soon, But did get up to see Mt. St. Helens. Quite Impressive. 30 years after the eruption, you can still see signs of the devastation. Got to get within 5 miles of the mountain, windy as hell, but steam still rising out of the hole in the north side of the mountain. Quite a long day, but well worth it.
back to work now. Changes coming, none of which are good. crew changes, computer program changes, different way to tally and load trailers and railcars. Oh swell!!!!

todays poem was written in 12:93, published in the wonderful Inevitibality Press in July 1995, an on-line magazine created and run by Roger Evers. Inevitabilty Press is no longer active, as Roger has taken his magnificent creative efforts into DVD creations and plays (in the Theatre of the Absurd mold, my favorite form!!) in the past couple of years. Oh yes, Bless The Void, Brother!

THE POLICEMAN ASKED

the policeman asked if i had a match. i shook my head no. his eyes studied me as if i were charles manson reincarnate, but said nothing as i walked away. deliverance was not salvation. rain spotted my glasses & my ulcer spoke in short but terse sentences.

two hookers on the street corner - watching their reflection in shop windows- make eyes at manikins. they ignore me as i limp by, the ghost of discarded dreams, hardly a vision worth attainment.

in the mail, the editor of onthebus writes i am a blasphemy, a degredation. i look at my hands, gnarled & red from a frozen wind offering no wisdom. i see his point. unfortunately, i find no razors, no poisons. i am forced to live another tortured day. i find a stamp, a soiled envelop & write a few curses to tell him so.

a death in the family

2010-08-06T16:01:00.000-07:00

today's poem is from 12:97

been sort of busy. a death in the family. my sister in law died of a heart attack late last month. always hard to deal with stuff like that. RIP is the best i can think of at the moment.

hot summer continues. less hot than a lot of the country i guess, but still, i prefer the cool fall and rains.

other than that - the usual chaos and uncertainty of work. but at least it's still work. loads of changes (and overtime) in the next few months. Oh joy. At least, the end of the month brings me a vacation. Still working on plans for that. :-)

APHRODITE

a myriad of unfinished dreams:
she was Aphrodite
tempting me,
telling me she was ordinary,
not worthy worship, in her eyes
i could see epics waiting to unfold:
i could see the moons of Jupiter
waiting for her descendants to populate.

& she telling me
she was just ordinary, not even
beautiful!

my hecatombs burn still
in the dark hills above her father's castle.

for a bungundry dress

2010-06-26T09:08:00.000-07:00

work has been unpleasant to say the least. lots of heavy weight export, lots of changes (more on the way), and well, summertime is coming and it's warming up on the mobile equipment i drive. Guess that's all part of "work", eh?

another poem from 11:97. about a woman i met at my first poetry reading .... where i was one of the last "unfeatured" poets to read.

FOR THE WOMAN IN A BURGUNDY DRESS

we speak of dreams
as if jockeys
on beautiful nags,
not a chance of winning.

we speak of the odds
& handicaps,
as if wagers alone
could make a difference.

perhaps there are reasons enough for god
or deliverance ...

the rain through your thin fingers,
the utopia of your chocolate eyes:
all further than i can ever reach,
but somehow the dreaming
makes the running of circles
a bit more worthwhile.

one for the concrete days of summer approaching

2010-05-16T18:31:00.000-07:00

Spring looks to be nearly over. The warm days are turning warmer and the cool nights at bit warm ....

work continues. lots of changes in the shipping dept. and more changes on the way. Oh joy. Also looks like overtime is coming my way in the near future. can't say i'm looking forward to any of it, really.

today's (this month's?) poem is another one from 11:97.

CHAIN-SAW DAVE

rumor has it, the new neighbor is a rubber tycoon,
as in retreads. i was surprised -
believing him a cement-man myself. not exactly
Midas, but everything he touch ...

his backyard a pad of expanding concrete,
except for the patch of grass
that next spring would become a swimming pool.

surely not a lover of trees.
i believed him a frustrated Paul Bunyan. the neighbors
call him Chain-Saw Dave. First week,
even before the furniture was in place, he cut down
the trees in his back-yard, covering
the roots with concrete. "damn them
falling leaves" he was reported to have laughed.

thanks to Russ Bradshaw

2010-04-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

first of all, thanks to Russ Bradshaw of Five Leaves Publication in the UK for including my poem "Fighting Foam" in his anthology of night shift poems. The Night Shift is available from Five Leaves Publication http://www.fiveleaves.co.uk (at that site - click on the poetry link on the left). (the poem "Fighting Foam" is in the archives on this site - link is on the right. i uploaded it June 18, 2007, so you'd only need to click on the 2007, June link to find it). you know the mantra by now - support small and local presses if at all possible.

other than that - the union and company have agreed to talk one more time, in June, about altering the contract. There really is very little to hope for these discussions to amount to anything unless 1) the company decides to offer more for the requested take-aways or 2) the union officials in Portland (the local members have no voice in these matters) decide it's worth their while in the long term to allow the local to vote on the take-aways. Anyway, the door that seemed to be closed has a slight opening at the moment.

Spring rains and a week of vacation ..... just doing some things around the house and enjoying not being part of the rat race for a bit.

today's poem is from 11:97.

SHRIVE

1
no prayers will give these bones
sanctification. my songs are to something
other than a plaster-of-paris god. the rain
will rust more than gears or drive-lines
in these mountains. old junkers in the back-yard
are symbolic of nothing, if they are not symbolic
of desperation.

2
fallen trees rot in the ever fog.
in these hills are real men
who cover the slopes with the entrails of deer
& bear & cougars. they are the back-bone
of America, with inalienable rights.

3
i cannot save America from itself.
the cold in my bones has a source
other than the wind. the last hero
i worshipped was my father, dying
in a hospital bed, reminding me to be certain
to get the oil changed in the Oldsmobile
before winter set-in.

4
there is no truth (flap of hawk,
caw of crow) if you do not create it
for yourself. old man at the bus stop
dressed in the rags of someone's garage-sale
asked if i'd ever seen a more perfect sunrise.

after the phishers

2010-03-14T11:15:00.000-07:00

after a bout (still ongoing) of massive spam/phishing attacks to my email account, i am back to update this blog. i can't help but think someone used a bot to glean the email address i had posted to reach out to missed contacts after my other computer died. i removed the address and i guess if anyone wants to contact me, they will have to leave their email address (or a link to somewhere i can email them) in the comments section, which is not a real good option, as i do not have comment monitoring on. If necessary i can change that easily enough. let me know if that's something that should be done anyway .... Thus far, i've never removed or changed anything written in the comments, even the negative or spam comments.

On the work front - the union refused to talk to the company about a concession only package, and told IP, if they had nothing to offer in the way of compensation, the union had nothing to discuss until the contract runs out in three years .... so, the game continues, and the workers, who have expressed a desire to at least be able to vote on these consession demands, are left out again of any decision making. We'll have to see what the result of this decision will be, most likely next fall, when the market traditionally slows.

Back to night shift - so i guess i'll see if anything dramatic or interesting has happened during the vacation i just ended. Spring is appearing, and the new tree in the front yard is taking root and sprouting some leaves. Now if the lawn reseeding would just start to take affect . ..... :-)

see ya'all down the line sometime or another.

today's poem is from12:93, when i was doing a LOT of reading and writing, something i haven't done either of since i quit writing in 2003 or so ....

FROM A LINE BY HOWARD MOSS

i learned long ago
never to promise the impossible.

it is december here
where roofs call to dark skies
the impossible dream
of becoming mirrors -
if only for a moment,
to be saint-like,
to glisten
& show the skies
their beauty in dark reflections.

i learned long ago
never to dance in the dark gardens
of prosperity
& expect them to be there tomorrow.

it is december here.
the cafes are all full of cheap holiday banners
& waiters that could be photographs
serving stale biscuits
to patrons drunk on christmas swill.
i walk the wet pavement
as if a dog
seeking shelter.

i learned long ago
never to disbelieve ghosts.

it is december here
& i stare into the wet skies
as if a telescope
peering into the great beyond -
wondering what it would take
for our lonely hearts
to be together again -
if only for a night.

i learned long ago
never to expect the impossible.

crash, burn and aliens got my email contacts

2010-02-09T19:44:00.000-08:00

a small edit to this post. my email address has been removed from this post due to a horrendous amount of spam i'm suddenly getting ..... plus the fact no one i missed in my original emails contacted me, it seems unnecessary to have it posted.

Well, despite being lazy, overworked and having a computer melt-down, there's really no excuse for the lack of updates lately.

OK - work? The new company (International Paper) wants to reopen the contract for a variety of "bad economy" reasons. The local union was willing to at least talk and see what they want to take away and what they have to offer in return (if anything). But the union officials from headquarters in Portland refuse to discuss anything about opening the contract without major concessions from the company up front. There is one last meeting on Feb. 19th, to see if there is anything to merit further discussions. If not, the whole future of the mill COULD be in question. In light of how fast and completely they shut down our sister mill in Albany in Dec. things could be dire in the near future. Let's just say the stress has taken its toll and poetry updates haven't been on the top of the to-do list.

Another reason for no updates is my computer has been on the fritz. Then Saturday, the computer would not turn on, just power up the fans. i tinkered with it for half a day, and finally gave up and took it to the Geek Squad at Best Buy, who informed me the CPU (motherboard) was dead. The Hard Drive was not ruined and i had it installed in the new computer i ended up buying. The net result was two days of trying to get old data off the old hard drive onto the new computer, and getting essential programs up and running. Well, i was completely burnt out and did a major OOOPPPPSSSS. Somehow (not certain how exactly) i deleted all my emails and contacts off the old hard drive. The only saving grace was i had done a back up on an external Hard Drive in November, so everything was not lost, just the recent stuff. Thus, somewhere in cyber space, aliens are now laughing and delighting in piles of my lost emails!!

So, i am back - sort of. i tried to send emails to the contacts i did have. If i missed you, write to me at any address of mine you have. it should (maybe) get to me. so i can add you to my contacts.

here is another poem published in a small press magazine - this time Mushroom Dreams, published in Dec. 97. i've said it a hundred times, but if you can, please support small and local presses/artists.

NO MAGIC IN HEARTS UNABLE TO DREAM

i watch whores beneath a street lamp
cigarette smoke dancing in the twisted light
as i count loose change

there is no magic in hearts unable to dream

i converse with empty sheets
the rhetoric as imperfect
as the fantasies

2010 begins, at least with one entry

2010-01-09T13:55:00.000-08:00

Rain, cold fog - ah, indeed ‘tis winter in Oregon!

Back on night-shift this week. A new boss that we briefly met last week takes control of the shipping department. All we really know about her is: she was in the same position in the Albany mill before it was shut-down last month and she was liked (at least by the one person who worked in her department three years ago). Lots of changes in the works, coming down from the Memphis gods who love the fact our shipping department is the most efficient in their system, but they want us to change and be like everyone else …. Whatever that entails, I guess we’ll find out between now and March, when the magic transformation is supposed to take place. I keep telling myself, no more than 6 and a half years, and I can retire ….. :-(

oh, before i forget - thanks to everyone who's left comments. i really like hearing what you are up to/think/ feel about the poems and this blog in general. And if you can, the ever constant mantra - help support small presses in your area.

Today we have a poem- from a discarded manuscript - it may have been included in a couple of versions of Humbly I Offer These Awkward Poems, but i don't recall if it was in the last incarnation, which was accepted for publication by Cedar Hills Press, but never actually made it to publication before the press folded. I hear rumors it (or at least the editor) is again active, but I’ve lost contact with him and have no real interest in re-establishing any contact. The poem is originally from 12:93.

YOU CALL ME TO VISIT

you call me to visit
glass & steel surrounded by fog
before a great lake that has only
imaginary boundaries. i beg off
citing diminished pay checks
& no spare time, captured by
the web of insecurity.

you call me to visit
a near palace in the sky
you humbly call home.
iron doors & lavender doormen
wearing impervious smiles.
the wind cuts mountains here but reflects perfectly
off mountain lakes. i beg off
citing failed western economics
& the curse of the spotted owl, imprisoned
in a cell of self doubt.

you call me to visit
irish linen & german crystal,
the reflected light of a million solar years
off an optically perfect window -
the lake where gulls dance
in a hazy breeze. i beg off
citing old age & lungs
that are less than ideal.

in my mountains, the world rots:
beetles & gypsy moths fly the same
alpine zephyrs as spotted owls.
storms sneak in from the Aleutians
& trees bow down in worship -
streams will churn black long before
they ever become crystalline again.
it is here i am chained -
each link a dream torn asunder.
it is here i am dying -
a cold rain falling in a forest no one visits.

you call me to visit.
at&t fibre optics, sterling sound,
lush & vibrant goddess voice - the wind
across pink lips. no greek isles.
no hot sweaty afrikan coastlines. just
a jazz band in the hotel lobby
& a blind singer of urban blues
across the street. i beg off
citing your beauty, my obesity,
knowing i should never stain such elegance
with the curse i have become.

A December entry

2009-12-14T10:05:00.000-08:00

The papermill is slowly struggling to restart. The freezing weather meant lots of broken pipes and frozen pumps and other joys. Add that to the 6 weeks of downtime, and the complications were extreme. But, after two days of actually trying to run the paper machine, we began to make paper early Sunday morning.

However, our sister mill 50 miles to the North has been closed forever. I guess the powers to be decided two West Coast mills were one too many, and they have ceased operations at the Albany plant. The mill will be “parted out” to other mills in the IP system, and then the site leveled over the next 5-10 years according to the stories I’ve heard. That is indeed a major bummer.

As hinted early, the weather has been frigid. Single digits at some nights over the last week. Hardly (if at all) above freezing in the daylight hours. But, some warmer rain has come in this weekend, and it’s started to be the normal gray drizzle that’s December in Oregon.

Today’s poem is from 11:93

A ROOM IN WHICH NO GHOSTS LIVE

a room in which no ghosts live - the light
casting no shadows. it is the sound of november
i hear, the echo of ice forming. the wind
does not whisper down these halls. it moans -
like old bones waiting for summer.

the whisper that is night forming - another moan
from the cold wind that is winter formed.
i walk the dark floors as if a river
lost in the wetlands, where fog sneaks off water
& is lost in cold vallies, waiting for summer.

letters are collected, as dust, in drawers
that are never opened - perhaps there is room
for dark spirits, but none visit these passages.
i watch paper yellow, scratch epigrams
that offer no solace, waiting for summer.

in these dark rooms are forests where beasts
live & breed. i walk the worn paths
until there is nothing & i become nothing.
frost waits, perched on fence posts, as a hawk,
waiting for darkness, waiting for summer.

a poem between overtime

2009-11-15T16:23:00.000-08:00

Had a good visit with Carrie, though I only got a day and a half off out of the week she was here. But Nance and she spent a lot of time together. was great to see and be with her again.

Work has been a mess. Loads of overtime and now the company is asking for cut-backs (pay concessions) in Sunday pay, holiday pay, and call-in times, as well as a two-tier pay system (all new employees would make significantly less than current pay scales, but the current employee pay rates would not be changed - or so we've been told.). The timing for these “requests” for the mills to “fall in line” is rather peculiar, just after they have closed 5 facilities this month. I suspect they will get what they want, as all the workers are not in any position to turn down these issues, and have the company shut down more facilities.

Today’s poem is from 9:93

FOR CARRIE -1ST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL

little that you are

calendars. clocks. moonstorms. time passes
in the strangest ways

some as serene as the wind through dark pines
some as awkward as teen-age girls in roller blades
butt down on the sidewalk

& dreams change
from fluffy bears to dragons. all as cuddly
as you allow.

little that you are
i am as old as the wind - as broken
(pines & mountains & the smiles of women break
more than bones)
& i am as in love with your laughter
fading into the network of a real world
as the first day

little that you were -

yes, i am still around

2009-10-13T16:25:00.001-07:00

Ah, a return of the zombie blogger ….. Yes, ZR, there is a place where I fade into these nights (& days). It’s called work. Lots of overtime lately, and more coming. 14 day/nights out of the next 16. Indeed, it’s better than being unemployed.

One day, the bosses say there will be a month to two month lay-off beginning in mid-November. The next day, they tell us, no lay-offs, and the paper machine will restart as soon as the major rebuild of the boiler system in recovery is completed. So, no one is really certain what the hell is going on, except we continue to run export orders, and continue to amass a lot of overtime for September and October. When I return to work tomorrow, I expect a whole new bag of uncertainties to be opened.

The only really big news, or only news I am giving any real value to, is Carrie is visiting from Wisconsin later this week. I will only get two days off while she is here, but we’ve only seen her once since Hurricane Katrina wiped her out of New Orleans. So, some time with the gypsy child is better than none!

here is a10:97 poem until the next (and who knows when) update :

CROW HYMN

in your back yard, crows sit upon the stone fence
eating cracked corn & pithy apples.
there are no rings upon your fingers
that called sunset fog from Dirty River,
that drew sin from my bones,
but where unable to open your heart.

winter rain in your hair -
summer dust in my fingers -
i would have offered the skies
if you asked.
the crows on the banks of Dirty River
are obnoxious & loud. farmers
& rednecks take pot shots at them.
i was certain at least one
held the incantation.

long after dark, i still scan the river banks
for the magic in fallen feathers.

cooler, at least the weather

2009-09-10T17:14:00.000-07:00

Summer is winding down. It’s still warm, but not uncontrollably hot. In fact, we had a couple of rainy days a week or so ago. Ah, the lovely sound of rain at night!

Work continues, but not at the record pace they set this summer. The paper machine is running “only” at 90% and that is expected to last at least through the end of the year, due to the still sluggish economy. There will be a 6 week outage in November and December, when they shut-down to repair the boiler (long overdue and very expensive, but necessary.) Obviously the mill cannot run without steam, so most of the employees will be laid-off for 3 or more weeks of the outage. They will be some work for senior operators, but I don’t fall into that category. So, from the early part of Nov. (unless they have extra work for a week or so, as some rumors indicate), I will be off until at least mid- to late Dec.

During the time from now until the outage, we are running almost nothing but export rolls, and quickly running out of places to store them at our site. They are not due and cannot be shipped until the outage occurs (when the senior operators will load them into trucks.). There could be a lot of overtime between now and then, moving rolls to external storage sites. Oh, doesn’t that sound like a lot of fun? NOT!

This poem is a rather dark one from 1997 - a poem accepted by Hunger Magazine in 1999. Another of those small press magazines that need your support. i do not recall if it was ever actually published or not.

DROWNING VICTIM BELOW VIDA, OREGON

ruddy river. flood stage. kingfisher & i above the turbines at Leaburg Dam
watch the faceless body move slowly, less than elegantly,
between the logs & tree stumps.
his blue Chevrolet eventually
to be breeding grounds at the bottom
of Bear Creek, if the Army Corps of Engineers
leave it lodged in Salmon Hole.

County Sheriff rescue boat
4 miles up river, still negotiating the debrie
of the bridge washed out in last years floods.
kingfisher assures me the body will wait
in the backwash of the boomlogs. mostly
we just watch the river changing colors.

------------------

Streets Hotter than a Matchhead - according to John Sebastian

2009-08-10T13:26:00.000-07:00

After a week of heat, real heat 105-106 on the olde Fahrenheit scale, and a mere 114 on the Hysters (forklifts) we drive at work, I am ready for fall, all the wonders of fog and rain and chilly winds.

Today’s poem is from 2:94.

Not much else going on. Work, heat and not enough sleep - so like, man, what else is new?

Take care. Support them local and small presses as much as you can. I’ll post again sometime, but as is rather obvious, there is not a lot of urgency or regularity in it these days.

FOR HOWARD NEMEROV

trees, which hold up the hem of the sky,
are being felled. & the sky too is falling.

i know trees grow old, diseased & die. but
the same seems to be true of the sky.

night is an incantation of insignificant things -
the chirp of cricket, the moan of toad.

night spills from the edge of failed dreams. &
the sparse trees can no longer hold the entire sky.

soon, crickets tell me, there will be only darkness -
the canvas full of pin holes -

scratches left by the fallen trees, only memories,
gone the way of other prophets.

the sky is now in the very lap of toads -
the tattered hem no longer beautiful.

summer is back and it's HOT

2009-07-01T15:27:00.000-07:00

Summer is back … oooh, and it’s hot in the olde Pacific Northwest. I like warm weather, but not HOT. OK, I like cool, wet weather the most, this is certainly not in that mold.

Work continues. It seems the Springfield mill is one of the very few in the International Paper system running at over 100%. The export (Asian) market and summer crops on the west coast seem to be strong for the time being. There is still talk of lay-offs (possibly) or extended downtime in October, when the mill will be forced down due to a 6 week repair on the Boiler (steam creating machine). Every week or two, what will can (will) go on during that time changes. So it’s a guessing game, as usual.

Today’s poem is from 11:93. It’s a prose poem.

FOR RICK

do all your dreams end up being candy apple red?
America is more than the right arm of Nolan Ryan into the eight inning.
perhaps it is little more than the hills waiting to be tilled, covered by a late frost & the sound of fog clinging to an alabaster stream.
perhaps America is really simply the sound of geese in formation, just after the sky is painted charcoal.

along the avenues drugs kill more than minds.
tiffany lamps stand slightly askew in the corner of an imperfect Norman Rockwell home.
believe in god if you will.
eventually even that is reduced to a statistic.
in the end, it is a comforting statistic, as the laughter of children dreaming of dancing bears & cuddly clouds that do spectacular things in an acid sky, if for only a moment.

collectibles in your closet, no value to anyone but the money man - who must be the ultimate curse.
the glow of cheeks in an early morning snow - peddle that to the strangers in your heart.
frozen nights, and clear skies reveal the Pleiades - the whole universe never to be reduced to an equation - just a step away, just a step away.
the horned owl in silhouette across the moon: worms will tell you everything of god, if you translate the rhetoric of life accurately.

too hot for a fogman

2009-05-30T19:01:00.000-07:00

A poem from 8:93.

Record heat for the past few days for May at least …. And I am NOT a fan of the heat. Rain, fog … that’s perfect weather in my book. Oh well. Back to night shift tomorrow.

Not much really to update. Work is continuing. The markets are good right now, it appears and the paper machine is running at full speed. It’s a mixed blessing, as it means a LOT more work, but at least it does mean work and a pay check. No complaints on that one.

Decided to post at least a little longer., though it will be erratic most likely, sort of how it’s been all along, I guess. Thanks to all who added some feedback to the previous update. Good to know someone is out there reading (and even better appreciating) the poetry. Thanks to all.

THE FATMAN STARES AT GOD

the fatman stares at god
with one angry eye
corns on his toes
& a limp that wins no races
no fans

the fatman finds rejection
an art form
wears dull masks
to match his rhetoric
perfectly visible to at least himself

the fatman watches truth
lay naked before a setting sun
protected by salted weeds that guarded more than surf
he has felt truth
but never honestly experienced it

what now?

2009-05-22T17:00:00.000-07:00

OK, it's been a while, and i am still uncertain if i'll continue much longer with this effort. i am inclined at the moment (obviously since i am posting today) to keep it alive, even if minimally, as it's really the last link i have to my poetry being made public. i haven't written anything new since shortly after the 2001 lay-offs ... and there is nothing i can see right now that will alter that decision.

anyway, who knows if the end is near for this blog, or if this is just a SLOW phase, or a pattern where i will post now and again. it's not like i don't have material available. There are literally thousands of poems in rough draft form in my desk drawer, from over 30 years (although it's all at least 10 years old now). i really have no idea if or where this is going at the present. any thoughts?

this poem is from 7:93.

ELIJAH'S IN THE CLOSET

i tells you, Elijah's in the closet
counting skeletons. hearts of fire
burn to imperfect ashes.
frost in my touch. corn cobbs
my palace. it is insanity,
they tells me, that i be -
loon on the pond, dancing in the rain.
hurrah for heroes willing to be sacrifices.

i names the little black dog jesus christ
ankle biter with a smile,
not a bit of sense. i laughs a little
at whimsy, unwilling to partake fully.

i speaks with a lisp
tongues foreign to even me.
eternity wears a dress. no panties.
& me without a condom. ha!

lots actually happening behind the scene

2009-03-27T18:10:00.000-07:00

For lack of updates … lots actually happening behind the scene.

Either the economy is slowly turning, or someone is crazy, but the mill is resuming full operations, after 3 months of running at 70-80%. That means, lots more work and hard driving in the shipping department. There is also a slight (not likely, but a possibility) that I will be bumped to the truck dock. While that is an easier job, straight day shift, it is also a significant reduction in pay, like 35%. Someone has taken that job, on a month trial basis …. We’ll see how that plays out. As is, it’s back to night shift starting tomorrow night.

Today’s poem is from late July 93, and it’s a montage poem.

Also, not certain where this blog is headed (again). The lack of updates make it obvious it’s not a top priority at this point. It’ll probably limp along for a while before I make a decision to keep it alive (and hopefully keep it updated on a regular basis) or let it fade off to the obscurity it appears to be in at the moment.

THE RESIDUE OF DREAMS

1
the residue of dreams shattered
wears just like a nimbus

we are heroes in our own idealism
perfect bastards worth suffering

so we strut our stuff just like the emperor
in new clothes

2
but in the alone
of our dreams
we formulate miracles
in an empty sky

carve intricate epitaphs
upon the bones
that nearly support

3
& who will be our next jesus
when they have cut down
all the trees

upon what secrets
will they nail
our vulnerabilities

4
autumn leaves
rattling in a wind
lacking incantation

we stand
monoliths
waiting for discovery
upon the plains of uncertainty

5
immortality is within our grasp
dust the immediate legacy
just like adam
who believe hell was paradise
worshiping ignorance
waiting still for canonization

the little dreams of bastards
do not amount to a hill of beans
to deranged gods

i will be the curse uttered
upon the fulfillment of damnation

not a lot to report

2009-02-25T15:56:00.001-08:00

Today’s poem is from 9:97

Not a lot to update or report. Things at the mill remain pretty much the same - in a slow back mode due to the economy. Things are expected to pick up in March, when the fruits and vegetables in California are going to need boxes for harvest. Of course, that all depends on the demand ….

Still loads of rumors about what is going to and not going to happen with the elimination of the regular paper tester job. The job isn’t going away, just some people with idle time (HA!) on their hands, such as the back tender or 4th hand, will have to do the testing now. Rumors are just that, and no managers seem to be willing to address anything until it something actually comes to pass.

Warmer nights (but not actually warm), and lots of rain the past week.

SONG OF THE GEESE

moon echoed in her dark eyes then,
more than a riddle to be solved.

rain. her wet hair
magnified the vision.
i could feel the essence, but i
was myopic then, as perhaps i am myopic now.
no longer roses in my fingers.
these calluses less than magical.

autumn. the santa lucias
black moss & alabaster rivers -
her thin fingers etched
the answers in my pale skin:
30 years to be deciphered.

here where rains
are merely wet. geese in one way
formation. not even omens,
their songs like epistles
long ago written.
my bones have not forgotten.

plodding along

2009-02-08T10:29:00.000-08:00

Work plods along … of course, never smoothly. The mill remains in a slow-down mode, at least through February, due to the poor economy and the sad shape of our boiler. The latest news is the papermill is officially eliminating the paper testers job sometime in the next three months … and two of them have asked to go into the shipping department. That could spell trouble for me, as I COULD be bumped out, back to the paper machine. One group says that won’t happen, another says it’s inevitable. So, who knows? Time will tell I guess. Back to night shift tonight - whoopee.

Winter is still around, though no snows, just ice and frost most mornings. Snow seems to be just on the nearby hills, but avoiding the valley floor, which I can appreciate.

Today’s poem is from 8:97

ON POETS

each word, a stone in the pocket
of your ragged jeans.

you can beat back demons with some
(though never as far as you wished),
& barter with the old woman
at the end of the highway for dreams
with others, though she has no real need of them.
mostly she just throws them at crows
in her corn patch.

some allow privacy.
some even buy pleasures
in the right economics
but that too is temporal.

they are just agates: voices
you cannot ignore -
even if no one else seems to hear.
the world is full
of the deaf & mutilated.

agates with visions
you spend long nights trying to decipher.
stones that do not allow
you to float on the tranquil waters.

still, at dawn, as mist rises off the dark sea,
you can be found, wet socks in your
trousers, collecting more.
it is, after all, your own voice you seek.

still alive n well

2009-01-19T14:22:00.000-08:00

finally - another poem, this one from 6:93.

Not really much going on, trying to survive the cold, wintry passages. Nothing compared to what Spokane (and my sister) has endured, but it’s been a colder, icier year than normal around here. Ice and cold aren’t my favorites, then again, come August and that heat isn’t on my wish list either. Fall and spring (cool and damp) I guess are more to my liking.

Work pretty much continues. The slow down (due to the economy) is supposed to last through at least Feb, and the last week has been really bad for production and safety at the mill, neither which bodes well for our mill in the big picture.

Sorry for the lack of updates. Just been tired, busy, lazy and/or a combination of all three.

STUTTER FROM THE LIPS

i am the stutter from the lips of god
an unfinished curse on the backside of the wind

come when dawn is late
& frost is the language spoken
geese in broken formation
chant either threnody or ecstasy

i walk the lesser taken road to golgatha

the best laid plans of mice and men

2008-12-19T17:57:00.000-08:00

Today’s poem is from 10:93.

Wasn’t it Robert Burns that said: “ The best laid plans of mice and men oft times go asunder?”

Well, changes - and more changes. Seems the cracks in the boiler drum are pretty bad and the chance of it failing are much greater with any prolonged shut-downs. So the great Gods in Memphis had decreed Springfield IP Mill can continue to run through February without any downtime, although we must do so at a greatly reduced speed. While this is good news, it comes with a personal price - I get a ton of overtime over the holidays as a result. So, tomorrow I begin 8 nights in a row. (There is a slim chance the last two days can go to someone else, but it’s not in stone yet.)

And on the weather front, winter - as in ice for three days, then snow - and more snow. It seems to be coming in waves - just as the crud on the streets begins to melt, it drops below freezing and another 2 inches of snow gets packed on top …. Haven’t seen weather quite like this in 10 years or so, as best as I can recall. Oh well, I guess the local “global warming” buffs will find something other than Mother Nature being unpredictable to blame it on. A few billion years of the solar system, and man thinks he’s got it figured out in a decade or two of studies? Oh well, the soap box is getting slippery and I need to get ready for night shift …. Boogie on, ya’all.

BEYOND THE MISTING RIVER

beyond the misting river

(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)

beyond the fallen timber

(houses for a farmer in Dubuque

shelves for books never to be read)

i stand: a shadow within a shadow

- sounds that echo & distort

- sounds changing until they are no longer sounds

but emotions

the voice you understand: so easy to reject

turn the switch

the light is extinguished

darkness, comfortable as an old sweater, caresses

i stand as if the dissipating mist

(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)

the wind down from the Aleutians’

carries the hard rains of November upon its torn wings

& you stand Eastern - umbrellaed -

waiting for miracles.

the Great Lakes cry: fog gathers upon your window

& you study the quandrum with nonchalance

epistles wait to be written

but there is no theology in shadows

worth celebration

- you remain a dream not knowing the source

soon snow:

flakes darting

& alive

bundled against the freeze

you will trudge

into the next stanza

winter time is coming

2008-12-06T09:28:00.000-08:00

Here is another poem accepted by Semi-Dwarf Review in Dec. 1998, but never got into print before the press decided to quit publishing.

Winter is arriving, no doubt about it. Cold nights and not so warm days. On night shift this week, so I guess I’ll need to bundle up before I get ready for work tonight.

Work? Ah, back from the Nov. lay-off (worked one day this last week). There will be more down-time in Dec, though no one is certain exactly how much. At first it was going to be 8 days, then 13 …. But that last figure we were told in a safety meeting yesterday could shrink, or grow, depending on circumstances as the month progresses. There will “certainly” be down time in February, as they have to inspect the boiler-drum (part of the machinery that creates steam to run the mill) and that could be a 7-12 day thing, depending on what they find …. So, looks like the dire forecast for 2009 isn’t changing at the moment.

THE SEER

on the edge of an occluded front

me in my faded blue jockeys

wait for the end of the world.

with my Nostradamus eyes

i have witnessed omens.

3 blackbirds in a broken apple tree

reciting the plays of Sam Beckett

with the ghost of the goddess

i forgot how to worship.

i tells you, it is a terrible thing

to understand eternity,

to have the spirits whisper of the future

when you would rather sleep

or indulge in the luxury of romance.

here, wind do more than cry Mary

down these pot-hole streets.

it moan grunge,

as it also whisper of bebop.

it be buffoons that walk these highways

& sees paradise.

i tells you, the rain to come

will wash more than soiled jeans.

if you be the offspring

of the wicked north witch,

the best you can do

is wear your rubbers.

dog attack

2008-11-28T16:08:00.000-08:00

Nance and Cocoa were attacked by a pit bull this afternoon, owned by a group a what looks like semi-gang types - the dog has a few scrapes, Nance is upset and a bit shaken, but fine. A family from Portland were driving down the street and saw the whole thing, stopped to help her and chased the dog off, yelling at the "owner" (or someone from the house where the dog came from) - your dog just attacked this lady, and you're responsible - the guy yelled back "The fuck i am!" ..... the Lane County animal authority went to visit the house while Nance and i (and the mutt) were at the vets, but no one was home (well, no one answered the door). The Animal authority left a stern note and wanted the dog's license number .... but i am certain the dog was just visiting ..... and is long gone.

We took the dog to the emergency vet, and she has a scratch on her nose - but nothing else visible. The vet gave her some antibiotics, just in case there were any puncture wounds that she didn't find when she examined the dog .... so it's wait and see ...

todays poem was accepted (2:98) and printed (but i never got a copy) in another small press First Class. written 9:97. as usual - if you can, please help support small presses.

MY HOME TOWN

wind (NNE) hard off the river
smelling of sulfur
-manure plant has documentation
they are non polluters.
***
kid in his Air Jordan's
(open game for the less fortunate or
more powerful) fills out half an application
leaves empty the parts he can't read
believing it an invasion of his privacy.
***
3 in the morning
asphalt is stained with rain
& blood. black hooker cries
for help (or deliverance). the age of reason
dead. on-lookers
filled with far worse diseases.
***
the home town team
rallied late for a miracle finish.
heroes. champions.
but fuck the fag at the mission
handing out needles
& condoms - though the editor
didn't put it in quite those terms.

good news and the Bad News

2008-11-16T13:31:00.001-08:00

Well, it's been an interesting week.

One - i have been officially certified as a shipper this past week. while i am technically still part of the paper machine, i do not work on the paper machine unless there is a break-down or scheduled maintenance and shipping is not operating. And that means i get shipping rate (which is .75 more than i was getting on the paper machine as a 5th hand) - which is cool, since i am on vacation this week.

well, that's the good news stuff ... now onto the reality grim stuff ....

two - the IP gods decided the economy sucks enough to not only close one more paper machine (in Virginia), but to close almost all their paper machines for 8 days starting next week. Another round of 8 day closures in Dec, and most likely again February. But unlike Weyco, when they stopped machines from operating due to the economy, they did repairs on the machines, education and so the workers never got laid off. Nope, IP is hurting so bad for cash, they are laying every hourly employee (with the exception of 5 needed to operate the boiler and keep it from exploding) for 8 days, and so i not only get a vacation, i get a lay off on top of it .... trying to be a believer in the goodness and deep insight that great companies hold and this is all just their way of making certain familiar are together for the holidays - (NOT) - i get an uneasy feeling that this could be the beginning of the end of the IP colonization (or is it just expansion) of the Kraft Liner world. let's hope i am direly wrong in that feeling ...

onto the poetry -

6:93 is the source date of today’s poem ...

THE COUGHING WIND

the coughing wind i hold in my pocket offers no wisdom

but i tell it secrets

we share with the grotesque.

stumble over concrete mountains in the insatiable pursuit

of a happiness that has ceased to exist.

the coughing wind i hold in my pocket knows there is no freedom

only boundaries

we stretch ever so carefully.

erect palaces of sand

upon concrete being dismantled a molecule at a time.

the coughing wind & i, like an apparition in the fog,

dance in the haze

almost real enough to believe.

passed 1st review

2008-10-30T18:24:00.000-07:00

Shipping review was delayed a day, but went OK. I am not “certified” as a shipper yet, but should be within the next month, or so i was told. I was changed to a different crew, as my boss felt I’d learned all I needed to from the crew I was on, and the “new crew” will be the one I will be on once I am certified. So … I guess progress is being made.

Last month, the editor of NIGHTSHIFT (an anthology from Five Leaves Publishing - out of England) asked to use a poem “Fighting Foam” he discovered on this blog. I gladly agreed. As I’ve asked before, support those small presses if at all possible.

Other than that - not much happening, except winter coming and work continues, but with the world economy as fragile as it is, even that is an uncertainty for anything but the present.

Today’s poem is from 9:97

CONFRONTING THE DEMONS

1
"Eat shit & die" i told the priest
when he demanded i forgive
the sins of the best friend
who beat the crap out of me on a $2 bet.

Father Buckley screamed i would rot
in hell, but offered to forgive my sins
if i was willing to confess.

30 years later, i wonder if his ghost
is still willing to forgive?

2
"Love is all you need"
but the emptiness i felt
was filled only with pain.

Old Father Buckley can rot in his hypocrisy,
covered in satin & lace,
while a wetback froze to death on the back steps
of the old rectory.

i, at least, confronted my demons
unable to defeat them,
i lay myself in the luxury of their lusts -
satin flesh & hot tits.

reviews to be held

2008-10-22T13:18:00.000-07:00

Today’s poem is from 8:97 .

This week (tomorrow in fact) I get my review in shipping, part of that will determine if I will remain in the department or be thrown back to the paper machine. Last night shift was a rough one, lots of mistakes on my part and a taste of export (which will continue all this week). I do not expect a terrible review - just not a glowing one i guess, but really have no idea what will be included, as no one I’ve worked with directly will be in the room. I still feel as if I don’t know enough to be qualified yet. Oh well, will let you know when I post again, probably in a week or so, how it all went.

Cold is creeping into the valley at night, along with the fog and frost. Ah, as Dylan once said “Wintertime is coming, all the trees are filled with frost ..” or something along those long.

Well, onto the poetry ….

FOR A DIETY

i do not lay false sacrifices.

the bamboo shoots someone called
a tree: the red clay pot
fired in your own kiln -
if this was not Paradise
i would gladly have exchanged
it as such.

two roses on your doorstep,
as dawn broke (silver to cyan)
over Gabilan hills:
my footprints in the dew.

someday you to know
such a love: greater than dreams -
where afternoon fogs are dirty
as the river itself -
it will make no difference.

you hold a rose
for each of the decades,
still uncertain of the magic.

My parting footprints in the dew ...

The Limpskis

2008-10-14T15:22:00.001-07:00

The Limpskis here …. Nance has twisted her knee again, I’ve twisted my ankle (again) and the brown dog is slowly using her surgically repaired leg, but still limps or “bunny hops” more than walks … Ah, the joys of getting older.

Not much else going on. Fall is in the air. Colder (OK, Cold) nights and the leaves are turning colors and falling off the trees. Some see it as a delight, others a pain in the butt to clean up. I enjoy the fall, the rain (which is coming in a few days, according to the weather gods), so the falling leaves are somewhat of a delight to me. Though the cold nights I can do without, if I had my druthers.

Today’s poem is from 5:93, expressing concern about the world economy.

THERE IS NO GOD

there is no god upon the plains of despair

repeated the sad faced clown juggling no balls of his own

no god & no bliss he whispered as if someone should hear

misery loves company he quoted most gallantly

but he quite alone stutters a lonely

it was the hour of not quite rain & clouds smelled of urine

he checking his pants looked to the infinite unknown

no beauty in pain but he knew that was a lie

was the only beauty he would ever know perfectly

ask & you shall receive he remembered

empty pockets that graced no american express

billboards spoke elegant poverty & he listened impressively

thumbs up his nose no crack & a high that could not last

surely god has been caught with a flat on the expressway to his door

updates and another daily poem

2008-10-05T14:10:00.000-07:00

Updates:

1 - the brown dog surgery went well. She is still not using her back leg, but there is nothing preventing her from doing so, except her own trepidation.

2- the pension roll-over went through finally. So the money (while not enough to retire on) is at least in a IRA that I can control. Better than nothing, I guess.

3- the #2 paper machine in Albany, OR is going to be indefinitely shut-down (a minimum of 3 months). The official word is they will restart after the first of the year, UNLESS the economy worsens. Guess that’s another of wait and see. Still it’s bad news for those folks.

Today’s poem is from 8:95 - it was accepted and printed in Semi-Dwarf Review (#4). Too bad this wonderful zine bit the dust, but the editor Leonard Cirino is still out there, writing great new poetry and publishing some unknown but very talented poets - so support his press Pygmy Forest Press, if you possibly can.

WEYCO CONTAINERBOARD HYMN

no hymn in these concrete wall
no hymns in these concrete floors

sweat is obligatory
as are steel toe shoes

knives are no sharpers than tongues
here where pay checks are not complete salvation

pulp into paper - dryer cans that do not sing
merely moan

there are only two things important here
neither of which are dreams or beauty

but who expects THAT here
where the skies too are concrete

dripping condensate steam & sweat
covered with smoke & dust & fatigue

dog surgery

2008-09-26T14:53:00.001-07:00

the mill is in it's annual outage 5-6 days originally planned, but IP decided to try and push a price increase (for transportation costs - I suspect) and added 3-4 more days to the outage for just our mill .... so that's not a real good thing. i am scheduled back to work on Monday. Hopefully that is all that is going on. Still lots of talk of the “rationalization” suggestion by the big German bank … but at this point (it appears) to be merely talk. The job in shipping is slowly making a little sense, but I’ve got a long way to go before I really understand and even further before I am “signed off” and considered qualified.

but the biggest news around here is Nancy's dog. Nance noticed her limping about a month ago, and so took her in for x-rays. they noticed a crack in her upper leg bone and we decided to have it fixed. seems as if it was a lot more than just a crack, the top of the bone was crumbling, along with some muscle damage. They had to take off the top of the bone. it could have been caused by a puppy injury, or maybe someone had kicked her before we got her (more what we think). Anyway, she also has hip dysplacia ... not common for her breed. So all in all, it was something that would have had to be addressed anyway. So for the time being, Cocoa is limping around on three legs, but doing well. A long rehab, but things should be normal or close to it, once that is finished.

Today’s poem is from 10:97

DAILY GRINDS

so, what did you really expect from life ...

frost on the pumpkin,
starlings drunk on the odors.
the witch beside you retains a sorcery
you never fully understand:
she is beautiful when you need her the least,
damned bitch when you are weak.

stained glass ornament reflects the wrong colors.
you really don't care if the semblance is changed
if you could only figure out
how to put the fragments back together.

the dirt on your hands is testament
you have earned your dollars well,
& as you wash your hands, the dollars dissipate.

wind rests on the fingers of trees,
while fog mumbles of visions squandered.
rivers turn a cold shoulder.
blue heron merely waits for supper
beside the muddy waters
while the open wings of the red tail hawk -
is a sure sign of desperation.
empty talons, like the fingers of lost love,
ache to caress something soft & warm.

is it a promise if it's not kept?

2008-09-11T17:28:00.000-07:00

This poem is from 6:93

The training in shipping continues. I feel dumb as a stump, having trouble grasping some of the ever changing combinations of roll sizes that can go into different sized trucks or railcars. Guess it’ll come, but even as my co-workers say I’m doing fine, I feel as if it’s going to be a long, difficult transition. As far as the work, it is easier on my sore body parts, so I will continue to work at it, during my 45-90 trial period. At the end of that time period, I will know if they will let me continue in the department, or if I want out … or ....

On other news, IP has already started closing facilities it acquired in the Weyco deal, even though they indicated at the time of the buy-out that there was ‘very little” redundancy that needed to be addressed in the two systems. One mill in Valiant, OK (60 employees affected) is closing by the end of Nov. and one testing site in Oregon (5 employees affected) is closing by the end of Oct. There is talk by a German bank (one of the major lenders of the money for IP to buy Weyco containerboard) that one of the two mills in Oregon (Albany or Springfield, where I work) might need to be closed as well. At this point, it’s speculation and nothing being said up front, but the fact that the talk is there and is pretty specific is rather unsettling to say the least.

So, as usual - the turmoil continues and certainty is as vague as truth in a presidential election!

FATMAN KNOWS GOD

1 fatman knows god is bogus
2 has theorems to prove it
3 in calories & idle time
4 carbohydrates shout at withered bones
5 of another closet dream
6 fatman knows
7 displays his disgust

a real Summer COLD

2008-08-27T19:40:00.000-07:00

today's poem is from 8:97 - and it's another prose poem - and an appropriate one, as I have come down with one of those wonderful summer colds … well, it’s not 90+ degrees as described in the poem, (not complaining either ). actually it’s been a pleasant day, except for the cold. Back on night shift starting tomorrow ….

Week one in shipping is history. Actually a LOT more to learn than I realized, probably more than anyone who hasn’t done the job realizes. But I do think it will come eventually - but it will take time. Just a lot of little things, what rolls to double stack in what rail cars, the pattern to place rolls in a truck (all depending on size of trailer, and number of axels on the trailer) …. Little stuff that like.

And I got to call Vanguard again this morning … to reply to a letter from my rep. Nothing much, except the paperwork has finally arrived from Weyco, and should be processed and finalized by Oct. 1 - seems a long time to me, but I guess it’s the way the world works now days. At least I have a time frame - and I guess Vanguard will handle everything for the actual reallocation - at least that’s what I’ve been told. We shall see.

SUMMER COLD

i cough. another summer cold. 89 degrees three hours after sunset. the farmers are cutting mint in dusty fields tonight. & the sweet smell is enough to gag you. their harvesters are old & dirty, as the farmers themselves, working well past their prime.

neighbor tinkers with his 63 Ford, new cam shaft & headers. this son-of-a-bitch really screams. & it does. 11 p.m., bastard machine born in heat of teenage angst & middle age crisis. he rough idles it well past midnight - maybe he evens believe it is a fountain of youth. but i don't. last virgin he saw in it was 6 month old cat, on the way to the vet for spaying.

Niquil - & an hour later i am awake to a groggy moon, watching possum (mother & 3 youth) cross through the fresh cut mint, ugly & awkward, delighting in both. i wonder if god felt this way after rebirth & hallelujah parishioners quit filling his coffer with pristine $20 bills. i cough & go back to bed, hopeful of sleep.

waiting around for paperwork gods

2008-08-15T19:30:00.000-07:00

Today’s poem is from 12:97 - it was accepted by Cedar Hill Review in Feb. 98, but not used. It was then put in a manuscript called The Shared Dream, that was junked, but later - most of the poems, including this one, ended up in a manuscript called Humbly I Offer These Awkward Poems, which was also accepted for publication by Cedar Hill Publications, but not released before the press went defunct (for at least a while) ... a montage poem.

Called the boys at Vanguard this morning (investment specialists handling my 401k & IRA) about the status of my Weyco pension being rolled over to an IRA. Well, nothing is happening. All they need to process the piles of paperwork is a confirmation from the dear old Weyco officials of my last Date of work. Two weeks have passed and they still haven’t passed that onto Vanguard. I am not the only one in limbo over this. Seems that once they got rid of the Containerboard Division, everything to do with us has become of secondary importance. Oh well, at least Vanguard knows I am monitoring it and my representative said once they get any confirmation paperwork, he will notify me. Eventually it will happen I guess. At least the phone call confirmed all the paper work is in place and was done correctly. (Another well done for Nance!)

Now, onto the poetry … I need to go through piles of old poems pretty soon and get a few dozen more typed up for future use. I doubt after this vacation I’ll have a lot of free time, so I best set some time aside one of these extremely hot afternoons (just 99 f. or so the past two days!)

STONES
-after charles reznikoff

1
2 stones out of my left pocket
(no scared chips
from the pyramids,
just rough granite,
talus slope debris.)

i fling them as if curses
from this darkness. the sun
unwounded, continues to shine
upon the damned & righteously damned.

2
David, who returned Goliath
to dust,
surely faces legal problems.

hero or not, premeditated. The Infidels
suing for loss of plunder,
profits.

i send my name. class action
windfalls. mostly snow
gathers on my balding head these days.

3
blood in the gutter.

vagrant with no respect,
dying next to the garbage can
of Mr. Perfect Neighbor,

who, with rubber gloves,
opens the lid, deposits
morning scraps of burnt toast

then calls the proper authorities,
certain they bring
ammonia.

i do not believe he was Goliath
reincarnate, though certainly
just as worthy.

4
these stones are not signal flares
for the Deities
lost in eternal sleep.

i wish it were possible.

Prometheus welts upon my hands.
i have stolen more than fire.

Lucifer, i am certain,
grateful for my contributions.

5
all these temples in my heart -
stone upon stone -
the hecatombs as magnificent
as sex.

6
if God were a woman,
i believe,
sex would taste like chocolate.

7
we are the bones of a lost society,
homeless, decadent,
visionaries on the wrong side of success.
we are the very bones
someday someone to discover
& misinterpret.

8
yellow lizard upon
stone fence.

if i could sleep like that
i probably would,
gladly.

open skies all the way
across the dark bay - wind
mumbling the fragrance of apple-blossoms.

she painted emotions, dreams,
primary colors -
forms far too limiting.

9
what was it about here
that allowed me to sacrifice myself?

what about those eyes?

yellow silk in her hair
tangled in lost winds
from the tombolo at the Little Sur,
certainly more haunting
than ghosts summoned,
but seldom responding.

O, grandfather bones! O sacred sister bones!
what was it about her fingers
that i call yet
into the voids
for deliverance?

shipping awaits

2008-08-13T18:12:00.000-07:00

today's poem is from the end of 10:93. thought i'd post something a little less morose, as i am on vacation and not doing a whole lot but trying to relax, listen to some old 60's music and watching some baseball on TV.

The work changes are in place. Got to become International Paper officially on Aug. 4th. So far, not any changes i can see other than new name on the entrance gate. Maybe behind the scenes there are some things going on, but not on the paper machine thus far, with the small exception of we are now making some paper for a couple of West Coast IP box plants.

the major change is i start training in shipping after my current vacation is over. i don't really know what to expect, and i do have 45 days to change my mind and go back to the paper machine if i feel it won't work for me. There is a cut in pay to go to shipping, and at first some major reduction of hours. Oh well, i'll survive the reduction in my pay-checks (even if i don't like it) and the less hours may be beneficial for my sore feet and shoulder.

CROW WITH A VIPER TONGUE

crow with a viper tongue
in casual conversation
with the wind

through your autumn hair
& ambitious arms

sun coughing rainbows
across a placid river
going nowhere in particular today

through your autumn hair
& resplendent eyes

c-c-changes

2008-08-01T17:30:00.001-07:00

8:97 is the time frame of today’s poem.

Actually some news to report. One - before I get to add another update, I will be working for International Paper. The take-over is supposed to happen on Aug. 4th. I’ll be on night shift, 5th handing (yuk), on overtime that week. I suspect it’ll be more a symbolic change for the first few months than anything major, other than new names on the paychecks and paper rolls.

Two- the other big change (and really bigger for me), is I have decided to try to work in a different department of the mill. It took some behind the scenes negotiating (I am really amazed that some union officials actually went to bat for me and while they didn’t get the rules rewritten, they did get around the rule that was preventing me from going to the shipping department and giving that a try. And obviously the company had to agree, so it appears they worked out something that worked for both of them, to my benefit.) I am scheduled to start training in shipping the 11th of August, which is also the first day of my vacation. So, don’t know how that will work exactly, but I am certain it won’t become an issue. Now all I need is my knees and neck to hold out on a Hyster for the next half-dozen or so years. (The idea was to get off my feet and quit plugging core so my shoulder wouldn’t ache all the time, as it does now on the winder area of the paper machine. Time will tell how well the great scheme works out, I guess.) Anyway, now to the poetry.

YOU SPEAK SILENCE WELL

you speak silence well.

fog is on the river tonight.
to curse it is futile,
but i curse it anyway, as i have cursed your ambivalence.

the wind writes no sonnets
on the bills of the egret,
one leg on his dark stump
beside the shallows.

i pull my collar tight,
shiver as i watch
the graffiti artists work
the darkness
behind the performing arts center,
as we all work in the thick darkness,
some more rewarding than others.

no pens in old mugs on your table,
no fibre optics connect our lives -
you dance angelically without audience,
upon the stage of the self ....

indeed, you speak silence well.

slavery never was intended to be pretty

2008-07-25T16:55:00.000-07:00

todays poem is another from 4-93. the poem sort of reflects the mental state of becoming a pawn for another mega-company. slavery never was intended to be pretty, i don't think.

nothing new from the Day 1 realm. Just waiting around, dealing with a lot of nervous managers and uncertainty about just about every sort of detail. Lots of paperwork to be presented, and some obvious changes, like a new employee number. Pretty mundane stuff so far. Too bad the jobs won't be upgraded and all. These bones are really telling me they dislike working on the winder anymore. Ah, poor old bones. There ain't no relief anytime soon.

Summer continues. Pretty nice days lately. Not extremely hot, and actually cool in the mornings. Not like autumn and those wonderful rains, but not too terrible.

I TELLS YOU, POOR OLD HENRY

i tells you, poor old henry, busted shoes & socks wet as a river.
sing boohoo for idealism. weez just footprints in sand again.
but visions aint my cup o tea, i whispers, blinded by lights of my own desperations.
no sugar in my bed. no hot chocolate in my sack. just torn pages
i have failed to read. fantasies die cruel-like in this world i knows.

i tells you, god was born a mean bastard, sucking on hard tits
of disillusionment. he bites like dogs in heat when it feels a hurt.
poor old henry, sore & bleeding. no knee pads in his arsenal of dreams.
drinking hard liquors of damnation. sober aint bliss, he weeps.
god, like a pimp, selling pleasures for prices of slavery.

not much info on Day-1

2008-07-18T18:03:00.000-07:00

4-93 brings us today’s poem.

Not much new on the DAY-1 info. Really all we are doing is getting bits and pieces of very minor information (such as how to direct deposit your pay-check once IP takes over), but nothing of significance, at least from my point of view. I think most of the work and effort is being done on the electronic and computer stuff, so it will integrate seamlessly. People are a lot more pliable it seems.

Other than that - just damned hot. Summer is certain making itself evident. It’s back on night shift tomorrow night, which states the rather obvious, not any updates until I get some more time off. No overtime I can see for the coming rotation, but a whole load of it after that. Booo and hiss!!

YAWNING GREY SEAS NEVER DID NOTICE

1 yawning grey seas never did notice. eternity in your eyes for the right questions. broken winged gulls conversing with the ambassadors of death. the winds of november in dialog with your hair.
2 forests wept & iris bloomed. pathways into primal dream where jays conversed in the language of rilke. only we were the unknowing.
3 apple blossoms upon the river. hearts that never did learn the perfect dialog of love. where lizards sunned themselves inconspicuously.
4 i have become the curse you sighed. thick fog absorbed the word & i walked into the darkness to become that which was undesired.

ground control to Major Tom

2008-07-10T05:58:00.000-07:00

Today’s poem is from 11:93. No I haven’t fallen off the face of the planet, just been on night shift, with a load of overtime … so the updates tend to be few and far between when that happens.

Speaking of updates - mailed my “retirement” packet off to Vanguard, so when “Day 1” arrives, I should have that issue taken care of. Still can’t retire of the amount I am being “given”, but it won’t hurt to get it invested and maybe working to make a little money. (Well, maybe not in the economics of Wall Street right now!) The union finally called a meeting on our retirement “rights”, of course, that was 4 days after I mailed my packet, and coming off night shift with overtime, I sort of just skipped that fiasco of a meeting. Lots of rumors about what will and will not be changed under the IP regime. I suspect some of it will come to pass, but picking which ones is probably like trying to pick lottery numbers at this point.

Very warm here in the Pacific Northwest this week. Summer is certainly here. boooo! i still prefer autumn and the cool rains.

Onto the poetry….

POEM FOR ROBIN A.

1
Avenues in which shadows live -
listening to the echoes of mission bells -
cobblestones & perfect for pictures
(except the lighting):
trashcan hearts laughing at nothing:
i walk as if a saint seeking for canonization.

The rocks of disenchantment are before you.
Gulls dance in an awkward breeze
& serpents speak with an eloquent lisp.
No one comes here to die intentionally -
rather to gaze upon the disgusted & disgusting,
then to pass onto higher plains, at least spiritually.

No one comes here to die intentionally,
but it is here the dead congregate -
vile & angry, an eclectic collection of bastards
all ready for a second chance,
here in the avenues where shadows live,
before the very cliffs of disenchantment.

2
All gods little children lost, out on the highway,
waiting for Moses to lead them
back into the promised land.
But, the desert is plentiful
& the company at least entertaining.
Damnation comes well disguised.

All gods little children lost, somewhere or another,
wearing the gowns of deliverance for a price,
walking like Egyptians, right into extinction
believing the message of the blind prophet
that lacks only vision & truth to be credible.
Damnation comes well disguised.

All gods little children lost, right here in paradise
fallen into disrepair, red rockets grounded.
But the company is at least entertaining
even as the skies are frigid & look like rain.
The word for today, as everyday, is:
damnation comes well disguised.

3
So, flip another dirty quarter.
My money is cheap, loose change for hookers,
& the dialog can be disgusting.
Bet your soul against mine -
the falling sky is the radioactive remains
of a god gone on permanent vacation.

Call a dream. Someone or something,
need know nothing of it for credence.
The cold roll of fog in your hair
& the rattle of the wind
past a milepost that is our life
nearly forgotten by any but ourselves.

The clock keeps false time.
Life is an illusion. Mirrors tell no lies.
Flip another dirty quarter.
It is all, ultimately, loose change for hookers,
here in the avenues where shadows live
looking for the remains of idealism.

slogging through the Void without a road-map

2008-06-23T15:12:00.000-07:00

Today’s poem is from 11:93 ooolalal .... a prose poem .... haven't used this format much lately, but still like it.

Some updates … got my “packet” from Vanguard … it’ll be like going through the Encyclopedia Britannica, and while the amount is hardly enough to actual retire upon, I do need to get it reinvested - so dear old Uncle Sam doesn’t take it all in taxes, though I am certain he feels more entitled to it than I should. After all, I just gave blood, sweat and years for it. Anyway, working a bunch more overtime it appears, so I won’t be getting the forms filled out and returned before the middle of July it appears. I think I officially have until sometime in August.

And while the company (and union) promised meetings and clarification on all sorts of things, I have yet to see any of these posted. So it’s slogging through the Void without a road-map, as usual. Oh well, things progress and all the chatter is about life after Day 1, so all we can do is assume IP actually plans to run the mill, for a while at least. We shall see ….

Now onto the poetry ----

FOR ROBERT CREELY

the Rolling Stones, 30 years later still moaning for Mona upon a vinyl dream no longer in print. & you upon Goat Mt. pondering the universality of buffalo grass & rats. (rats, i tells you, are angels watching the world go down the tubes.)

clouds over rancid skies in search of thermal inversions, updrafts, clouds wander as if visions waiting for mountains to crash into - wonderful thunder & the flap of wings. & you gather on Goat Mt. take it all in - as if by osmosis.

roll over, fido, you mill-worker

2008-06-16T18:27:00.000-07:00

Today’s poem is from March 1993.

No real new information, except that everyone under 55 will be terminated the day the sale becomes official. (Aug. 4 in theory). Everyone over 55 (hey, that’s me) will be “retired”. (i am being told we then become IP employees, but so far, no one has officially stated that.) What that means is my pension needs to be taken within 90 days, either requesting an “annuity” or a lump sum (to be rolled over). oh, the paper work is just short of gargantuan. But today I began the journey. Actually, the people at Vanguard were very helpful, thus far. Next week I get to talk to a financial advisor as to specifics and terms of the roll over.

Other news? Summer is finally starting to appear. The long (and wet) spring is about over. Actually If it weren’t for the work fiasco, I would have enjoyed the spring being wet and all. Now all I need is my foot to quit aching. 12 hours (8 straight days) on that wonderful concrete floor are starting to take a toll I think. And more overtime on the horizon. So much for streamlining the work force a few years ago!! Oh well, such is life for an old paper-mill worker. Now back to the poetry. I think that’s the reason for this blog.

THE RIVER STILL SMELLS

the river still smells where blackbirds dance in the thickets & carp dance in the reeds.
the same old river that dumps a grey ooze into turbidity current of the cold bay no one loves forever.
my soul on the edge of the wind
obsidian rock from the belly of the sea
angry knuckles that scrape the sky
her hands sails before sunset

but it is the river - stench of sugar beets & tires burning - before which i stood.
manzanita housing skylarks - & rats
the wind whispering of turbulence
temptation the very taste of her lips
succulent grapes upon vines tangled in scrub oak, where jays curse the very smell of life
perfumes that intoxicate
imaginations that refuse to forget

waiting around for DAY 1

2008-06-06T18:22:00.000-07:00

today's poem is from 10:93.

really no word on the great DAY 1, coming around Aug. 4th. some things remain completely mysterious - such as if we actually have jobs waiting (but it has been implied we will - but nothing official has been said). a few things, nothing really significant, have been clarified - our insurance will not change until Jan. 1 (when that will be "renegotiated"), our years of service only will count towards vacation and job position seniority.

RAIN. I TELLS YOU.

rain. i tells you. falls. no umbrellas as we watch.

i sees cracks in america. profound
theologians blames everybody but jesus
who was seen -NOT- with his finger
in the hole of another failing dike.

i tells you. the sick are not always
hospitalized. & the damned aint always
in obvious pain. ha! the eagle laughs
with one eye. no snakes in his pockets.
hungry little children watching empty skies.
no manna today, dudes - but tomorrow ...
another story, i tells it well -
same old shit in the same old underwear.

Ain't loyalty wonderful?

2008-05-30T08:51:00.000-07:00

today's poem is from 8:97.

no new news from the magic kingdom about the coming of "DAY 1". which means thaty there's no new news, and not much more. so far, no meetings on anything, no meetings scheduled as far as i can tell. Limbo lingers.

but after last week, i am still sore and tired. i am simply getting too old for this type of work, i think. And i haven't had to do the worst job (5th handing) in over a couple of weeks. Oh well. No vacation or time off at all this summer, nothing on the books until September, and by then we should be the new and wonderful IP mill. To be honest, i have no idea if they are pulling our chains about keeping our plant running, and i have no idea what part of our past (vacations, senority, etc) will be honored or tossed into the DAY 1 scrap pile. Ain't loyalty wonderful?

POSTER CHILD FOR REJECTION

Is it the alignment of the planets
or predestination?
mama, i cannot be great!
damn, my hands ache, no worse
than my heart, ache none-the-less.
stars ain't twinkling eyes.
winds ain't caresses.
here, where my shirts is dirty,
where my sheets is dirty.

There is still snot in my nose.
i never learned to blow right, did i?
man, i ain't nobody's baby
no more. just old & ugly,
waiting for summer to tell me
skin is beautiful - mine like
a plague, even friends avoid contact,
if i ever had friends..

Dark skies. severe weather warnings!
all my TV screen are blank.
so, what i supposed to do
in my terminal world? my fingers
is black, as my heart is black.
mama, when i dies, bury my bones,
my dreams & scatter the ashes
over the desks of these bastard
that have made me the definition
of rejection.

some info - none of it binding

2008-05-23T12:50:00.000-07:00

yesterday we got a bit of "news" from our interim mill manager. IP managers will be visiting our mill on June 3rd. They are part of the "transition team", but i believe i am on night shift that week, plus that is the day of felt changes and repair work to the paper machine, so not much of a chance they were going to talk to anyone but managers. (Is that a coincidence?)

there is supposed to be a commitment by Weyco to supply chip (or logs for chips) for the nexst 15 years, since IP has no timber. (They diversified about 10 years ago, on Wall Street pressure, or advice, depending on your point of view). IP is now supposed to be committed to a "West Coast" presence .... which would mean our mill has a good chance of staying operational - for a while at least. August 4 or 5 is about the time frame papers should be signed, and we will need to change our Weyco tattoos in for new IP ones, or as the new lingo goes, when "Day 1" arrives.

anyway, today's poem is from 6:93. not certain it is really non-relevant. i am hoping all the above stuff is going to happen, but something deep inside is telling me it is just hope at this point

CATHEDRAL BELLS NEVER ANSWERED

1 cathedral bells never answered: i listened through perfect fibre optics
2 no magic in the formula that draws silence into an existence all its own

3 we were a rush of wind through broken pines
4 a mist linger after unholy rains raged through our souls

5 then came the Visigoths that we mistook for saviors
6 & we gladly followed them straight into hell

7 now we are old bones along discarded highways
8 laughing at the follies of youth, that we yet envy

almost a toon here

2008-05-12T19:22:00.000-07:00

sort of on the down side of sunshine today, both literally and mentally. vacation is nearly over, and all the uncertainty of the mill and well, life in general is feeling pretty heavy of late. Oh well, tomorrow creeps on it's petty pace .... i think Shakespeare wrote that idea first.

today's poem is from dec. 92. might get one more update (or not) before heading back to night shift later in the week, and the lovely joys of 5th handing on the paper machine .... getting too old, it feels lately , for that type of work. oh well, tomorrow .... is another day.

I TELLS YOU, NO BODIES

i tells you, no bodies wearing black arm bands
celebrating my demise.
me of all people - reading great art with a yawn.
me: ha! oaf & overweight - majestic limp
as i serve papers to myself.
guilty as assumed - boring.

i tells you, doctors aint god, or heroes,
smelling of fresh dollar bills & golf courses,
wonderfully caring - caress the pain & smiles.
squeezes blood out of turnips - alchemists they be! hurrah!
i have the face of discovery under my nose.

i tells you it is miserable being unholy & unwanted.
no clerics in litany.
no nuns in drag prayers.
just me - old & oaf-like, limping into the next blank stanza -
almost a toon.

first step to sale is approved

2008-05-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

today's poem is from 9:93. i am on vacation this week, the last one while with Weyco i think. The Justice Department gave the OK on May 5 for the sale of the containerboard division to IP . So, things should begin to progress rather quickly and as early as August 5, or there abouts, we will be IP. Maybe they will keep us running. So far, no indications on anything has surfaced. Hopefully some answers will be forthcoming soon. We shall see, i suppose. After this week of vacation, i again start nightshift, so the poem was some immediate relevance, to me at least.

I.E. GRAVEYARD SHIFT

no sleep
i stand before the threshold
guardian of visions
i cannot understand

water runs
down the backside of dawn
colors run
& stain my heart with imperfections

no sleep
i am uncertain if dawn
is a blessing or a curse
the moon laughs as if a whore rejected

i wear the garments of fatigue
as if the cloak of joseph
waiting for the rains of winter
& skies that are forever dark

rather symbolic

2008-04-28T13:23:00.000-07:00

another poem from 8:95. rather symbolic of the feelings lately - esp. from the containerboard mill ....

OLD MEN WITH LANGUAGES OF THEIR OWN

they spoke in riddles
old men with languages of their own
old men who had their own myths
from places so far away
they never were real

they fumbled with napkins
as the waitress tried to hurry them
they counted pennies & dimes for tips
like it really made a difference

when the dark wind spoke to them
with fog & blackened leaves
they seemed deaf
they just hobbled along avenues
like they had all day to get somewhere

dandelion seeds in the wind

2008-04-21T17:46:00.000-07:00

another 7:95 poem, published in April 1998 by Vantage Point. Gotta love them small presses and their dedicated editors, and of course gotta love all those that help support those presses.

back to the linerboard machine in the morning ... so most likely no updates for four or five days ...

POEM FOR LEONARD

words are dandelion seeds in the wind
beautiful as they spiral
into the cracks of broken sidewalks
- all too easily ignored
& stepped upon
by non-believers

call the night lover, as fog slips
from the river
& peers through your window
you stare into dark eyes
reach for pale flesh
darkness is no comfort

the price paid - from our vantage point
the sun is a curse & inspiration
-as is the rain, the wind
to the dandelions
they are merely tools
of existence

words are dandelion seeds in the wind
the estate gardeners may not see beauty
but the children laugh
as they blow the seeds
into a dark wind -
the perfect incantation

we shall see

2008-04-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

today's poem is from 8:97 .

late April and the past two mornings, there has been snow before daybreak. Nothing major, and it's melted as soon as the sun manages to get through the clouds. just a twist in the weather, but pretty interesting stuff for late April.

we hear August is the earliest before the IP transaction of the papermill could happen. i suspect lots of rumors and uncertainty by then. i'll keep you posted, as i hear things. right now, the biggest concerns are if the mill will continue to run and for how long. We already know that the retirement issues will be pretty messed up. we shall see.

URBAN LOVE
-after carruth

you can look for love
the way old men wait for buses -
wondering when they changed the time-table.
frost on the hood of cars that no longer run,
all bundled -or it is gift wrapped-
for the season.

or you can search for it
like a spelunker,
in all the hard to find places of strip malls,
as if it were a discount bin treasure.

neither way works well.
if you find one that does,
send proofs. you have my address.

the wind scatters cup & napkins
from the McDonalds down the street.
i tell you, they don't pay me
to keep this street clean.
ain't no love worth finding
on dirty napkins anyway.

in memory

2008-04-13T15:37:00.000-07:00

Today’s poem is from 1:5:94 - i wrote quite a few poems about my sister Lori, after her death. she was born a year and week after me. we were best of friends. this one was written on what would have been her birthday. She died of cancer in her early 30’s.

IN MEMORY: LORI

i tells you, ghosts in this frozen wind
bites the balls off angels.
whispers
in a gale. intellectuals finds uncomfortable ways
to dismiss it. me: i pees my pants
in solemn worship.
ghosts - i seen 'em
wearing gowns of stars,
wearing fallen leaves in their hairs,
like the wind itself.

i tells you, january ain't no time for canonization.
water wears a crazed stare & the wind
hobbles on one drunken leg.
ghosts whispers
in a gale. holy men worship stone,
swearing ghosts be demons. fools, Ha!
ghosts be the loneliness of dreams. i tells it proud,
even if i pees my pants in worship.

only a pawn in the game

2008-04-10T16:57:00.000-07:00

8:93 is the time frame for today's poem ... but the sentiments are pretty much what i've been feeling since Weyco put the containerboard division for sale, and esp. since the "sale" to IP has been announced and all the either non-information or misinformation that has proliferated since. As of now, all we have been told for certain is August is the earliest the sale can be completed and the Weyco pensions (as crappy as they are) will not be carried over to IP, thus everyone now employed by Weyco will be retired the day the sale is finalized (with all the penalties of early retirement levied?). The "seminars" promised by the big company to clarify all this are now surfacing as "webinfo" gatherings. nothing like that personal touch, you know, from the Mother Company, letting her children go forth into the wicked world .... damn, i should be putting Bobby Dylan's "Only A Pawn In Their Game" up as the theme of the day ...

I TELLS YOU, GOD IS A WHORE

i tells you, god is a whore
on the rag,
looking cross-eyed at the world
no favors to grant.

i speaks to him in eloquent soliloquies
& he does not understand,
nothing but cold cash
keeps his attention.

i shaves with a dull razor,
the old face knows the terminology of pain
& is not made beautiful.

my limp could have been heroic
had it been upon a rare visionary,
rather than an old man.

i cuts sunlight into broken patters
misplaced in pockets
& limps around the darkness,
seeking places to enlighten.

rainbows ignore me
as they cradle mossy mountains
& i caresses rust.

no explanations.

vacuum cleaner blues

2008-04-05T08:48:00.000-07:00

today's rumor mill contains a hot one - seems our mill manager (and thus a company vice president) "resigned immediately", as explained in a note sent out to all employees yesterday (ie the personnel to be sold in the mill change-over) .. but the talk in back rooms is he was removed due to inappropriate statements made to some secretaries. Who knows? Well, someone does, and i doubt they are saying anything beyond the official statement.

spring is sort of arriving. cool and cloudy today, with a chance of rain - but still in the 50's and nights above freezing. but hey, i am on vacation for a week, and the weather isn't really an issue. Besides, soon i am off to really celebrate - buying a new vacuum cleaner, as the old one bit the dust (oh, well, bad pun) yesterday ..

the poem for today comes from 2:98. a pleasant piece, for a change.

WHERE THE CAT ONCE SLEPT

afternoon sunshine where the cat
once slept. two shadows converse
about the latest government crisis.
old woman in a dark kitchen
cooks the same dish as yesterday,
the thin cat between her feet.
in the streets young boys at football
until curfew.

a slave - on vacation

2008-04-04T15:36:00.000-07:00

today's poem comes from 7:93.

i am on vacation this week and hopefully will get a couple of new posts up, or at least get a few poems typed up for possible future use...

no rumors lately from the great Kraft Linerboard machine. Of course, there remains a HUGE uncertainty about what IP (International Paper) plans to do with us. One of the Weyco webpages said, so matter of factly, that IP bought the containboard as well as the employees. (Gee, i thought they fought a war in the 1860's to do away with buying and selling of humans ... must not have had to do with the paper industry ....) Anyway, whenever the deal is finalized, August or there abouts we are hearing, though nothing is confirmed, we will become the property of IP. Here's to hoping they are good masters.

THE CANDLE NEVER LIT

the candle never lit
remains perfect
as the prayers rehearsed but never offered

rain off a window
that sees the mundane repeated
until it past boring
now a vigil

two arms aching
as they hold the stones of despair
bones that ultimately fail
& dreams that keep life a possibility

the candle waits
a dream
yet to be ignited

surviving the blue meanie of colds

2008-03-29T18:27:00.000-07:00

another from Nov. 92 - the 92-95 era was one of my most prolific times. This poem expresses the way a lot of people seem to be feeling at work - as well as life in general.

No news from the reported sale of Weyco containerboard …. Things seem to be pretty much the same as before the announcement. Lots of concern, lots of uncertainty and simply nothing that resembles facts. Both Weyco and our dear loving union plan seminars on the retirement issues before the sale is finalized. As of yet, no dates for those seminars has been set.

The cold seems to be fading, slowly. Still have a lingering cough, but it is less frequent and less hostile than the past week or so. The chances of survival seem to be extremely high at the moment.

THE ANGRY WEAR MANY MASKS

the angry wear many masks, each of broken hearts & dreams as vague as miracles.
dying is no easy task. but the dead are boring & become accustomed to it.
the angry smile through clenched smiles. curse with laughter.
& saints be beautiful - even if invisible. they radiate as a comets across desert skies.
the angry stare with stone eyes. hearts of iron, warped & disenchanted. they are flowers never to bloom & are walked upon in irreverence.

no rumors, just some bitterness

2008-03-23T18:57:00.000-07:00

another poem from nov. 92. the uncertainty and to be honest, bitterness at the current dealings of the Rogel led Weyco - it seems rather in tune to my feelings at the moment. Of course, i am not privy to the wonders (and dollars) of how big business deals with profit margins ... only how it affects the lower tear levels of mankind - ie the workers.

we really know nothing new about the sale situation. IP has gathered enough funding from 5 world banks, and US government approval (IP would become the leading paper manufacturer in the US) is easily expected. If they will keep our mill running, or if they will sell us, or shut us down in favor of other mills is one of the great unknowns. Another of the unknowns is how any of this will affect retirements. After all, i'm only 6- to more likely 8 years from that magic time .... more as it unfolds, but i really expect no REAL news or updates to be clear until about the time the sale becomes final - which is expected to be in the 3rd quarter (June to August time frame).

now, onto the real purpose of this blog ... the poetry.

NO ONE DANCING ON MY GRAVE

no one dancing on my grave. i tells you. ashes
in a daisy scented wind.
i admire the laughter of stone. pristine women
passing. not a miracle to be savoured
as i lay in waiting.

st. pete was not a friend. best or otherwise.
rolling loaded bones in dirty corners of paradise,
hookers on his arm, as was my watch.
st. pete snickering. me a lonely broke
counting loose change for pleasures
not to be granted.

you tells me it pays to be idealist.
god fearing weenies laughing
in dark rooms of heaven
ungranted.

stage two for the rumors

2008-03-18T16:53:00.000-07:00

well, one part of the rumor mils was put to rest yesterday. The mill is no longer for sale - upon government approval - we will soon be IP (International Paper) . If this is a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen. Certainly a lot of fodder for the rumors to get going until some things, such as, if we will continue to operate, job selections, pensions , vacations and minor issues such as those get resolved. The buy-out is expected to be finished in the 3rd quarter (June to August). i'll keep you posted.

on another issue, got a really wonderful cold that's simply kicking my butt. Feel like - well, crummy. Of course, we are on heavy weight export orders, just to make certain there isn't a chance of feeling a tiny bit better at work.

and here's a poem to celebrate that crummy cold feeling we all know so well .... it's from 3-93. some formatting issues, so it may look a bit strange in the blog ...

THE COUGH THAT COMES

The cough that comes with the morning fog & stays the afternoon

(it is mine)

the ache of bones in disrepair

(i have known them)

i tells you, i am old

pain is my smile

& anger my religion

my prayers to a god who is feeble & blind

bleeding the system for all it is worth

i tells you, i am dying

slow & imperfect

the distress of cells enraged

hurrah! for therapeutics that dont work

come, cough with me, in the darkness of dawn, when venus is bright & the sun begins to slither over black brooding mountains
we can exchange miracles or simply dialog

our shirts still stained with the filth of dreams failed

& our hands bloodied from gallant but futile effort

come, let us be heroes in our last hours

visionaries believing in the unknown

voyagers waiting for passage

it is all subjective, as the river sweats & dawn is a whisper

totally unseasonal poem

2008-03-15T15:03:00.000-07:00

end of Oct 92 poem. OK, so it's not exactly a seasonal poem ....

spent the afternoon trying to install a new kitchen light fixture. first new one simply failed to work. second one works, but the "manual" and installation procedure seems to have been written by some sort of sadistic figure in a dark room that never has had to deal with public feedback whatsoever. i mean, how hard can you make it ... well, obviously a lot. anyway, it reminded me why i am not a handyman, and reconfirmed why i never want to become one.

no news on the work front, except the rumors have not died down, just the names of potential buyers changes on a regular basis. i certainly hope no one is trying to keep score on this one. so, it's still up in the air, still causing a lot of bubbling in the guts .... and still as unresolved as ever!

at any rate - onto the poetry .....

A HALLOWEEN POEM

1
pumpkins that smile, even as they rot. the rain that smells of sugar daddies.
& the ghost of all the dreams that never came true: out of the closet & up on your back - door to door, as a hobo, seeking truth.
the song of dark leaves swirls in your hair. the laughter of some else’s happiness echoes. it is all as haunting as you allow it.

2
will you hunt down the witches in your heart
or finally take to reading their awkward manuals

no candles allow in these haunted hallways
where the wind is merely the screaming of tormented hearts

will your god finally listen to your elegant prayers
or will you ultimately learn to speak the tongues of the desperate

3
someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic

& i am on the hobo train into the land of forever rain
watching the dark skies for the glow of your halo
not knowing what lost is, not knowing what it means to be missed

someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic

potions of regeneration?

2008-03-08T15:29:00.000-08:00

today's poem is from 3-93. not much going on here today. what was supposed to be a rainy day, is pleasant, nearly 60 F. it's back to the salt mines in the morning, more of those ever lovely export orders. i can hear the bones creaking already ...... "where are the magic potions?" i asked the floor.

SEARCHING FOR THE POTIONS

1 searching for the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
2 tired & old, as the wind upon summer days that make not a ripple upon the lost rivers
3 that inhabit these dark mountains
4
5 wake me when there is magic in the dawn
6 & the rats are full of dante in evening skies
7 more than willing to share the secrets
8
9 seeking the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
10 sick & feeble, as the moon over the city, whispering no incantations worth remembering
11 unable to remember much of anything
12
13 wake me when you are willing to disclose your ancient magic
14 & the sound of summer is in your voice
15 falling down upon me as morning rains of these dark mountains

a previously published poem

2008-03-06T20:37:00.000-08:00

OK, to take a short break from the unpublished, unsolicited poems, here's a poem from The Fatman In The Mirror -published by Pygmy Forest Press (editor Leonard Cirino). Again, a chant of approval for small presses, and for the editors that put their heart, soul and money into keeping real poetry alive. Leonard Cirino is one of those great people. Besides being a wonderful editor (and great friend) he is a master poet. Difficult, interesting, intellectual and important. If you are interested in getting some of Cirino's poetry, there's a link to some of his poetry on the right - and his email address is on that site.

now here's a baseball poem, so this post serves two purposes, one to toot the Pygmy Forest Press (and Leonard's) horn, and another to get closer to the feel of the American past-time.

NINTH INNING

it was the ninth inning. john wayne stepped to the plate, pointing to the centerfield bleachers, exactly as ruth in the '27 series.

jesus christ was on the mound, relief specialists par excellence. he had a fast ball that was a blur & a change-up that made no sense.

it was the ninth inning.

footnote

2008-02-27T18:00:00.000-08:00

a poem from 87-89 - influenced by Walt Whitman - sort of - and a prose poem .

FOOTNOTE TO AN UNWRITTEN POEM

i will keep my hands upon the stone and as i weep the stone will weep and as i laugh the stone will laugh and as i crumble the stone will crumble into such finite ash the wind itself will hardly notice it being passed upon its wings.

they love my sweat, most of all

2008-02-22T18:35:00.000-08:00

another from 3-93, this one published in the Fall of 1997 by The Poet's Attic Quarterly, another of those ever important small press 'zines that need your support. this poem is about the time i was a night watchman at Cuddeback Lumber Co.

not much else going on, back to work in the morning - with a whole bunch of overtime on my plate later next week. Oh, them guys love me at the mill, that is for certain ..... or well, maybe not - just love my sweat i think.

CARRY CLOCKS

it is of carrying clocks i speak
& broken hands that fumble them

shards of glass

& steel

that measure nothing

it is of eternity stopped

that vigil without purpose
those peering eyes that see the same thing until it is the only thing

dante on the gramophone singing delta blues
it is
it is no longer a necessity to be coherent
coherency is a virtue of the vibrant living

now i dance nervously to the chaotic chords

them rumor mills are still alive

2008-02-20T19:53:00.000-08:00

6:93 brings us today's poem - accepted and printed by Melting Trees Review in 1997 .. i keep saying it, because it is important - support local and small presses ....

still rumors persist about a sale or merger, but with little facts to support it, but just enough not to dismiss them. Oh, the joys of papermill work!! as usual, the future is as clear as mud and as tasty.

FOG STUMBLES FROM THE DARK RIVER

fog stumbles from the dark river
the wind coughs, almost a whimper
dawn, not yet a silver streak
in a black horizon, exhales
a dank whisper. i am four
days without the moon. as usual
the temple is vacant. no one
in the vestibule to canonize.

i hear voices saying night shift is next, darn.

2008-02-13T16:19:00.000-08:00

night shift starts tomorrow - oh, joy of joys ... oh well, it's a pay-check and i guess that still is the real name of the game.

today's poem (well, tonight's) is from Nov. 92.

other things OK around here. rather warm, unwintry weather the past couple of days. of course colder weather is expected when i get to night shift. pretty ho-hum statement when the big news is nice weather ..... onto the poetry.

EVEN JESUS HAD NO IDEA

even jesus had no idea how absurd it would all become
me with my broken bones (looking for golgatha
& finally - peace) - you before the sun coast
dancing in the warm waters (nimbus seem
only by true believers)

even jesus had no idea how magnificent pain could make you feel
how it can justify just about anything
all of us performing miracles
praying to gods yet to be discovered
each a galaxy in formation

one for me, two for the taxman

2008-02-12T10:21:00.000-08:00

oct 92 is the source of today's poem, which somehow i think was either posted once, or is in a manuscript or something. anyway, it seems terribly familiar, not that it really matters.

off to the taxman later today - getting another of my very patriotic duties taken care of.

other than that - life is pretty ho hum around here lately - outside the paper world, which remains on the auction block and rumors again are flying of potential buyers and all the doom and gloom that can accompany these sort of things. we shall see. this week we have our quarterly state of the mill address, which may or may not express movement on that issue.

I TELLS YOU, MAN

i tells you, man, life is a bitch. we with no spoons,
our dirty fingers in the soup. alchemists
we sadly aint, snorting the vapors
of the industrial revolution. not exactly the elixirs
of inspiration. ha! i tells you, does the best that can be done
within circumstances.
upon the golden road, no sign-posts signal our arrival -
but weez here, undoubtedly, singing the songs
we finds a necessity. sour voiced, as always, my loves
gone awry.

a wintry poem

2008-02-05T16:46:00.000-08:00

today's poem is from march 93. a rather typical wintry day here in the Pacific Northwest.

not a lot going on today. just trying to recover from a hard night-shift past ... preparing to head back to the salt-mines in the morning.

WINTER IN YOUR POCKET

winter in your pocket.

scarves upon your heart. no dancing shoes
as rain turns to ice
& no crows visit your window sill

with miracles.

broken rock

in the shade of josuha tree. no dreams
as the wind carves tales into your face
you cover with the oils

of max factor.

unprayed rosary.

salvation waits, as if an apparition
lacking only form. vapors of your breath
linger in a frozen sky, as you query

the cold of faith.

back from death by overtime - for a bit

2008-02-04T06:40:00.000-08:00

Today's poem was accepted by The Hunted News - printed June 1998, written March 93. support them small presses, of your choice, whenever you can.

well, i am sort of back from a long stretch of overtime and really rotten nights at ye olde paper mill. sore, tired and feeling very used-up ... oh well. pretty normal stuff any more it seems.

THE DYING UNDERSTAND VISIONS

the dying understand visions, i tells you,
upon the threshold gallantly observant
of nothing. ha! the underwear clean as
tide. see the face of jesus in the armpits
of the deranged. i walk the line, mama,
right into oblivion. hurrah for heroics.

i tells you right. the scum will inherit the earth,
whored to its potential. my mama didnt raise
no fools, even if unholy. i salute corporate
america, where only here can a full fledge
idiot rise to unpure wealth.

a REAL snow day

2008-01-27T15:02:00.000-08:00

a poem from Jan 93.

just a quick update, so the world will know i haven't dropped off the face of the planet. well, i sort of have .. at least metaphorically ... dropped into the abyss called overtime and lack of sleep. more of it starting tomorrow. in fact, i get to go to work twice! ain't i lucky, ZR?

and today is a real snow day ... about 6 inches fell this morning. this olde town ain't used to the white falling stuff, and is at a stand-still. Emergency snow measures are now in effect, no cars allowed to be parked on certain streets, that's to allow emergency vehicles and road clean-up, and oh yes, the buses access. Anyway, it's certainly is a slippery mess with more of the same for tomorrow. the weather gods finally got it right, said rather sarcastically.

well, that's the news today. again, it'll be a few days ( a week most likely) before i get back into the blog world, as the overtime hath been scheduled and that is as close to being etched in the stone of Moses as you can get.

FOR SUE

1
gulls dance in the salty gales of january
their laughter is pure & simple
their elegance obvious to the trained eye

in the ever fog of uncertainty
beams the magic of your smile
i believe it is a beacon with a purpose
even if i cannot decipher it

2
poems are like dreams
i sail as multi-colored kites
in the winds of disenchantment

reject poems are like smiles
that fail to bring joy
it does not mean they are not magical
it means only they are unaccepted

3
i stand a statesmen
guts over glory
& the ability to harbor dreams

brown & dirty gulls are my poems
i would like to believe
someone smiles in their approval
at such strange convictions

singing in the rain

2008-01-11T12:08:00.000-08:00

this poem is from Oct. 92, a highly prolific time for me - often 3 or 4 poems a day, not that many survived editing. Ah, the good ole days!

WE SANG

we sang - in dark thickets - songs of our youth
under an unknowing sky
beneath dying mountains that didnt even know it
- songs of our youth:
full of bravado and dreams -
dreams as frail as morning frost on picket fences trying to stop the wind
dreams as far away as stars

we were alive, no skeletons in our closets to slow us down
no miracles seething in our pockets for explanations
we were the essence of wind:
over the rocks, or through them if necessary, caressing the mountain
even as it crumbled, brushing our hearts, but never really noticing
until later:
much later

we were eagles, or at least hawks
knowing the skies were merely avenues

& somewhere, i cannot be certain if it was a thursday morning
or tuesday night, the dreams turned into nightmares
& curses became reality - curses of forgetfulness:

the skies became miracles waiting discovery
& the mountain was no longer old
it was dead.

a rhyming poem (has this been posted already?)

2008-01-10T08:03:00.000-08:00

Today's poem is from late Oct 92.

Today i was also given an invitation to participate in the new Max-Rex created blog "Madness Is". i humbly accepted and will attempt to add something later this afternoon, though i suspect my additions will be few and far between. (A link to that blog and some other poetry related things is on the right side of this post, in of all things, the LINKS section. )

still have a couple of days off before heading back to night shift, and some wonderful overtime.
i doubt there will be any updates when i hit the overtime.
if this blog is silent for a week or more, have no fears, i am just in the "zombie"
cycle as we call it here. i will attempt to make at least one more update before then, but no promises. Sometimes life just gets in the way of creativity, as i am certain you've noticed in
your personal affairs from time to time...

also, worked on a few older poems this morning (98 & 95 era) - they are just waiting to be added down the line. so, unless i totally lose interest, or life hands me one of those hands where doom & damnatioin are my only options, looks like i'll keep this up and running for a while.

I WISHED I WERE JESUS

i wished i were jesus walking on the sea of galilee
with 13 ignorant disciples following me
right into damnation

always rain on the horizon
stirring the troubled waters

i wished i were armstrong aboard the lunar eagle
or at least darwin on the deck of the beagle
waiting to discover truth

always storms in the offing
distorting the troubled waters

i wished i were caesar before the rubicon
meditating the significance before a spectacular dawn
ready to shed the gowns of innocence

a short prose poem

2008-01-08T14:38:00.000-08:00

from 1-93 - another prose poem. sort of fitting for the weather we've been having here in the Pacific Northwest lately.

not much going on here today. i'm on a few days off, before more ovetime on the night shift. that needs no more comment than that.

SONG OF THE DEAD

nothing in the ice & snow but cold. no one visits these frozen outposts but the doctors of lunacy & adventurers seeking free shelter. & we think of ourselves as ancient gods waiting for admiration, when we are in fact nothing more than relics of an age that no longer exists. we are ghosts, shadows upon the tundra no one sees, lost to brilliance of northern lights.

another work related poem

2008-01-03T09:39:00.000-08:00

last poem written in Dec. 92. Just a reminder to myself, don't forget to get back to the papermill in the morning .......

WEYCO POEM FOR DENNY LONG

1
a light frost clings to broken beams
that were once sites of steady employment

i watch two shabby crows pick at the rotted timbers
believing yet in the american dream
wondering if it is fate or effort
that speaks the distinct language of success

gaze for a moment into uncertain skies
& then turn around to the sound of the paper making machines
questioning how long these can continue
to produce magic

2
the sound of the river
adorned by a blue heron
the whisper of thickets
housing night creatures
the jingle of loose change
in a once empty pocket
the laughter of comrades
in a world struggling for the ideal
the ability to pursue dreams

3
gospels are written in eyes & hands
are spoken with action

we celebrate in union
(sometimes less than holy)
an attainment
of common dreams
(in theory at least)

set goals that require
the best we can offer
until the plug is pulled
by someone who has never
soiled his hands
from tanks of overflowed pulp

Changes and maybe some resolution

2007-12-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

Jan 93 is the source of todays poem ...

seems i MAY have resolved the profile photo issue. when i changed pictures (to a more recent one) i decided to store it on phtobucket (and somewhere else, i forget where now - but it didn't work either..) and the photo would never appear in my profile, or it gave me "invalid url" ... so, this morning i went back to image shack and it worked. seems the url length has something to do with it (though the notes in the Help section says they did away with the 64 character limit for urls before Nov.???) Well, the photobucket one was a few characters too longer than 64. So that may have been the issue. anyway - hopefully this will work.

you may have noticed, i changed a few things as far as backgrounds and colors ... no real reason, just change for the sake of change i suppose.

off to sleep soon, as it's night shift and all, so need some shut-eye, but i just wanted to post an update on the profile photo issue (any excuse to get another poem up, right?) .... ya'all have a great and safe and warm holiday and i'll see you next year, most likely.

PLUMBERS

the hiss of water freezing itself from ancient pipes
pipes caked in a stench of rust
pipes as old as a decaying city's dream

the water, black & orange at first, celebrates flight
dances & sings as it becomes clear
& seeks again the purity of ancient rivers

plumbers are called forth into a freezing night
magicians with wands of forged steel
chanting horrible incantations

the plumbers again become jailers of water
the hisses of freedom are silenced
only pools of dreams failed stain the walls

& eventually even these are gone

a short (relatively) montage poem

2007-12-27T08:25:00.000-08:00

well, so much for new stuff. here's one from 10-92.

cold and wet (and a bit snowy at times) here in the Pacific Northwest. back to the happy papermill tomorrow night. Oh joys! Them old heavyweight orders await. Whooopeee. Can you say, no sleep and sore shoulders. O, yes, i knew you could.

not much else going on. Turning a grand olde 58 in the morrow as well. don't feel that ancient today, in fact, seldom do, except after work most days. at any rate, added a new photo, but couldn't get the link to photobucket to take, so had to resort to using the photo on my PC, and not certain how that will work when i turn the machine off at night, or when it turns itself into sleep mode after inactivity times.... well, we'll see, i guess.

THE BLACK CELEBRATION

1
the black celebration
of night & shadows
mingling

stars as if voices
to be heard

& the river dismantling
the mountain
a chip of wulfenite at a time

i walk the highway
between your heart & my dream
as if a prophet

2
the sound of daemons dancing in the underbrush
their eyes are beads on a rosary

the river singing songs of threnody
a flat moon casting spells over the dark water
spells that never materialize

i stand within the darkness
as if stone
reflecting the magic
between your heart & my loneliness

3
river stone cradling deposits
of gold & nickel

the conversation of owls
sentinel stars speak
to the bones

i am the incantation
waiting for articulation

a brand new poem, oh my!

2007-12-24T16:22:00.000-08:00

a brand new poem - 1st draft - not that it signifies a reawakening of the Muse or a trend, or anything really, merely it's a new poem - the first in maybe 3 or 4 years (or maybe it's a fragment, or something to be discarded - who knows?). just thought i'd put it up here for evaluation.

on a few days off now, had an OK week at the papermill, though next week it's back to heavy weight orders and me plugging tubes. oh well, one fairly OK week is better than the averages, so i'll take it.

12:22:07

cripple cripple cripple
waits for jesus on the road to calvary
knows the price of redemption
the price of sin
remembers the sermon on the mount
& the chatter of hookers on 6th avenue

knows temptation is a horrible thing

Back to the happy papermill come morning

2007-12-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

today's (well, tonight's) poem is from 10-:92.

rainy and sorta gloomy here in the Pacific Northwest. Typical Dec. day really. Poem is on the gloomy side (ain't that a shock?). Back to the happy paper mill in the morning, so i doubt there will be any posts until i get a few days off.

PC still working. so, keeping my fingers crossed and heading off to bed shortly. Ya'all have a good weekend and stay warm and cozy.

IF YOU COULD SEE THROUGH MY EYES

if you could see through my eyes

the cackle of the crow
wearing the gowns of disorder
& in his beak
the broken kernal of dreams
waiting to be sewn

the chameleon smiling
as he vanishes
upon his fingers
rings of magic
never to be transfered

the laughter of stones
holding the falling skies
from your window sill
& cracks more than obvious
filled with super glue

PC working so far .... new post from days gone by

2007-12-18T19:18:00.000-08:00

today's poem is from 5:93. i really need to get myself together and type up - edit some more poems for future updates. i still have a few months worth (especially at the reduced rate i've been posting lately), but they are starting to sound a lot alike to me, and well, i think i have some others worth reading stacked somewhere or another. maybe after the first of the year???

PC seems to be working fine. Paula, mine too was relatively new. Started off as a software conflict that snow-balled into a registry issue ... anyway, since i went back to factory settings/configuration and reinstalled just what software i felt imperative, things are working well at the moment.

thanks for the comments lately everyone. And thanks to everyone stopping by, even if you don't leave comments. The counter tells me people are reading this stuff from time to time, and i am flattered. Ol' ZR, keep the faith and blogging along with those one word teases. Soulless and Paula, need to get back to your blogs and read your newer posts. i'll get there soon, promise. i do enjoy your recent work!!!

everyone stay warm and have a good season. Cold and rainy here in the Pacific Northwest. i get one more day off, trying to recover from another wonderful nightshift, then back to the olde salt mines on Thursday. No word lately the sale or merger. Since the contract was passed, things have been pretty ho-hum and quiet. They even hired another 4 people to cover the retirements pending early next year .... go figure.

FOR VOZNESENSKY

capitalization has made us dreamers
with no credit

shops closed
with iron windows

midnight fogs in pockets
& no manna falling

we starve
just like africans

in this land of plenty
for the rich

smog in our lungs
we reach god

with prayers of desperation
& designer drugs

the damned. the desperate
will believe in anything eventually

but poets believe in nothing
other than coughing snows

& bleeding ulcers. heroes
seeking no gold

only the unknown
unobtainable

working on the PC

2007-12-09T15:05:00.000-08:00

another poem from Nov. 92

spent the day reformatting my PC ... seems there was a conflict with software loaded from my provider, and it just cascaded into a nightmare. So, tired of talking with HP techs, and being told i had a corrupt profile, or possibly a conflict in software, i just bit the bullet and took the computer back to original state. dead tired, and sort of close to being done, but not quite there. Things SEEM to be better at the moment, but won't know for certain until a few days pass.

I AM THE WIND

i am the wind (no bones) merely emotion through broken timber & eroded mountains
i am the wind through young girls hair & old womens hands (no form) merely emotion
i caress dust for company - salt foam for enlightenment
i carry birds on my sorrow - seeds for remote possibilities
i am the laughter of mountains, the moan of rivers
i am the whisper of morning, the scream of night
(no bones) merely emotion

#100 - hey hey hey

2007-12-06T18:36:00.001-08:00

hey - it's my 100th post (according to the blogger count). Wowzers, and well, i have about half that many more in draft to add later on. need to get some more worked on, but who knows when that mood will strike again.

anyway, this is another introspective poem ... (ain't most of them that way?) written in the fogs of - Oct 92.

FOG IN DRAINAGE DITCHES

fog in drainage ditches
sentinel hawk upon wireless fence post

i watch the moon
caress a frozen wind

& wait on silent corners
for arch-angels in cadillacs that never stop

fog covers the yellow brick road
& vagrants lose the key to the american dream

i reaching for the debrie of comets
rub the face of gods lacking only names

expecting deliverance
as if i were daniel

the wind the rain and oh my, wasn't that a mighty storm!

2007-12-04T15:29:00.000-08:00

todays poem is from sept 92 - just another poem of inner realization.

not much here. survived the massive wind/rain storms that hammered the Pacific Northwest. Actually inside the southern Willamette Valley it was windy and wet, but nothing like on the coast.

playing hookey from work this week. Well, had a vacation on the books i'd forgotten about, and decided not to reschedule it. Just relaxing and doing a little computer fix-work (replaced a dead CD burner, not without some issues - seems resolved now).

Now onto the poetry ....

I DRESS MYSELF IN THE RAGS

i dress myself in the rags of uncertainty
walk upon the waters of disenchantment
as if i were jesus gathering disciples

i erect no cathedrals
but my prayers are immaculate
to the dark vapors that gather along the dirty rivers of my life

i carry my dreams
as if a cross to Golgotha
there are no longer chariots of fire ascending the heavens

& my blood cures no diseases
but it stains the earth
as magnificently as any love lost

a cold nov. post

2007-11-24T16:27:00.000-08:00

first of all, thanks to everyone that has visited this blog and read my poetry this year. i honestly appreciate it. Also, anyone who has left some comments ... i also appreciate that, a lot. it lets me know you're out there and i'm not just ranting before a black hole.

not much new in the world of the paper mill ... crazy as ever, though 5 more people were hired last week, in hopes they can be trained by year end and help with the many retirements planned for early next year. no overtime this week (whooopppeee!) and unless the schedule gets changed (like that could happen????? yeah right.) i'll be working with 2 of the new hires next week and not having to plug core! Maybe my shoulder will start to feel better. :-)

anyway, back to the poetry. today's poem is from 11-92 poem.

again, thanks to all who read this, and thanks to all who comment. Hello, Soulless, it's a pleasure to see someone new to the comments.

DEATH & I ARE THE SAME AGE

death & i are the same age
the poet davie wrote:
wear the same rags -
piss in the same cup.

we walk the darkness
of our dreams
turned to imperfect nightmares,
walk, swagger & fall.

it is november now
ice on the fence post
that houses no pilgrimages,
november & i weary of the rain.

death & i speak the same language,
hear the same voices
that do not inspire
& then take them to heart.

surgeons prowl my body,
daemons in disguise:
prowl, laugh at the diseases
& offer voodoo curses as consolation.

it is eternally november here,
frozen winds, as we salute gods
standing rigid as stone
in their own catastrophic dreams.

poem before heading back to work

2007-11-17T16:02:00.000-08:00

a poem from 10:93.

cold and rainy, pretty typical mid-november day here. back to the paper mill tomorrow. no idea what the schedule holds, as i've been on vacation with no updates from the fellow slaves.

THE SORRY NEVER OFFERED

the sorry never offered
now on the wings of crows
in rotten corn fields
rains caress their torn feathers
as a mother caresses a repetitive child

crows. old & weary -
distracted. hold the sorry never offered.

---------------------

still on vacation

2007-11-14T09:52:00.000-08:00

poem published by Potpourri in Dec 95.
still on vacation. Carrie has been visiting from Minn. this weekend and today we take her back to the airport, so maybe another update before heading back to the mill.

THE WORLD IN TRANSITION

1 the world in transition. i tells you, i aint.
2 wears no gold upon my neck, un-hip & poor.
3 wears my poverty like a curse - well
4 rehearsed. often times i believe in jesus
5 as a loan shark. time for sale. big bucks!
6 though ministers scowl at my brave heresy
7 i persists. no callouses on my knees, falling
8 into confusions. work into the darkness,
9 until i becomes part of it, believing in magic
10 of dollars, drinking holy waters of mt. ranier
11 until i am salvation itself.

poem for my late sister

2007-11-08T09:00:00.000-08:00

a poem for my late sister Virginia - from 92

FOR VIRGINIA

we each live with our addictions (some more obvious than others)
each carry crosses ornately painted without our person insignia.
even paradise can be transformed into Golgotha
here where suffering is a lifestyle.

the wind sings "holy" & our rosaries are all broken
here where confessionals have video tape recorders in case god has a failing memory
& the water is no longer blessed & smells of sulfates

we each sleep with skeletons that we caress lovingly
each eat exotic dishes that fail to satiate
& lay prostrate before mirrors that reflect poorly
here where suffering is a lifestyle.

still nothing but rumors

2007-11-07T05:57:00.000-08:00

still nothing but rumors of sale (or not) at the mill, but little else, it seems. we are still running some horrible export orders. they are actually hiring a few more people next week, as we are in the midst of a numbers crunch - more people retiring than coming in.

on some days off at the moment. trying to relax and let some rest for my sore shoulder.

today's poem is from Sept 92.

THERE ARE GHOSTS IN THE THICKETS

there are ghosts in the thickets
dancing

nimbus around the moon
& the sound of bats flying low
over the dark rancid river

my arms unable to reach eternity
as the wind whispers
theology
in a language i cannot translate precisely

& the ghosts ignore my howling
they understand
i am unable to do anything
but admire their awkward motion

a new post even

2007-10-31T05:57:00.001-07:00

wowzers Batman, a new post even! well, to be honest, still in a zombie fog after a long night shift, with overtime. was scheduled for more of the same after this coming week, but asked for a vacation (still to be approved). So hopefully i'll get some time to recover and add a few more posts, to reach that 100th post status soon.

Half Tones To Jubilee - accepted this poem in Dec. 1995. i assume it was printed, but can't recall for certain.

THE SINS OF AN ENTIRE GENERATION

we washed the sins of an entire generation from our souls in the dark california fog
upon the black rocks of the little sur we memorized the flight patterns of the speckled gull
it was a time for living
we were believers in dreams

we were hawks waiting for wings as we waltzed down dusty salinas valley lettuce fields
in the ever shadows of the sugar refinery we hunted for secrets that had no formula
it was a time for living
we were inventors of dreams

another gap

2007-10-22T09:58:00.000-07:00

todays poem is from September 92. sort of on subject for the local weather lately.

not much - other than loads of overtime - going on. it'll be a bit before i get a day (or night) off at the papermill. most likely 6 days or so. thus, another gap in the posts will occur.

WAITING FOR A RETURN PHONE CALL BJS

1 i wait. mist gathers in dark valleys, as if smoke from the pyres of dreams unobtained.
2 i wait. rain whispers poetry in a language i cannot translate. i wash my face in the thick water. no magic exude.
3 i wait. somewhere you walk beneath rainbows. dance under warm skies as if an elfin dream.
4 i wait. decades amass. continents are born & die. we converse in languages that have no syllables.

post before a silence

2007-10-14T18:00:00.000-07:00

on my one day off here, between a run of overtime, so i don't expect to be able to update again for about a week ... as i have at least 6 days awaiting me at ye olde papermill, those wonderful 12 hour shifts we have all come to love and adore... well, some people do.

today i offer more 92-95 stuff. one of my prolific periods ...

I CONVERSED WITH THE SHADOW

1
i conversed with the shadow
until it lost substance
under a trapezoid light

rats ran incognito
down the alley
to trash can cathedrals

hobo with an umbrella
nursing the nectar of inspiration
sang songs of a more beautiful america

2
upon the highway no longer travelled vagrants wait for the messengers of god
bare their souls to the angry winds of disenchantment
confess sacred sins to the woolly mullein

upon the highway no longer travelled miracles wait to be translated
the wind exhales songs i have wept in secrecy
only the dead & dying seem unwilling to hear

3
i carry loose change for hookers
as if i were judas
the morning after

i wear the rags of damnation
into the temples
of gods i have forsaken

& i offer the blood
of dreams that have failed
for an america that never existed

a montage type poem

2007-10-07T19:13:00.000-07:00

more 92-95 stuff. a montage poem, sorta in a semi-prose mode.

a warmer day today. more like autumn than early winter, which is what yesterday was like.

SEVERAL JOURNEYS TO DIFFERENT CITIES AT VARIOUS TIMES

1
star spangled sunrise
captured a cache of sunlight in her laughter
shuffled marked cards knowing the deck had no nines
- laid the warn cards face down upon a Naugahyde table
turned the ace of hearts from the pile pile as she watched saying :you need the nine of clubs for the ten of diamonds."
- knowing there were no nines
her laughter as a ray of sunlight through windows curtain in black clouds - soggy to the touch

2
no father poet waiting in the rain to escort me to the journeys end
the wind chewed discarded manuscripts
& the soggy skies sucked on the exhaust pipes of giant factories

i stood in the shadows of a garbage bin counting pennies as the priest passed
no souls to this tuesday
he danced across puddles
i thought i could hear laughter dripping from her rosary beads
surely it was a time of miracles but i was distracted by the aroma of hookers behind the bus terminal

3
ate the cardboard pie with a plastic smile
thought of a warped samuel pepys as i attempted notes of significance in a journal that had none
fumbled through greeting post card & bubblegum trading cards in the lobby
read month old magazines with coupons clipped except the Rosicrucian were still looking for a few good men
gave the waitress smelling of southern comfort a dollar tip that was worth a whole dime

4
studied coffee stains in the upholstery
studied the sound of rain on a plastic green patio roof
- goldfinches in the rhododendrons - elegant as carl sandburg

steamed carrots fresh from a square foot garden
wild turkey mash
on a broken coffee table four books of spanish poets murdered in the civil war to free all men from such a simple thing as tyranny

blind lemon jefferson from a scratchy record

studied the liner notes smelling of tobacco certain it was everyones biography
studied the sleeping corner of the sofa with a resolved placidity
- & wondered if the great father poet that not not come to escort me worked within such disadvantages

summer poem on a cold Oct. day

2007-10-06T11:29:00.000-07:00

Sherman - what have you done to the Wayback machine? it seems to be stuck on poems from 92-95 .... oh well, we shall explore a bit more, i suspect .... this is a summer poem, for a very chilly Oct. day .. oh well. some of the formatting got lost in "publishing mode". so instead of spaces - i inserted some "-" to mark what was uspposed to be a triple space ... doesn't change the read, just the look.

not much here, just relaxing and waiting for the overtime onslaught to begin.

THE HEAT

Sherman - what have you done to the Wayback machine? it seems to be stuck on 92-95 .... oh well, we shall explore a bit more, i suspect ....

THE HEAT

the heat - upon which sweat dances down chins - demands attention
night whispers of melted margarine & a moon that stares as the one good eye of god - upon the ignoble suffering
three in the a.m. & i piss into a toilet bowl that knows no berryman the porcelain as cool as pineapple in the fridge - but i do not caress it - rather stumble back into a torture rack of a bed - rather wrestle with sleep - it is victorious & slips out an open window - taking with it what was a faint breeze
the heat - upon which curses have no affect - demands attention

a few days off

2007-10-05T11:35:00.000-07:00

another from 92-95.

a fews days off before another overtime marathon at the papermill. new (or potential) buyers waltzed through the facility yesterday, in the middle of a major crash ... so we poor and humble workers (and so unimportant we were not told who these people were until they left the facility) were covered in wet stock and gunk, as we tried to unplug the secondary headbox ... oh, such fun is limited to the really special, you know. no word at all as to their impressions or anything. after all, i guess, they are touring the whole Weyco containboard division, so our little piece of the pie may not be all that important enough to impresses (or not).

anyway, hope to get a couple of updates posted before more overtime and night shift arrive ....

SLUDGE IN SEWERS

1 sludge in sewers we once navigated
2 i examine discarded treasures
3 tires missing tread
4 mattress missing merely springs
5 distracted the book of ancient chinese poems goes unclaimed
6 as does the glitter of gems in a cracked mason jar
7 but i hoist the remains of an old baseball glove
imagining it belonged to rogers hornsby in his st. louis prime
8 unable to snag falling dreams i return it to the dark water
9 mosquitos sing the operas of wagner in my left ear
10 rats dance as if fred astaire between broken crates
11 & i photograph the magic of it all
with the liquid films of my heart

a real day off, before overtime strikes again

2007-09-28T15:55:00.000-07:00

another poem from 92-95 era.

my only day off .. well, day and a half (after night shift) before hitting another long stretch of overtime at the for-sale and very management silent paper mill. guess starting next week prospective buyers will be circling the facility. The only certainty is things will be certainly different and nothing for-certain if (when) the sale (merger?) happens. No time tables have been announced but for some reason there is a sense of things are starting to happen fast. well, a sense is all at this time.

now on to the poetry ...

I SENT MY SORROW

i sent my sorrow
rain danced off your window sill

it was easy enough to ignore the annoyance

i sent my loneliness
the baying of old dogs at the moon

blurred into a forgetful aura by the magic of neon surrounding

i sent my anguish
thunder rattled your precious teacup collection

but no damage was reported & it was an easy memory to erase

i sent my rejection
tornadoes on the radar screen

nuns count rosary beads in the chapel & no one knows how to control the sources

a zombie poem for the upcoming night shift rotation

2007-09-21T19:36:00.000-07:00

a poem from 2:94. the poem is unsolicited, unpublished. it's also sort of a grave-yard theme around here, which starts in another day (or night).

not much going on today. a new pup in our house last week, a 12 week old black-lab-mix (call it a mutt). slowly learning the daily stuff like house-training and all that jazz. a bit tiring on us elders.

I TELLS YOU, I BEEN VISITED

i tells you, i been visited by zombies, that tell no truths.
the gossip of their lies is merely beautiful rhetoric. i is a dying cow
with no religion. priests come with incense eyes
to sing horrid latin cantos.

i yawns in the face of the living. cold visions of stars. the lisp
of the wind. ha! i was not a bleeding adrienne rich
with the whole dying world at my breast, feeling compassion. i was
dirt under skies of rain, mud - cursed & pissed upon.
no jesus in my veins - just diseases i never learns to pronounce
but lives with.

i tells you, the god of death is about as perfect as they come.
zombies take my soul, scribbles cryptic codes, distributes it
among their own. shakes their heads mostly.
O, the message is not worth saving.

aberrant hymn

2007-09-20T19:21:00.000-07:00

another poem from 92 - July to be exact, written while working at Springfield Forest Product, possibly the worst place i have ever been employed. it was less than 2 months later, i left to work at Weyco papermill .....

HYMN OF THE ABERRANT

Darkness is a state of mind:
we walk upon the dark side of the moon
listening to the whispers of Alexander Komorov
as if it were the wind through tall timber -
which it isnt

& the belief that pain is a viable guage to life
is a profanity echoed here

heretics -such as i- mumble
gazing into the mysteries of her smile
were dark waters tumble down granite mountains
& the perfect dream is offered in her touch

Darkness is an avenue:
we with limp legs & no headlights
stumbling upon the bones of gods
that have no documentation -
gods none the less

& the concept that pain is a legitimate measure of worth
is a holy decree i try not to believe

dissidents -such as i - weep
gazing into the myseries of her eyes
where dark waters tumble down granite mountains
& the perfect dream is offered in her touch

updates on the round brown world of kraft liner

2007-09-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

another poem only published in Post Amerika. small presses deserve any support you can offer.

on a couple of days off here. still trying to learn a few basic differences between Vista and XP, though for the most part, think the new computer is working out OK.

now that the new contract is in effect (and retro-active to last March), the big concern about the mill is the potential (prfe-destined?) change in ownership. 4 possible buyers are out there at the present, and will start to make the rounds of the various mills late this month and early next month (when our little piece of paradise will be evaluated). that has tons of implications, some good - some not so good, some potentially disastrous and some potentially great. As with everything, it waits to be seen. Anyway - so much for updates on the universe.

now, back to the poetry:

FROST ON THE FOG

1
frost on the fog
i face the apparition

my heart is the breeze
broken by the obsidian rock
of that place

where the mountain stumbled
into the aqua-grey of the sea

i face the apparition
of what i was supposed to be
battered & perfect bastard

2
kelp on the black waters
broken boats moored as promises to be kept
broken boats nothing more
than scrap iron to be disassembled

there is no god i tell the mists
other than that which is truth
there is no truth the frozen fog replies
other than that which is holy

mumbling seals in the dark surf
howl with delight at our discourse
they too waiting for godot
even if they did not know

new computer blues - sorta

2007-09-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

another poem only published in Post Amerika. again - support those small presses, if you can.

got a new PC last week ... sorta on a whim, running Vista, and let's say the transition has been less than smooth, partly because of a bone-head move on my part (transfering files from "D" drive .... don't do that ... well, the software sorta did it for me, and i didn't pay attention to some details) and some spotty documentation didn't help either... well, got the essentials running finally, and am now using the NEW PC, but still have a lot of programs and files to move in the near future.

anyway, that's the reason for no updates so far on these rare days off .... i have tomorrow off, then back to ye-olde-salt mines, inc.

IN MY SUPERMAN UNDERWEAR

1 in my superman underwear i confront the gods of disorder
2 tell them it is the dawning of the new age of reason
3 they resist & beat me with fists of kryptonite
4 i stumble out of the temple of darkness
5 & search the cupboards for my wheaties
6 certain they will bring back my courage
7 open the frayed box only to find it (as my life) is full of flakes