back at home recovering from a book and wine binge.

up at 4 this morning.

cannot sleep longer than 6 or 7 hours straight anymore.

the sun has yet to rise.

as do the daughters.


smoking pot, listening to brave new world on audio and repricing a bunch of antiquarian books

hey, what the hell, right? it's only 12:12 in the morning.
oh yeah. i got a fucking myspace page the other day.
don't give me any shit. i know i condemned them for several months.
but i'm better now. now that i have myspace, yes, myspace, yes (rocking back and forth at my farmhouse, all alone for hours at night in the dark)


sidewalks fade from my memory as the moss grows deep on thick limbs I fail to name on purpose

cities rust beneath the bloody ruin of this blanket of skies we used to call blue

clocks tick, sci-fi novels come true, mind-matter pulses dictate which way we steer

by those things we used to think were stars but now have realized are merely lamps on the riverside

shadows play cruel tricks on our hearts

hands masking movements molded to seem malevolent

I buy poetry on ebay and hope for miracles that will never come

like my inept, sterile muse incapable of love

buried under the dust mother never swept up, up to that stratosphere scientists claimed was failing but really wasn't

but we were too tired to argue with fate and her crystal ball

the tele-screen tells us that time is of the utmost essence but we know that seconds are no more real than this feeling of powerlessness before the storm

the credits roll
we root around in place
seeking something we were born with but lost
smoke in an alleyway
you do not know what your soul yearns for


letter to brendan, saint of saints in my short and sad book

where we're calling from?
it's a little place called love we have deep down in each of us
that little place that survives such whirlwinds as distance and change and time
and i love it because it holds so much that we cannot
it holds those little bits of history we would have forgotten
those moments on islands we should base our lives on but we can't
because we're somewhere's else, on some other beach
succumbing to some other tide

the desert is very real Brendan
i wanted to walk through it with you of all people
but winds blew us askew and now
and now
we have but ourselves to fend for

who knows what tomorrow and tomorrow might bring?
but i know, in my heart of hearts, that you are with me
despite your many harrowing adventures
despite the drunken revelries of today which tempt you to forget our yesterdays

those movies we spoke of once, so long ago
that played forever on the backs of our adolescent eyelids
i have never forgotten those flicks, those films, those shattered dreams

if i were truly a fisherman the line i am tossing right now would hook you
where it hurts the most and bring you back to my shore
even if it takes a hundred hungry years

i will wait
with my pizza box wings and my beautiful memories and my endless stories
i will wait for you on the promontory of our tale
waiting for the end we scripted so long ago
or even the middle
or some beginning we've already forsaken

on my ship you're still first mate
and we have yet to sink
even though I've been bailing for some time now

my daughters live and grow and change daily and would love to hear
your scattered voice

please send us your words as often as you can
for they are the floatsam by which we shall guide ourselves to shore

i remain yours


home is where you lay your book and pen aside you turtle

you hobo snapper
you're no ancient tortise

no monarch fluttering by history's window
wind on my neck

you're no hangman's noose

your home was in the pine the plank you walked was made of


just saw David Amram last night

at the Washington Center for the Performing Arts. Magnificent act. The man played so many instruments I lost my watches. He plays the cow bell and pennywhistle nonchalantly onstage before a 1/4 of an audience (the man deserves thousands of screaming fans blind with joy) and goes home at night and writes all the music for 300+ piece orchestral symphonies. A genius to say the least. Great to hang out with The Sitting Duck and KAOS radio as well. What a joy to talk with Amram and his fans afterwards too. As if the universe held its breath for us and let the words of yesterdays alleyways trickle up our throats. If you are not familiar with Amram's work please check out the following sites:

David Amram's homepage
Jack Kerouac and David Amram
and here's what Wiki has to say, as if that's worth anything

Most of the folks there were elderly (compared to me, I suppose) but it's fun to stand out sometimes as some of the only diplomats of your generation present at such an event. Five local Olympia characters got up and read snippets of Kerouac's On the Road while Amram played piano. At one point he had us singing a chorus in Mandarin for Meanderin' Mandarin, incorporated an Egyptian flute tune into his normal rhetoric of jazzy blues rambles and walking talking rhythms. He ended the evening with the most beautiful version of Amazing Grace I have ever heard, interspersed with mary had a little lamb. cheers. This last pic shows the cast of Pull My Daisy, the 1959 film written and narrated by Kerouac which Amram composed and played the music for. Guy gets around man. His son Adam is cool as shit too.


hungry hollow farm

this is where we make our stand. this is where we learn to love the soil. this is where the cliches end. this is where our words come together.


lost in the rain at hungry hollow

my mind turns lazy sidewinding circles, plumes of steam rising off my eyebrows as i survey the small forest of felled cut split wet wood lying around me, air dense with mingling odors of different woods. this year our wood is wet. we moved in towards the beginning of july and i never got a good jump on it. alas, it would have been wet anyway. burning wet wood and not having a backlog (a real pun, i swear) teaches you many lessons all rolled into one unseasonably long miserable lesson. first off you lose at least 25% of your heat boiling all the moisture off, your fires don't start nearly as quickly, never reach maximum temperature or heat efficiency and just tend to sputter and wheeze their way through the day. it complicates matters when you have two little girls who need to stay warm and barely any time to split wood. plus our stove isn't nearly large enough to heat this whole huge house so i have to close down the vents to the upstairs and the doors to the bathroom, laundry room and upstairs. but we're getting by alright. with one of those oil-filled electric radiators in our bedroom we keep cozy and i've always been of the opinion that living with wood heat and experiencing those dreadfully cold first moments of morning breeds a stronger bunch. not that we'll need much of that once global warming really kicks in. shit. i should just invest in a bunch of surfboard companies now and ride that wave as long as it goes.


abrecaminos: letter to an open door

for natalie, still

we walk
talk wishes like will-o-the-wisps
trade alphabets of memories
swap visions without giving up our eyes
I let your voice trickle down my throat
like sunlight filled with wine
we walk and talk of time and troubles
travels unraveled in this myth of knowing
ancient shattered souls are we
cast, recast and doomed to be broken once more
I taste tenderness inside your gaze
a longing long longed for before
back when days were plays
and all the stars were actors
youth was just another title we threw on and off
an old coat we sometimes wear to cry or die in now
and look! your youth knows larger worlds
than all my timeless thirsting wonder can divulge
we call ourselves poets and giggle
ponder valiant sunsets
counting pennies in the pond
we farm the simplest of island fantasies
crafted from romantic notions of harmony and bliss
and I’ve talked hours with your eyes by now
confirmed their depth and dedication
we talk
walk ribbons round each other’s worries
bind them tight and snip the ends
and sigh and fidget something flirtatious
a smoky sense of past and present
every poet knows it…
that drunken feeling of hopeless delight
that silent urging on
and walking talking time slips lazy
background fades to a static pulse
faint movements and noise
it’s warm for february
you’re nervous
and so am I
and my hand trembles
and I hear rum goes well with apple juice
and tiny daydreams

two sittings

abrecaminos – those who make a way where there is none
abre – to open
caminos - way
discovered feb. ’03 - week two - a silver sky - jim bodeen
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