I've come to hate this digital bullshit.
This fucking shitty white screen of failed attempts to read my mind.
It's not intimidating, it's annoying.

That said, I've taken to writing everything on a real sheet of paper with a real pen because everything I think becomes so much more REAL.

I understand the writer that uses a typewriter, and I guess that'd be satisfying, too, if it wasn't so much work.
Pens are cheap.
Paper is a fair price.
Thoughts are free to become valuable.

And this digital fucker-clust is not how anything is meant to be
because, plainly, I can't feel it.


Anything you see on here was written on a page first.

He told me how the world works.
There's a circular system.
Everything's been dumbed down for me -
I'm digitally dulled and he asked,
"You don't know the time?"
I did not.
I am not born of an analog world.
He told me the secrets
and I learned responsibility for the first time.
Ever since my feet have chased hands
and I've watched my world slowly spin quickly out of control.
Sitting in a chair, watching television,
a fire at his four o'clock,
he told me how he made time work for him in the past.
But you can't teach time control
in analog terms for a digital world.

One song of many to be sung.

When I was young I watched a large old man – strong –
waste away in a hospital bed on IVs – weekly.
One complication after another and I
knew nothing except that there was ill health afoot.
He spoke quietly, loved that I was there, loved to see his family
from a city or two over, and I could tell
this was not the normal routine – interrupted by ladder falls and gallbladder fails.
Work did not need to wake him at 5am – footprints sound off along the hallway
and cigarette smoke an hour later, after departure, fills the corridor.
In a hospital, his footprints are muted in the air – suspended –
and the cigarettes that he didn’t smoke are unlit.
I asked sometimes if he would return home.
It seemed that the hospital room he was in was a play room, mostly – mostly
for my brother and I, carefree, unable to process or understand health and illness.
And we seemed not to care that Atlas was a paper plate.
But it was all temporary like a bad hangover gone at 6pm
and he rose from a white grave, shovelling potatoes. Creamed corn. Well-cooked still-moist ham with his fork and free-hand – Monday hand.
Still pale he laboured to lift a sledge hammer – “ham or…?” –
holding the handle at the very end, slowly – too quickly in my memory –
bringing the metal to his nose, then back again.
He smiled, said I couldn’t do it.
I’m telling him now, “No, I could not.”

Wake up, go to work.

Brimming with ideas last night
only to have none this morning
like a renewed mind -
a new fast to break -
I've emptied everything in the dark
and the light washed away the wrinkles on my forehead.
I need another coffee.
I want to fuck that Columbian.
Sex for coffee - a fair trade.
Bloody, sugary sex magic -
fuck to that whole album
and sip coffee with a pretty coked up Columbian
because I've got a crazy craving
fueled by the wrong energy.
All that I desire - sex and coffee.

Getting back to normal

Nothing's come from my writing hands in many weeks. Now I'm making things happen again. This is where it starts, with one poor poem, soon to be followed with a series of great ones. I'll keep you posted.


Use chop sticks, but never forks.
These cautions are not cautions as they are
limitations of limits and limitations of life.
Limit the words that you use
to one small lexicon for three weeks.
the words that you use –
your lexicon –
limited for three weeks.
Limit your small lexicon to
three poor words.
Three
poor
words.

Seek water but vow to never drown.
This caution is far more ridiculous
but necessary for children and dwarves.
limitations forced on one
are not limitations at all.
They are not limitations.
These are nature’s concessions;
uncontrollable things that none could combat.
Not even with
three
poor
words.

With Emphasis on Happy

This is a poem I recorded in a studio with minimal effects. It's titled "With Emphasis on Happy" and the poem belongs to Little Episodes.
www.littleepisodes.org

This is exciting.

On your right, you'll notice a new link that says, "Borrowed Life of a Poet." If you click on this, you'll get to read a short story of mine.

This story was originally published within the Brock Student Anthology titled "Looking for Trees."