justwrite 31 august

i am running away from running away and today the keys are too loud to shroud the silence in noise i will rewind will replay will refund all the keys and collect the locks in the mean time speaking of which there are stitches that could save some but how tight we would be

justwrite 30 august

this is where i will write in the night although it'll be morning by the time i do so now this spot is saved this time is raved in right on through to you over the internet and across the screen to my right that's right you're right everybody's right and nobody's left behind

now it is now and when was it then and how much have the keys touched the space between letters the numbers bugging each other and jostling for the next best space erasing each character to start a new spin-out there are signs the designs have been reexamined tested for faults for when the earth quakes and the bough breaks and the situation is well in hand like an apple dappled with raisins in praise of waldorf in cahoots with a co-hort of sports moguls and other such pleasant-sounding rounds of letters the consonants dancing all around the vowelly bush the monkey chases the race until it starts and then hasn't the heart to win over the past and to spin a disaster in the right direction the corrections not worth living too soon for forgiving the potatoes and their friends lending normalcy to the mission and glistening with relief as the grief passes its stages like classes with rages and tears spilling over fears and moving toward acceptance

justwrite 29 august

a chain of links over the brink and through the brook looks like way too much to ask for the task force was trying to tell me but i thought they'd sell me short given the chance and the lance pierced the armor the storming troops in cahoots with the blooper reel steals the show again and i am amazed at how much the packing smacks of explosivity a madeup word for the absurd ability of items to multiply exponentially when given a sideview or nosee escape route to do so when i turn around the ground is rising so it's a good thing we're in the valley to start with i am on a hill and i have no shirt too green for the mistakes we've made i have played the game regularly the rules have all been collared and there are no rings built to hold this circus this red river running rampant across the moss-covered rock face the chase goes on and comes back for more the store buys back the record time and escapes without the fine the officers had imagined the tragedy had been badgered back to invisibility the chill we see a thrill apiece and the keyboard melts in my fingers i am yearning for pencil burning for a fire the smoke in the late summer air pretending into autumn we are adopting a tentative pleasure with the cool air but we are skeptical of the outcome and how it will come out

justwrite 28 august

scanning images without a cribbage board a crib sheet the notes each sale you smote with your smittens all over the glass pressed up against the future view breathing on the oxygen and laughing at the gas there is trash but i am trying to recycle all of it i recall the fits we tried to tie the shoes we aimed to lie about and the doubts with their bouts of conscience flittering along with vacuum tendencies just sucking it up and taking it in like a breath of something newer something sleepier creeping along let me start again i had breakfast but that was an uncertainty i have plastic bags that seal and tomorrow the deal will be dealt the surprises will be felt in echoing darkness where have all the parks gone and why the songs not sung in backward verse and rhythm connecting to the schism between the price of books and the looks given in exchange for the offer for the traffic copper and the irony the silver metal shining back into the locker there are drafts i've kept in the closet for use when the caboose arrives too late to debate on the floor but with plenty more air time ready for filling the prescription fitting the bill and passing it right on through to law a claw and its horse and its boy and remorse for the lost film that could not be processed that must be overdue even though you and your neighbors have already given it away

justwrite 27 august

in conclusion the illusions you have seen are real
if you could step this way you would play along
you would see the words of the song as you sing
each note remote from the next the octave sharper than a tack
relax your embarrassment your expectations
there are nations that fall when you call the wrong number
the pass is too lasting a challenge
you will wear that red shirt and you will be there longer
you will smile even when there are too many at the water fountain
the foundation of a weak statue is its toes
ballerinas never spell their casts wrong
orthodontists never cast their teeth straight
when we have finished here we will start again down the hall
i am appreciative of the efforts
the lamp is nicely dusted
the rusted calendar has been oiled with ink
water from the sink is legible again
i cannot play this game without your signature
let me just check about the lunch
punch the clock the red juice ringing around your clown smile

justwrite 26 august

finish service and keep the engine running in order to add forearms to press into the best buy the wise old apple sitting on the teacher's desk leaning into what's next and the text distorting from latin to splattering on the dishcloth the soup scooped up in greedy handfuls hoping for gazpacho but turning into stew into fresh-brewed amusement i am losing the train i am dismounting from the mountain and the debt is ready to rise to look into the tide and surmise surprise in the mirror it is clearer when the hearer is out of range is calling the audible is changing the channel from english to cyrillic named for a blamegamer struck with inspiration again the train choo-chooses to depart in pieces in the name of peace of peaches not picked freshly just imported from the local orchards clearing each branch each breath guessing at what's left and refreshing the dregs the passion the tea the free the proud the few the loud the familiar deluge of people creeping pas the street of steeples the market the square the pottery spot the slots of what's not for dinner and the traffic that wraps itself in narrow lanes rearranged for want of development for need of water and the hotter it gets the development sits softer on the ledge learning out of view until the feeling passes until the ceiling lasts its warning into a new cracked morning breaking open and scrambling on the sidewalk we can't talk about what we mean but we toss up the screen and the silk and force through ink to spread the message on a defenseless passage the northwest the explorers and all the china in fort knox locks its tea in the stocks and laughs senselessly again losing its edge

nearsighted military

The nearsighted military will never be able to cast their vision out along the boundaries of here/now and then. If it makes sense now then it must be right, but how many times has it not been just so? What would it take to make the clear decisions the right ones? Going through the jungle, always on alert, hypersensitive to changes in sound, temperature or smell. The click of a safety being released, the coolness of the air under a well hidden hanging net, the odour of sulfur from a hastily lit then extinguished match. It was our country first. We didn't even smoke cigarettes until they came. The sound of a tripwire releasing a spray of death. Hopefully that will be the last time. They really should learn.

justwrite 25 august

imagine mourning tomorrow as the end of today the stay can't wait and the date turns late into the cupboard reaching up for another but it's all out and you'll have to try something new some stew everyone's talking about just plenty to go round or at least once and the hours pounce on pockets for leftovers for crumbs strung along a path the last to make it to first place and the chase to be won by manhattan again with the banks again the river laps up those crossed legs and it's the dregs of the mission left behind just a blind eye turned toward the sun just like i always say the hay that's made while the sun shines has got landed mimes hiding inside waiting to pretend it's raining and no one can trust those pretenders those benders of fenders with their guitars and old cars up on blocks to sing the tops off of birthday suits the truth pursued by infamy with a claw hammer and a shopping cart and the scene closes there with no need for repair no evenhanded stare fit to wake the neighbors over or under the influence of garden parties the start is the races is off like a horse without a course and a wind without a wave just like the permanent fixture in overly forgivable hair i have got to apologize for all of this tryingness it's just a phase like everything else it's just a shelf i've got to sit up high on and spy on the rest of the present trying hard to become the future but turning instead into the past

justwrite 24 august

crying shames defame their operas outlast their class warfare and stare full in the face of a chaste bank tanking up and spilling over the clovery wonderland expanding to stand on two feet above sea level with beveled edges and crimson hedges keeping out the undertow even though the odds are against it the tank is still empty is plenty of miles away when the rocket glares red in the face and i have space worth discussing but i'll have to pay by the hour for the account is getting low and the crows have feet too neat to dirty up the lavender the coriander breadcrumbs numbling their way through an uncomfortable day feeling too pleased to be exceedingly unhappy too nappy to be awake and too staked to be running free there is an escape in store in stores now and the more the merrier the christmas ferried across the canal where we will all be watching carefully mumbling warefully with no affect no caused seedlings growing up to a new year steering into certain waters hotter than a boilingbag could handle so all the mashed potatoes go out to play for keeps deep in the butterbean applesauce kidneypie surprise i have never had such a thing such a ring on my toe such a glow in my bonnet and a boat with you on it is sure to sail quickly just a rickety wave from the coast and i offer you my toast in exchange may you fly free of frames and swift of lifts in your shoes

people cry

people cry but they still get by with all the things that have to be done for fun and not so and it just isn't right that a strange man can touch a raw edge without knowing and send me blowing out to sea with mist in the backs of my eyes the cries not voiced because there is no real reason, not in this season of school starting and teachers hoping that the year will go well and the swell of emotions just spills over the dam but hopefully not where other see because to me that is a sign of weakness and unless you want them to see you sweat, never admit that you don't know what you are doing assume that you do and there will be a floor and ceiling to make you proud and then you can cry out loud for the joy and your boy will know that you are able and fables will abound based on your talent and the sound of praise and accomplishment will make it all worth it in the end

justwrite 23 august

sitting stiller makes the faster fast and the last place the first for the next race i have chased mountains in my time eaten crimes prepared on a different seashore the shells well enough to talk about although never a false word about what i heard in yesterday's pictures i have always had the almost face sometimes striking and often misheard i have always thought the waist wayedlaste or waylaid or laid waste or however it ought to be put into a rubbermaid container remainder seven and six and the lickin' keeps on stickin' its nose into a different life when a wife was a word heard and the apologies were farther away but a cycle kept turning into the burning oven baking up a stakeholder's meeting of the minds and the minutes show the rope growing exponentially by the very minute and with not a bit in it to rein backward i have not listened as much as i have said nothing today i have played nicely in the otherwhere and to stare at the to-do list and see what is not done stuns even the most beautiful mind a marigold hold locked into a dock and ready for no more sailing prepared for turning back again the comfort level dropping and the mirror being sent away the stay having been released having been discovered as a slip-knot bought undercover and let go before the snow even falls on an autumn called later

justwrite 22 august

yawning through the awnings such curtains make a splendid pair closing out the air and barely getting by in a carseat like the sweet potato pie tried by goblins and swallowed down by the birds i have forgotten on purpose to wash the accidental dishes and the spider must be asking to be excused in the second conditional tense and it is possible but unlikely as we can probably tell though it's just as well there was no hot chocolate to speak of to sneak off the property and crop pants into romance those are the chances we take and the brakes aren't always strong enough to be worthwhile just a smile and a heart attack down the sideways driveway these are the alchemist's theories and the wearied traveler says yes says fine says let me get my hat but that's not to be and a disappointment in three parts is the expectation the happening and the regret of yet another smothered opportunity no immunity developing against that rash choice the toys spilling from the box the chickens suffering from the pox the epochs of curses on both their houses having passed in drowsy dust the literature of musthavebeen the skimmed off fat of jersey milk whole and raw and calling on butter around the corner from a supposed freshness the richness never seeks

justwrite 21 august delayo

together apart better off to cough through the artichokes the designs pining away for trees and for treason no reason but seasoning just a feasible entry the pantry quaking with spices and the kitchen quitting early before too squirrelly a cantaloupe moons over the melancholy melody a medley of notes brokered against the calendar staging grounds the pages you've found turning faster recently the disaster of forgetting betting the farm on a no-harm no-foul defense which as we know goes to show the raisins have flown the coop have scooped up the troops and marched on through to truancy with no one calling home and no one signing notes with precision of permission for who is allowed to crowd the dates at the wait for the seat in the sun has come and gone along and i am second in line with no time to try for first like an unrehearsed tango stepping one forward and two back the track too fast for the horses for coursing each golden beholden oldie the ovaltine dream with norman rockwell steaming on through to choose the next step and you're too adept to adapt too flinty to have trapped the dryer the fryer the liar's club the book i shook pages with then turned on from then passed gloves above the lovely vernacular caught in a tractor and sowed in a row to be mowed snowed and blowed and to grow up rich with consonants and seek the generous mouth

Green Tail

The green tail whipped around the corner almost faster than I could see. But I knew where it was headed and I wanted to get there first. I went the back way, through the closet, up the back stairs and down the hall. I did not hear any screams so I knew I must have beat her. She had needed to go through the living room, past the dining room and up the main stairs. It was a longer route, so my only hope was that she had been blocked somehow, maybe by someone. I did not hear any noise from downstairs either, so everyone must be out, except for me, the baby and her. Then I heard her on the stairs so I ran as fast as I could the last few feet toward the babies room. I slipped on the carpet. Damn David for never putting something under that carpet to stop slippage. I got up without looking back and ran into the room and slammed the door just as she slammed into it from outside. I collapsed in a heap and the baby toddled over to me and took a huge handful of hair and pulled. I licked her on her face then nudged her back toward her bed and listened to the sounds from behind the door. My hackles went up as I waited to defend the child from...

justwrite 20 august

forgotten the words but the twilight fascination the station that changes itself in embarrassed reflection i have always had an ax to grind behind my back stair case the face i am replacing in my memory is wandering now wondering how far off the path the tracks lead the mind speeds on and the sing-along leader haswal-mart greeter has been studying the absurd and the fanatical tactics he employs are enough to annoy the joy right off of those smirking faces but to erase this image we pretend this thing is something worth following up on we call for back-up we suit the track up and spin it right round four times per mile in vintage style a topic tossed with polyester and blessed with the rest stirred into fries marbled into rye to rise again like deceitful yeast which is truer in reverse and when we gaze into the hearse the church leans in behind the steeple peeping and the coffee creeping back to black as the cream settles out there is no doubt this time is precious but for too many reasons we imagine the seasons spinning into counterclockwork the opposite depositing its weight in full-figured fools' gold holding up one end of the bargain train so no one trips and tips over the conductor

justwrite 19 august

crumpled cat catches its own reflection in the wrong direction correcting for the perpendicular overture the ovaltine exposure closing over the ranks the pranks worthy of no thanks a million roses and no closure i am ready to turn the page inside out but the bouts of cold have clouded the golden sun undone by hot chocolate in the summer repetition the sass talking back to the future i am steady enough to bluff the listener always it is ready it is heading out for lunch crunching each bunch of carrots into incomparable diamonds rhyming with regret and not yet enough evidence gathered from the clues unraveled like kitten-tied yarn the farm about to have been bought caught up in intrigue and the history of the mystery takes us back to where we packed our left hands our pockets locked up with lint and glinting fingernails trailing along the mix and fixing the bets not yet ready enough to go steady and though through the steak staked like a claim on leftover dinner plates splattered into greasy water sticking out like indignation there are rotations united and untied under the guise of surprising developments the contractors benefactors with their own designs in mind their logos embargoed at the border hoarded by a squinty man with a cheap chin and a squeaky jaw he is too raw to be genuine and the penguins he dreams of on his waking watch are too cool to be caught but that doesn't stop him from trying from frying the pan and baking the cake to let them eat to beat the heat and run it down

god's skin

We were all created in God's image, or so they say. I'm not too sure what that means when babies are born with horrible disfigurements. Maybe horrible is not the correct word. Maybe we, the "normal" people are the ones that came out wrong and God keeps trying to get it right with each cleft pallet or missing limb. And who is this god anyway, who must have adult acne and freckles, just like me? Does her skin tingle at her lovers touch? Does she wish to be thinner? Does she fiddle with her hair until she deems it good enough to be seen in public? Steve Martin the comedian once said, "If there is a god, give me a sign," and then he started talking in gibberish. I've asked the same question, and I am still waiting.

justwrite 18 august

we are setting aside what we've been hiding riding high on there are no secrets worth the pretzels broken underfoot and with that key word you see it's absurd and not worth interpreting but the news is not so the truth is just though no one is interested we are creating patterns that matter only in the absence of greater tasks the last time we put the pieces together the puzzle laughed back at itself its haphazard collection of edges the boundaries hounding the middle into obligation waiting for the station to change into something classical more approachable than those reproachable givers of advice winding up devices to keep them living stronger longer than the competition he who laughs the longest at outrage cages his own fears leaps tears over puddles and comes out dry i would like to point out the tension with fences at each opportunity for relaxing i am multiplying insecurity exponentially and all that matters is more of the pattern we are at the same table but the placemats don't make sense in the new context what's next is yet to be seen and i listen to my own voice over and over again telling that's not quite right unable to fight the urge to consider too closely and it's mostly an apology in the making staking claims on unnamed freight the unmanned weight riding on everyone's shoulders i would like to take on i would like to say i'm sorry for all that's carried and at the same time i can not set it down

art keys

Lots of cities have art objects associated with them. NYC has apples. Washington DC has pandas. Frederick has Keys. They are here because of Francis Scott Key. A while back there was a contest, actually just more like an event, where local artists could get a "key" and decorate as they saw fit. The keys are about three and a half feet tall and they are thick and look like a skeleton key pointed down. All of the keys were displayed around the city for a few weeks and some of them went on to be auctioned off. I have no recollection of where the auction money went. Unfortunately, some of the art keys were damaged by vandals. It really bothered me when that happened. One of them was hurt multiple times. The artist gave up trying to fix it. I don't blame the creator. Whoever decided to take it upon themselves to touch another persons art in such a way can only be labeled as criminal. I think of Frederick, most of the time, as a safe, small town where almost everyone gets along, but I think I am deluding myself. I wonder what would have happened if the people who did the damage had gotten their own key. What would their art have been the key to?

justwrite 17 august

i was journal writing i was igniting delight in the dusk and the cusp of each wave raged in its own glory there was a salty story to be told but old bread instead of rabbits as the saying goes as the dust explodes its own potential destroys its own dimension in the lessons of another crowd too loud for paradise too nice the dice that hold these folds flats we are all plaid today we are all paid to play our roles and to eat our tolls for dinner swallowing down birds absurd words and happenstance the chance of a lifetime which you have earned with each breath and what's next is the enlightenment or if you've seen that one before play the renaissance and spell if more clearly than the new windshield after the rock truck stuck in fast forward back from the mine from the quarry and the story there is never to be told the bold struggle buggling out its eyes in surprise each time the clock strikes its own face the chase is on the case is beating itself about the bush you said to push and i said how high you said we are all our own worst and i said you have never been a bother and any day now we will wake up facing the wall and call out for each new leaf to turn a kinder cheek and the orange and the red instead will rustle but the echo will be closer and the warmth will kindle kindly closer and the open-ended smile will fill in with teeth and there will be no biting no dust no rust in the joints we will reach toward each end and the leaping will go on long into the next new day with the wooden furniture waiting its dusty turn

pastry life

There is more to this pastry life than the eyes or the tongue can see or taste or be. We are free to do what we wish, at least that is what was said in the beds of our forefathers forefathers. Take the sweet and expand on it. Leave the bad like a cut potato under a full moon, the warts are supposed to go away, but will they, do they, should they with just the wish? The tiny baby born to a baby has a chance to be president, but just barely. The out of work salesman can dream of fortune with his last $5 lotto ticket. The retired father can hope for the sound of a thousand silver pieces to make his betrayal worthwhile. The possibility exists. All it takes it determination in this nation of equals. There aren't supposed to be barriers or boundaries, walls or ceilings that can't be crossed or broken through by the hard headed ones. I am one of those in my mind, but dreams a reality do not make, so actions I will take. Let them all eat cake.

justwrite 16 august

the pink wall calls out for paper apologizes for the labor it took to cover over and over the pearly white gated forever behind this pastry dream the strawberry cream sleeping through every alarm clock and the efforts to hide behind furniture are not lost on the still-white walls they glow more brightly like opaque windows into purity into an ivory soap heaven floating slowly upward as the dresser and the hangings drift in the direction of the color and the smothering suggested is bested by curtains and certain despair catches in its thin layers of life as there is no escape but to give in and at this point we stop to listen to this hymn's refrain this country careful cautionary tale of who to stay away from even though the love is sweet and here again it is the pink wall painted in every bedroom the idea of something that might be nightly darkened and occasionally brightened by the lights of a parked car or a gentle guitar suggesting deliverance and forgiveness and this music confuses it into a more mournful direction than any connection with reality might suggest but still i will best this challenge i will eat calendar pages and smile the digits on my teeth calling all takers while the fake songmakers sing more sadly bemoan the tide while the water is wide this is more than middle school chorus before us we can break out of any ache we fall into call and response at the ready any heady conversation met with soft lips and suggestive legs we are pleased with the dregs with the flavor and savor is the next required word i have heard repeated in my head instead of sense there is sound as if i read only half the textbook and dropped it for the next book which is happily our own

class clothes

One of my favorite things to do this time of year is buy new clothes for class. I remember the green and white gingham dress that got ripped during recess on my first day of first grade. I ran all the way home at recess because I was so upset that my new dress was ruined. My mom had to call the school and let them know where I was. I remember the wild tie-dyed looking polyester tee that I had for fourth grade that sported a Tiki design made of plastic beads on the front. I recall the jeans that I just had to have that were hip hugging on the top and wide on the bottom with an inset panel of embroidered flowers on each leg. In high school it was the same excitement, just more choice. I loved the white cotton jacket that I wore with everything, and the Sassoon pink and white tee shirt with the logo on the chest. These were back to school must haves, and they made an impression on me. When I started to teach I did the same thing, only I was not quite so up to date with the fashions of the time, but I still had to have something new for the first day at least. I wonder what I will get this year and will it be memorable or not?

justwrite 15 august

it is too late for the seeds to be growing in this heat i am saying that there are answers without questions in this scene we have seen we have forgiven i cannot imagine how many dishes will need to be washed when this is over i have clover in my teeth and there are four leaves left five leaves best to keep moving while the nostalgia threatens to drown out loud there are noises and rejoicing is not without its limits i am tired of having expired there is no reason for me to be and alone we ask ourselves about together weather and if it's cloudy or doubty or fine there are pancakes falling from the sky and the clouds are too high to handle in a skillet i will spill it over until you open the fridge and see what's left like a waffle squaredancing and chancing romance in the broom closet where it all gets packed up dashed out into a board with all the controls flashing out of and into the lights brighter than reason with seasons changing into their new clothes like the emperor extemporaneously shouting out about the menu and the things that should be rearranged but if you've changed behind the curtain and i cannot see i need to know what kind of shoes you'll wear and how your hair and if your smile and the style of your overcoat and what the weather will tell us

copy feet

There is a funny thing that we humans do as parents. For some reason we choose to take our new born child's feet, cover them with thick sticky ink and then press each delicate soul onto a piece of paper for posterity. What is our drive to copy feet? What purpose does it serve really? I know why we copy finger prints. I have, many times, had to have my fingers gooed up so that some expert can try to match my unique curves and swirls with others to tell if I am a danger to myself and others, but feet? I don't think babies commit crimes without their baby booties on. It makes me wonder, if I inked my feet today, and made a print of my adult foot, would it be the same as my master print 40 something years ago? Where can I get a big ink pad. . .

justwrite 14 august

shipping lip to the far far east but also south puts me in doubt of customs of officials of riddles beyond borders and the fences that court disorder and cordon off bleu keeping away the sadness from the glasses so we cannot see too closely although mostly i have been thinking about the lights and the night how they come beyond calling stalling for nothing and pushing into consciousness the reflection out of mirrors while the chase goes on into the dusk the dawn the pawns moved about shuffled into duffel bags that stand up right on the opposite end that pretend to show progress more or less sage than green or in between tan and khaki the tacky pretense of adventure i have never been i have no less knowledge now i have no cows for that cash no yards for the dash i am imagining that someone has been listening i am fooling myself into melting you are shaking your head and laughing at me and this is what i see and now i know and i wish and i fish for dishes without red and i wind up eating white white tan beige we are the pancake dreamers we have no regard for color for beets for asparagus the terrorists will win without fries and the lies will triumph again i am tired of waiting for whatever i am waiting for i am ready for these days to be done although i will miss them when they are

sleep eating

I do not recall ever actually eating in my sleep. I know that I have dreamed about eating. There was the cool deliciousness of a cherry chocolate chip cone dream and the imagined last meal dream of steak and lobster that now disgusts me. Never have I actually gotten up in the middle of the night, in my sleep and eaten anything. But now I wonder a bit, if at times, I am asleep, to a certain extent, when I eat. Not literally asleep, with snoring and all, but sans consciousness, lacking understanding of what I am really doing. This could be a new medical condition, and I bet we all suffer from this disease sometimes. "Sleep Eating". Maybe there should be a pill you could take before every meal that would allow you to taste every bite, to savour the clash or melding of flavors, to stop you from eating more than is necessary and eating until you are beyond full. Maybe we all just need a mass hypnosis campaign in which the TV networks put subliminal messages out there, during the actual programing (not the commercials since everyone skips those anyway) where the populace would be told that eating must not be taken for granted. It would solve a lot of problems from gluttony and obesity to starvation in other countries because there would be so much more food available, and we might even begin to demand higher quality once we start to taste. I'm just sayin'.

justwrite 13 august

sending these out to dry and to develop on a strand like laundry into clothing the transformation not unexpected the faces that looked into the lens captured in pretend struggle bugging their eyes into the glass i am in here let me out i am there is a space a mountain they do not go together there is a feather in your cap that used to belong to a wing and the thing is that i am not offended i have not rear-ended any such concept and i'm far from adept at creeping up the petty pace through the places of our memories i'mcantankerous and doubtful and if you can not tell me where the coupons belong i will be forced to pretend ignorance i am asking for forgiveness for my disorganized leanings i am steaming ahead full forward let me stretch and i will catch my breath up ahead there is a place to stop a chance to adopt a more humble attitude a less rude protrusion of lips my chin singing itself to sleep she keeps imagining hers has disappeared but where would it go and does it show my belly button cutting into security the tendency to grow alarmed like a weed in the compost fast and fleshy and ready to go green in between dreams about as high as the sky suggests like a dimensional confusion where height and length are added to tone and mood and the truth is not in numbers but in weight to carry you've got to it's all there

afternoon dialogue

It is funny to know that this afternoon the dialogue will be created by me and for me in the span of just a few minutes. I do not write to talk directly to others. I write to talk directly to myself and indirectly to anyone who is brave enough to dive into my prose. I have woes just like anyone, but to me, of course, they are the most devastating and difficult mountains to climb. But others might, and have, scoffed at my tiny issues. Does that bother you? Me? No. Not really. The brain understands what the heart is too childlike to face. Talk to myself? Every day. Listen to what I am saying? Not so much. If it were a true dialogue, there would be not only taking, but giving as well, and between me, myself and me, we really don't want to hear the truth. Not really. But the bright spot, on this cloudy afternoon in sweltering summer, is that no one else has to listen to the cries of my heart. I am in charge, and I would charge if I could, for a glimpse of the wonderland inside. This time, it's free.

justwrite 12 august

to come later when the head breaks no more
for there are always cakes no story can tell
we are the bosses except when we are not
we have got to get out of this
well let me just say
i can not see the lights too brightly
the signs reflect stop and yield into the back of my brain
heavy refrains tramping down
clowns find themselves more hilarious than noses
i suppose you have gotten past that
let us live in the minimal
communicate in the subliminal
we are our own messages and we have plenty to say

justwrite 11 august

now it is too hot for chocolate we have forgiven our linens and are searching for the bottle opener i have opened no bottles without my teeth within reach i have been seeking the ocean sikhing the shiek and other occupations i am tall tall enough to reach the sky and the ground at the same time i am round and pointy and i make noises that are mostly unnecessary if you are interested in hearing some of these please press three and your call will be forwarded to someone completely like yourself for we are two of a kind in a bind unwinding like our hair before a cut our dawns before the guts catch up and remind us of our visceral selves while the shadows dance in sun undone by ribbons the monkeys laughing into their banana peels and throwing us jokes to trip over and over i am wondering when we we will be caught up there is so much to tell you since you left the table i thought you would never return that shirt but it hurt so much to have the light off of your spot and i wondered if you'd been caught in simplicity it could happen to the best of us and the best of us are you is true we are waiting for the engraving to be finished but you have won and the sun will come up tomorrow at least partially to see what you've been doing and we're all very pleased as well

justwrite 10 august

i am waiting for the dating to take place for the carbon to interface with the lions trying on for size the lies the dens the language twisted with an extra tongue strung along backward i am worrying myself into a sweat but not yet not now and how you have it all lined up is fine is just wine for the cheese as we always say as we play our heartstrings in broken melody the trouble the bubbles wandering up through the water hotter and hotter dripping down the glass a class act an action lawsuit a pinstripe number like three and the trial we can see coming a mile away but the evidence we always have to save until the end until your friends reveal themselves to be not quite as squeaky clean not quite as in between jobs as you may have surmised in a couple dozen eyes not dotted not quite trotted out to pasture faster than disaster i am calling out my own name with the frame already up the cup overflowing i am sewing the garden and my knuckles harden with cracking stacking the deck against me the hiccup tree blooming again as the strands are braided with hands that've faded into omniscience i know all i need to have known earlier but it's too late for the dinner date reminders i have set my alarm i have set off the alarm i am harming nothing but time which is fine because there's always more where that ticks off

justwrite 9 august

waiting for the owner to sell it's just as well i haven't seen anything in my size and the grapes are just so sour there are no apples that could make up for them no pears to sweet to be peaches i am reaching toward a to-do list that does not need to be done i am imagining tasks that will last long after each disaster has been ticked off has been flicked off the list like with a lighter too bright for butane too rearranged to be genuine these are the clues you can use you can work with a jerk of your neck and check out what you've missed is it important to be distorting the sense of reality for each individual is it criminal to wonder is it genuine to blunder into so much truth the youth of the nation will shed their imaginations and follow blindly while the kindly old souls shake their naked heads and pretend instead that the cream has always been cooler on the other side of the fridge the ridge up ahead has always been covered in heather feathered like the seventies the eighties the dated rabies frothing at the memory eager to jump into some other when like a wren pursing its lips and slipping out change wondering what to buy and what baked into a pie will cause the sky to open up in hummingdrops a crop of imaginary fruits in suits dancing with candycane props dropping to their sugary knees and breezing in and out of time wrapping up the rapping as a truly hideous crime just because you're told you ought to doesn't mean it's going to adopt you

justwrite 8 august

fuzzing out i am fielding doubts of the most obvious kind from my most predictable mind and i find that when the talk is flagging i turn to dragons and their fiery thoughts conveyed by wayout spouts of flames exchanging names with the most revered heroes imagining the zeroes who are iced in movies too groovy for their own motorcycle sidekicks the kickstands can't stand the landing all the grandiose pretendings i am sending good verbs and vibes besides it is too far out for me to seek and deliver and destroy another afternoon like that i am back in the skedaddle mode i will explode with impatience if the latent prints found on my rounded spoon handle are too hot to trot across the microscopic plot i have been trying to follow since page three when the character i liked turned out to be dead which explained several unexplainable remarks he had made in the first two pages though several stages later i found myself distantly in the audience and the interest i once professed had become much less and i could not wish him alive again for then he would have to suffer through the immature dialogue and when we just shrug our shoulders and turn to the cheese and crackers we imagine what really matters and we eat it

justwrite 7 august

showing up to blow off to scoff to laugh at traffic i am imagining alternate endings lending credence to a universe undeserved underserved on the dessert tray making way for a hypothesis the apocalypse in diet soda the coda repeating all those minutes ago the way to go is forward the way to sew is in a straight line is a mapled dine up the tree like a squirrel like a whirl of activity like the dryer the heat the deep-seeded plantings ranting and raving and saving all the headlines for bread to define fine lines as botox appointment starters the to-hearters and the deserters never hurting for another slice of pineapple the box full and overflowing i am going to start again the lights are projected faster than the past could last the cash too intense for sensitivity the steady proclivity toward despondency without the use of cocoa and you know so many recipes for cup measurements a treasure sent without warning without metric storming up the sea salt in revolt for the holt edition and its online tradition weaving in and out of leaving town for the summer the bummers humming their way downtown around the corner and under a shoehorn imagining the coattree the tendency to create when there is nothing bluffing its way through invisionary eyes

justwrite 6 august

bonfiring on the beach you are out of reach of self-indulgence this is the greater good the smores you should have thanked for their reluctance to escape from multiple ingredients into this recipe it is hard to be part of the larger to lose onself in a smashedup mush we are pushing forward on our own and we are losing our pieces out of reach of the individual accomplishment we sent our names packing we are giving up a little at a time we are saving up our dimes in the accounts of others hoping for interest hoping for the stress test to be passed hoping to last past uncertainty i am ready to change i am ready to rearrange my space my laces tying too tight the night around my shoulders growing older and aloner more together more apart we are starting on this together apart we are leaning in and out away from toward there are too many prepositions directions to point to and what will people wonder what will we blunder toward with arms outstretched will we find each other will the hunger for more be fed with less will we bless our imaginings with truth unused to the light we are running and racing and no one is following but still we wonder if we will make it all the way safely and what is safety but limits and can we begin it without doubt

justwrite 5 august

fourteen freshbaked slices march off the cutting board scoring glorious butter ready for jam of a delicious kind of an unwinding kind gently cradled in the crust there is bread and there is love both sent from above or within or maybe from the oven humming with potential dimensions full of possibility the thrill we see in grocery stores in the craft supply heavens in the havens of office supplies riding high on staplers in search of opportunity holding up blank tablets and proclaiming sweet potatoes and rubber cement all meant to thrill the viewer the reader the artist the cook and this is why we will survive this is how we live: to create to become to grow we are the authors of dreams and our powers are unlimited the forgiveness big as an unneeded eraser chasing the blank lots with seedlings and fresh-bought potential we are the architects of admiration and the bridges we design are unbreakable unmistakable for any other logic transplanted from the shores of imagination thirsty for chocolate milk indulgence the full sense of hunger being sent away we will determine the course chart our own constellations we are afraid but we are brace and we are our own characters bounding across unbound pages leaping riddles and mazes releasing fear from cages and turning them into hats our cats are our pretendings lending a closer sniff and a lifted tail to sail away and to stay long and stitch the distance between two points

justwrite 4 august delayo

crab song sings along its own tune a full moon is the way I see it is the way the breeze twists a smile from salty lips I am walking a dozen blocks the wrong way but the end is in sight the brightened windows keep what’s inside from washing away in the high tide I am trying to write about saying goodbye and meaning hello there is a yellow sun in this drawing and the dawning is bright enough for two the truth is you will imagine a better answer than I could ever give I drown in apologies for mistakes not my own and what makes and bakes and takes the cake is the lake of missed ruined neglected chances stepping up to the regret pooling uselessly beside behind my heels and when I turn around I feel remorseful before I know how to show it and the next chance I blow it off like a dandelion wisp when I should be making bradbury’s dandelion wine just fine for dining on any time its own dish its own wish granted a scant slant of sunshine redefining a snowy day blowing away the salt on ice and the spotted bananas that meant to become bread but instead this snow day tucked into extra sweaters and double socks is locked back melted down onto the linoleum as I reach to pass you the past as we cook up the future as we suture together what’s worth saving with a fine twine with the sweet time and care such a task deserves preparing to serve what comes next to each other whether warm or cool just a mouthful of original spin and the traveling it takes

justwrite 3 august delayo

adirondacks stage a rebellion quelling the landscape in quiet hilaritude making up words as the throngs go along strong-arming the ocean into airy surprise there are vents and there are immense events in the respiration of a house the rousing breath of morning the decaying dawning waiting on the last cup of coffee to disappear before it feels over i am hoping for more than less i could expect something extraordinary but the scary is the wary is the opportunity to sink into sun into cool air to compare what is with what is not and we've got to be careful to stare full into the mirror and out of the window not just the telescope the escape into the cliched turning of cliched calendar pages fading out of focus and adding on years and pounds an astounding picture on the other end we pretend to see we predict we'll be in touch but so much fuss can wear out a hindsight welcome but stealthy steps to elsewhere toter onto unstable ground having found no lost cost having tossed no salads sung no ballads there is molasses and there is ketchup and when we let up we will be done we will have sung our own last dances and the chances of forgiveness drown in the bigness of the moon too soon for reflection on the present the tense too future past imperfect we conjugate of late and our verbs are deliciously bound a recipe for memory a summery film playing over darting in and out of thick green curtains taking a final bow after only the first act and pleased with the reception and ready for more

justwrite 2 august

when i started to think about stopping it was already to late to begin finishing the diminishing returns had earned capital in the capitols of other nations dividing and uniting under undetermined flags lagging behind the time zones and honing in on the matters too gray to dissipate like flying gates wide open and the ankles tickled by pickled grasses the herring too red to laugh at instead of crying flying again and stowing no notions too wild no terrapins too mild for the occasion i am laying in wait i am lying in a state of grace the whole world loves it when you etc and you get down and the commercials come flying faster than disaster for now it is dark and the answers haven't been tampered with sufficiently the wickedly dark comedy waiting for the sun to rise in tragic bloom the noon the zoom lens widening in surprise happily high the movie goes by and the curtain comes i am pleased with fan i will not give it up i will thank its for its service and it will deserve its place in a modern library the ferry planting its planks with no thanks just welcomes on the shore the other storage side of the harbor no grudges on smudges on the paper work i am happy for you am looking forward to your updates you are forewarned and your forearms are looking nice just jump right in there and square all your roots and grow

justwrite 1 august

there's nothing to sneeze at the captain said in seek of tom swift's adverbs the phrases lazing about and blasting without and within the confines of divine comedy the problem we see in the open window and the blowing wind the nose winding its way into the square into the russian short story searching for google and finding gogol in two shakes of a lick two snakes on a stick and one says jump while the other one looks for a rope in hope of skipping dipping in and out of a sack of fries trying to disguise surprise as condescension spelling with pretension from next week's lessons there are dogs out to play and the balloons we see today have got their hearts in their mouths tomorrow no surcease of sorrow there if you ask me not that anyone's tasked me with such peaches with the reaches beyond the bat's belfry frying up the skillet and filling it with potatoes the brownbottomed style with santa fe mild salsa tossing all those bets off the table and unstable as we are we reach our cars with limited success and mess about until the next doubt's refrigerated until the next state's carbon dated and i just want to know the score i want to see what's more precious than a pile of peppers and the diapers of the diaspora growing up into pants and can't you just pretend those shoes are wingtips are eclipsed by delight are fighting back the certainty of names becoming their own people their objects their styles