i've not written as i

i've not written as i have too much to write. The mountain overwhelms me. grabs at my jugular and shakes me about. found myself listening to jawbreaker's first full length record yesterday and remembering my late teens. Remembering what an amazing record that was. remembering why i have that tattoo on my arm.

and with wings spread we remain on the ground. A flurry of flustered flakes falling from frenetic skies. Mine eyes have seen little or too much or maybe just the perfect amount. I don't feel like an oak tree today. nor a pine. i feel like driftwood. damp and wet and muddied with the agelessness of water. the timelessness of forever and the bloodiness and happiness of life. sad things. the pains of the heart so metallic and sour. oh what is it that i do? who is it that i am? I am here and you are here and we are here. and now i shall consult a book for the perfect wisdom. I created this absurd little thing i do on my friends' birthdays.....i call them, grab a book from my bookshelves, and read to them a short passage in the hopes that it will somehow be poingnant. or something. so here, as i feel useless, i shall grab Tom Robbins....maybe he can help.

"Timbuktu. The last pure place. Isolation being the mother of all purity. All men are jealous of Timbuktu because Timbuktu is removed from men, it's the wholeness men have fractured, the sacred extreme they've traded away. Like Hell, like Heaven, Timbuktu is a place in the brain, a place whose existence may often be doubted but never dismissed. A constellation by which the imagination can navigate, the joker that haunts the map-makers deck"

sleep well children.

what days my eyes have

what days my eyes have seen of late. dead deer on the roadside. their backs grotesque, torn and chewed up by pavement and other creatures. bones out, through bloodied knarled flesh. hair matted and crisp. short stories about junkies lifting pallets. a man who enters a woman dry. she reaches and gropes at her soreness. love. benjamin jahn will be a famous author, amongst the deeply set intellectuals one day. the ones whose hands were once dirty with work. the truth of art. you watch. and then it is saturday night and i am walking. the cool air on my arms a welcome respite from a week of work. the physical beauty of the berkeley campus makes me think of going back to school. fear. morrissey at the greek theater. a man on fire walking calmly through fields of dust and wildflowers. dressed in white. linen blowing sideways in wind. brilliant and beautiful and dear beneath the skin. he is an ancient redwood telling the stories of forever. reclinerland and the stratford 4 last night. so good to finally meet mike [reclinerland] as i've heard of him for years. he was genuine and sweet. i was so tired, but the music delicious of course. some of you there may have even received a copy of our new ep. shhhhhhh. it's still secret.

george w. bush took a

george w. bush took a moment of silence today for the 3000+ that died a year past, and vowed to avenge their deaths. and who, i ask dear george, will avenge the great sea of death that our own government has caused? the rampant destruction of the third world? the environment? education? irreplacable resources? oh george, what a blundering fool you are. maybe the word avenge is wrong. have you thought of that? maybe we should look to change and grow and heal. ah but you are not that man, are you george. you are the man who will continue to destroy the earth, and rape the lives of its impoverished people. the man who will continue to make an idiot of himself and the america that men like thomas jefferson built. what a precious thing to destroy. what pity i feel. what you should be destroying is the media. consumerism. debt. jingoism. this is at times so bloody disheartening. such a beautiful opportunity you have for grace. one that you will waste and squander and thrust into the dungpile of useless history. you are useless george. you make me sad. i wish i didn't feel that way.

sometimes, you watch a movie

sometimes, you watch a movie about a poet and question the authenticity of your life. A mr. Miguel Pinero. a true poet. honest. such a rare thing in art i think. i keep having this feeling that i should disappear for a while. spend four months hiking and camping along the pacific coast trail. but then, that is unrealistic, for who would pay my bills to support this searching for some unnknown thing? I sometimes wonder, if i'll wake one day late in my life and weep an eternal sorrow for all of the excuses i found not to truly live. other times, i think i am truly living. maybe it's the fever speaking. i am ill today. spent my morning with my parents and the rest of my day in bed. how dear of them to drive so far to see me for only a few hours. they love me so completely. purely. it overwhelms me sometimes. yes, i am the only son. the american boy who is almost thirty. questioning the path of his life incessantly. but i said i wouldn't walk until 100% had been given, and it hasn't yet. so i stay on. remembering new york, and feeling sad that pinero couldn't find peace in the quiet places. i wonder what he would think of me. of my art. is it real miguel? am i real? soon i will be asleep, the light breeze from open windows licking at my skin. curled into a ball of silence and cloth. and dreams.

friday night. thinking of gordon.

friday night. thinking of gordon. wishing to call, but concerned that it may be too late. don't feel like emailing at the moment, for sometimes it just feels so bloody shallow. instead i will sit in bed and read myself to sleep. there is a photo of my friend sasha in the newest issue of "the sun", her hand upon a saddened face, black curls falling to her skin. she relayed the story of the photo and i find myself touched by her openness. found myself thinking back to a year past, when my whole world felt crushed. porcelain and yet heavy beyond belief. impossible. but tonight my world is different than it was then. just as i'm sure it will be different a year from now. two. ten. twenty. that's what life is. change, and other things.

the sun wants to play

the sun wants to play with me today...and she will. my naked back and she embracing as i clean rain gutters from a rooftop. a thursday like any other, and yet so terribly different. i look forward to the rain this year. cold nights at home drinking tea amidst the glow of candles. but first summer must end, and the fall must come. and the sun and i must dance.

and you find yourself there

and you find yourself there beneath the sun. rowing forth in some strange creature. eternity. the middle of the ocean. and then you are alone with her. the sea. vast and perfect and timeless. your feet hang over the sides of the kayak and fall listlessly into the cold water. salt. paddle. paddle. paddle. you have stumbled into a kelp forest now. seals at play with the trees of the ocean and each other. the excitement at this moves you to reckless laughter and whooping. you leap from the boat hoping to touch one. you are fortunate. you actually lay your skin covered hand atop one of their heads. then panic hits you as the water swallows your body more and more. the boat drifting away. it is far to deep for you to comprehend. and full of creatures that you find rather terrifying. something like what you would imagine outer-space to be like. you climb back into the boat and paddle to a shore that is but a speck in the distance. you are stunned by the smallness of your existence. it sounds cliche, but it is so terribly real. and days later, you still cannot remove the taste of that feeling from your palate. it lingers and lingers. maybe it will never leave. ever. never ever.