How did I spend Snow day 2009?
5:30am -- Bonnie the Dog demands to go outside. Snow is up to Bonnie's belly.
7:30am -- Take Bonnie the dog back outside.
8:00am -- Eat cinnamon rolls. Go back to bed.
10:00am -- Oh crap, I was going to go into the office. PSYCHE!
12:00am -- Shower/watch Simpsons
1:00pm -- Walk Bonnie in the significantly icier/melty snow.
2:00pm -- Lunch with Drew at Fiesta Tapatia
3:00pm -- Goodbye Drew, hello nap!
6:30pm -- I should make macaroni and cheese.
8:00pm -- Macaroni, made, eaten. Life is awesome.
March 2, 2009
February 16, 2009
From the Passing of Arthur...
"I found Him in the shining of the stars,
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Till the High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is:
Perchance, because we see not to the close;—
For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:
Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die."
-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Till the High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is:
Perchance, because we see not to the close;—
For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:
Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die."
-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
September 1, 2008
What it means to run
not the
thumping of rubber
on the concrete or the
swollen inhales, the pangs in the side,
thud thud thud inside the chest,
not even the "hey guys- catch up."
this is when fear enters the bloodstream
and you turn
and you get
the fuck
away.
thumping of rubber
on the concrete or the
swollen inhales, the pangs in the side,
thud thud thud inside the chest,
not even the "hey guys- catch up."
this is when fear enters the bloodstream
and you turn
and you get
the fuck
away.
June 27, 2008
Jim Dodge - Unnatural Selections: A Meditation Upon Witnessing a Bullfrog Fucking a Rock
Ed note: Read this in high school, reconnected with it today. I'm thinking funny is the new Iowa
Amalgam of electric jelly,
constellated neural knots
in the briny binary soup,
as surely as stimulus prods response
brains are made to choose.
And through a major error in pattern recognition
or a significant cognitive fault,
the bullfrogs brain has selected
a two-pound rock
as the object of his rampant affection,
a rock (to my admittedly mammalian eye)
that neither resembles
nor even vaguely suggests
the female of his species.
He does seem to be enjoying himself
in a blunted sort of way,
but since the rock so obviously remains unmoved
one suspects it's not the blending of sweet oblivions
that fuels his persistence,
but a serious kink in a feedback loop--
or perhaps just kinkiness in general.
The less compassionate might even call him
the quintessentially insensitive male.
Assuming a pan-species gender bond
and a common fret,
I advise my amphibious pal,
"Hey, I don't think she's playing hard to get.
That's the literal case you're up against, Jack--
true story, buddy; stone fact.
And I'd be fraternally remiss if I didn't share
my deep and eminently reasonable doubt
that she'll be worn down
however long and spectacular the ardor."
Ignoring my counsel
as completely as he has my presence,
the bullfrog continues his fruitless assault
with that brain-locked commitment to folly
which invariably accompanies
dumb, bug-eyed lust.
But, in fairness,
whose brain hasn't shorted out in a slosh of hormones
or, igniting like a shattered jug of gas,
fireballed into a howling maelstrom
where a rock indeed might seem a port?
One can only conclude
that such impelling concupiscence
serves as a species' life-insurance,
sort of a procreative override
of any decision requiring thought,
thought being notoriously prey to thinking,
and the more one thinks about thinking
the thinkier it gets.
Therefore, though the brain is made to choose,
its very existence ultimately depends
on the generative supremacy of brainless desire--
for with all respect to Monsieur Descartes
you am before you can think you are.
Dirt-drive compulsions riding powerful desires
render any choice moot, along with
reason, morality, taste, manners,
and all those other jars of glitter
we pour on the sticky and raw.
The hard truth is we never chose to choose:
not the brains we use to pick
between competing explanations for our sexual mess
nor these hearts we've burdened with our blunders
in the name of love.
Do whatever we decide we will,
the choice isn't free;
we live at the mercy of more pressing needs.
Thus, urges urgently surging,
we mount a few rocks by mistake.
A bit more embarrassing than most of our foolishness, true--
but so what?
The power of the imperative
coupled with the law of averages
virtually guarantees enough will get it right
to make more brains to be made up
about exactly what steps to take
toward what we think we need to do
on this stony journey between delusion and mirage--
when to move, where to hide our dreams--
a journey where we finally learn
freedom is not a choice
a brain is free to choose.
Fortunately, my warty friend,
the soul is built to cruise.
Amalgam of electric jelly,
constellated neural knots
in the briny binary soup,
as surely as stimulus prods response
brains are made to choose.
And through a major error in pattern recognition
or a significant cognitive fault,
the bullfrogs brain has selected
a two-pound rock
as the object of his rampant affection,
a rock (to my admittedly mammalian eye)
that neither resembles
nor even vaguely suggests
the female of his species.
He does seem to be enjoying himself
in a blunted sort of way,
but since the rock so obviously remains unmoved
one suspects it's not the blending of sweet oblivions
that fuels his persistence,
but a serious kink in a feedback loop--
or perhaps just kinkiness in general.
The less compassionate might even call him
the quintessentially insensitive male.
Assuming a pan-species gender bond
and a common fret,
I advise my amphibious pal,
"Hey, I don't think she's playing hard to get.
That's the literal case you're up against, Jack--
true story, buddy; stone fact.
And I'd be fraternally remiss if I didn't share
my deep and eminently reasonable doubt
that she'll be worn down
however long and spectacular the ardor."
Ignoring my counsel
as completely as he has my presence,
the bullfrog continues his fruitless assault
with that brain-locked commitment to folly
which invariably accompanies
dumb, bug-eyed lust.
But, in fairness,
whose brain hasn't shorted out in a slosh of hormones
or, igniting like a shattered jug of gas,
fireballed into a howling maelstrom
where a rock indeed might seem a port?
One can only conclude
that such impelling concupiscence
serves as a species' life-insurance,
sort of a procreative override
of any decision requiring thought,
thought being notoriously prey to thinking,
and the more one thinks about thinking
the thinkier it gets.
Therefore, though the brain is made to choose,
its very existence ultimately depends
on the generative supremacy of brainless desire--
for with all respect to Monsieur Descartes
you am before you can think you are.
Dirt-drive compulsions riding powerful desires
render any choice moot, along with
reason, morality, taste, manners,
and all those other jars of glitter
we pour on the sticky and raw.
The hard truth is we never chose to choose:
not the brains we use to pick
between competing explanations for our sexual mess
nor these hearts we've burdened with our blunders
in the name of love.
Do whatever we decide we will,
the choice isn't free;
we live at the mercy of more pressing needs.
Thus, urges urgently surging,
we mount a few rocks by mistake.
A bit more embarrassing than most of our foolishness, true--
but so what?
The power of the imperative
coupled with the law of averages
virtually guarantees enough will get it right
to make more brains to be made up
about exactly what steps to take
toward what we think we need to do
on this stony journey between delusion and mirage--
when to move, where to hide our dreams--
a journey where we finally learn
freedom is not a choice
a brain is free to choose.
Fortunately, my warty friend,
the soul is built to cruise.
June 10, 2008
The Death of Kenickie
the skin
sags sags sags
away from his skull
and reveals nothing.
oh kenickie--
et tu?
sags sags sags
away from his skull
and reveals nothing.
oh kenickie--
et tu?
May 27, 2008
my language
it sits on my tongue
a dead weight on a thin string,
the same iron tang as blood
but oh--how sweet.
a dead weight on a thin string,
the same iron tang as blood
but oh--how sweet.
March 3, 2008
Funds for Writers
For grants, contests and more:
http://www.fundsforwriters.com/
There is something comforting about the number of grants for writers who have financial emergencies.
http://www.fundsforwriters.com/
There is something comforting about the number of grants for writers who have financial emergencies.
February 5, 2008
Valentine (fragment)
January spent and another winter looms,
shroud of February on a Virginia afternoon.
shroud of February on a Virginia afternoon.
matt's nightmare (fragment--stolen for good not evil)
I stand on the edge of the lake with a rusted city to my back. My mother is there. I think she is crying, but it's only the waves and the waves keep coming.
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