Thursday, February 20, 2014

Object Writing
Hair
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brunette, black, blonde, red, gray, white, bald
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owing, twisting like a tornado, curly, pointing straight up
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Rapunzel long, military short
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hair in your face
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wind whipping strands across her face, catching on the corner of her lips
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wind-blown, bad hair day, disheveled
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childs rst hair cut, memories, lochs
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barbers hop, hair salon, Mr. Grovers where I would get my hair cut as a child and he
would give us Double Bubble chewing gum, pink like your tongue, always hard as a
rock. He kept it in a big white tub. I think it had the ofcial label of Double Bubble on it.
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The barber shop stood in a run down area with grass peeping through the side walk.
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It always had the light hum of his razor in the air, the coughs of men waiting their turn,
dgeting with the same unchanging copies of magazines.
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The tornado came and swept the shop away including the windows that read Grovers
in a semicircle across the window. The window had a few b-b bullet holes in it,
concave on the inside.
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The smell of shampoos and after shave
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The sign that read that baldness was a perfect head and the rest, God gave hair for.
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The cushiony chair that always felt stiff on the back.
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The way her hair tickles your cheek when she leans in to kiss you
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smells of shampoo
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gleams in the sunlight
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her mommas curls
#1
Friday, February 21, 2014
Parsnip
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snowy carrot
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roasted to smooth and creamy texture
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Id like to try one
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something new, different, alternative,
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hear it crack between the force of your hands
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brush the soil off of a fresh picked parsnip
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spot a unique item on a menu
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challenge your tastebuds to a new experience
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elegance of the soil
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carrots albino cousin
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feels rough and solid to my ngers
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white gold in a farmers hands
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hear it stewing/roasting
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as a child I was afraid to try new things, now Im not
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diamond carrot, country taste
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forges into the earth
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branched its roots and clings for dear life at the time of the harvest,
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ghostly carrot, Casper would eat it, spooky, haunted, creaking sounds
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dark earth, darkness all around
#2
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Itch
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my ngers tear across my peach skin, bending the light colored hairs with them, all
reaching for the same goal of relief from this itch
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yearn to do something you havent done in a while/ever before
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Ellie sits back on her haunches and cocks her black and white head to the side while
one quick hind leg reaches up just under her little black left ear to scratch
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It makes a quick piff-piff-piff-piff and shakes the whole bed. Im sure the red covers
look like an American ag now with little white hairs striping it.
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you can have an itch for a certain taste like my wife wanting coffee ice cream, like
brown like a mocha while perfumed with coffee grounds
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smell an itch
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scratch under your nose
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I can picture Dr. Seuss writing about an itch with strange looking characters and
bright solid red, greens, and blacks with pastel blues on the page.
#3
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Organizer
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like a little drill sergeant for your day, an organizer hands out marching orders, do this
do that, do whatever it says of youll be reprimanded by disappointment in yourself
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black spiral notebook
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feel the leather/pleather beneath your ngers, the smell of leather
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tough schedule
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hard habit to develop, covering the time your rub your sleepy eyes to start your
engine, to the time your shut it down.
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they may as well have thrown that little organizer at my head, send it twirling through
the air ready to make contact and do damage to my life. I cant usually handle these
types of assignments where schedules stand in rigidity like the London guard outside
of the queens home. If only my organizer were red. Then when they gave me
assignments like this, I could shout like Paul Revere, The British are
coming! (although thats just a ctional story of history)
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Speaking of history, its an amazing thing. We paint history with the brushes of our
own experiences. We play contemporary voices into the mouths of historical
characters so that they sound, by default, high pitch, angry, loud, soft, etc. The wars
of the past are distorted by camouage and assault ries. But none of these things
can hold accurate entirely
#4
Monday, February 24, 2014
Grape
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round, luscious, moist fruit
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purple, red, white, green
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nectar of the gods, feeding a queen/king on a couch
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Jonahs favorite food.
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Every time Jonah gets a grape she lets out a mild mmm because she loves them so
much. If we dont have any, she will cry out against us like shes going to start a riot,
the injustice of not feeding a baby girl some grapes
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her favorite color is purple which is usually the same color as the grapes that she
indulges in
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fruit of the vine, Jesus turned water into wine, Arbormist
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wine is the leading product of NC sales, sold in grocery stores, gas stations, and any
other store you can think.
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grapes represent the rened, rich, aristocratic, those in charge, wine can be seen as
powerful like a boardwalk billionaire in his pin stripe suit, snatching a coin out of the
air like wall street is his personal slave
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those who drink wine too much can become drunk, loopy, silly, angry, drown their
sorrows
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purple is also a royal color, I wonder if its linked to grapes and wine
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you can see purple on robes in the Roman days
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grapes are round like balls but oblong like theyve been spinning far too fast
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when you bite into them you receive a cool. moist welcome and your taste buds
celebrate the sensation of spring harvest
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grapes skins unfortunately come out the same way they went in, observe my childs
diaper at least one a week
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I have nothing else I can possibly say and I dont want to end the note like this
#5
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Waves
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waves crashing down upon the shore like the mightiest of Poseidons warriors
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cool water washing over your feet relieving the scorching heat of each granule of
sand which clings to you like podiatry leeches
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a sweeping feeling that lives your body up into the clouds, I can feel the air circulating
around me like wave of energy like Superman, if must feel like freedom, thats why he
ies
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an escaping feeling that lifts the weight of this world off of your shoulders which he
would certainly understand given his position
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I would never feel that way, the weight would crush me, the responsibility destroy my
soul and free spirit, I must run from it and embrace the chaos like each rolling
molecule of water, spinning and forcing its way forward like a blue torpedo of energy
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in small amounts it is relaxing and intoxicating, it sings of Jamaican paradises with the
soft orange hum of a sunset, the birds songs dancing to bring forth the night, the
waterfalls that roar as the distribute the blood of the earth back to the heart of the
ocean
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In large amounts water is a terrifying beast with monstrous power. it makes the land
taste of salt and blood, poverty and destruction, a tidal wave
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but even in large amounts with terrible consequences, it can leave beautiful results, it
reshapes the land like Gods demiurge, it rebirths opportunity to grow and ourish
#6
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Grain
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grain is a mans way to success, if I can use my hands to forge life from the earth, I
can use the market to provide for myself, to satisfy my taste buds, to live
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bread-winner
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amber stalks itting in an August afternoon under a near-cloudless sky, a warm
breeze dives in from the heavens and knocks heads of grain together. I am walking
through them, destination unknown, a single tree stands in the distance like an over
arching guardian, I run my ngers through the hair of the stalks, each piece bowing to
the power of man and quickly retreating back to where they came from as its master
passes. This is where I learned the meaning of work, the power of the human will, to
shape the earth can conquer hunger and poverty. Land means success. I break into a
dash as I near the tree, getting whipped by my dear abundance as I go. I reach the
tree and suddenly stop, stoop, turn and relax at its base. I notice my shoe untied. I
reach down and grab one dirty white lace in each hand. They were once new and
clean. Time and dirt changes the appearance of everything. I loop one string around
another, then repeat a similar process with loops, pull tight, thats better. I lean my
rusty hair into the tree bark, rough but familiar. Familiarity makes the most
uncomfortable things feel like home. When I gaze into the eld, the sky, up into the
tree, I remember being a child. A sly smile sneaks onto my face. Its always nice to
remember all of who you are. Work can take that away just like play can. I am a multi-
faceted man.
#7
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Wisp
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wisp of smoke, tongues of re, the curving, twisted, ethereal gray haze escaping from
your grasp, the fading sunset, reecting watery mirage on a black top, the smell of
cedar and oak on a warm November night
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will-o-the-wisp
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the campre was smoldering out, light orange ember hearts still beat from underneath
the last three log pieces. the morning light has overcome the power of the re. Its
heat has trickled to nothingness even with my hands directly over the devouring pit. I
wiggle my ngers of the light smoke, watching the wisps twist over and around each
nger. When I pull my hand back, it welcomes me with the light scent of smoke. My
jacket is already stained by it. We take some time getting our things together. When
you start out on a fun adventure, regardless of how large or small, you speed like a
retruck responding to the call of an emergency, youre ready to start the festivities of
the night. But when the cheery sun rises over your groggy head you move like slough
with no where to be and the work is tiring and monotonous.
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chasing a will- o-the-wisp into the woods is not a great idea, when the ghost vanishes
at your rapid approach, your feet with fail to lead you on, your eyes will vainly search
for your mirage. Turn around and youre eyes with dart left and right searching for the
path
#8
Friday, February 28, 2014
Falcon
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burnt yellow talons leach into my brown leather glove, with a crouch of its mighty legs
and an accompanying lift of my arm, my falcon takes off, brown speckled wings push
against the wind for lift and ght gravity back upwards until she reaches her desired
height. From above she feels like an angel keeping watch over the drifting tree tops
and curving streams, over every rock that is splashed by the nearby waterfall, each
droplet sending a few specks heavenward. her screech pierces the sky and strikes
terror in her enemies. She is watching with careful beaded eyes. As her heart races
she makes the decision to stop moving her wings, tucking them next to her side as
she plummets to the earth like a missile aimed at an unfortunate morsel. She nears
her prey, a tiny gray eld mouse, and stretches forward her golden hands and wraps
them around her victim. In a cruel world, she must choose her own life over others.
She continues her journey over the green tree top earth to a nearby branch where
she nds her rest. Landing on an old, weathered branch, she tastes her rst blood of
the day, warm, salty, powerful. Fortunate for me, I will have my beast pet one more
day thanks to that mouses un-willful sacrice.
#9
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Fallacy
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I look around me and see nothing I believe, a living mirage. Smiles on faces that
makes no sense. How can she smile ear to ear like that? how can that young couple
laugh and lean on each other? Dont they know the truth of the matter? A brunette,
blue-eyed mother gently caresses her cooing babys innocent face with the back of
her knuckles, slowly going back and forth on the plump cheek. A boy, possibly twelve
with dirty blonde hair, slumps in a red and green tacky upholstered chair next to the
corner. His ngers diligently tapping on a tiny rectangular screen. His face blank
except his green eyes which radiate with intense focus. But here I sit alone, strapped
to this chair like my ring squad is lined up and ready. I have already heard the
deafening news. If the procedure failed today, my breaths will stop in just months. The
heel of my foot taps impatiently into the oor. My leg bounces up and down rapidly
trying to make my body run from this troubled situation. The ugly wallpaper around
me reminds me of all of the mistakes that the nineties made with pastel colors and
stripes. The TV hangs nearly above my head and at an angle that I can barely see out
of my right eye, but I cant force my perplexed face towards it. Whats the point of
living if you have to die? I ask myself.
#10
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Route
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The winding path down this overbearing mountain intimidates me. I know I have to
attack it with all that I am. But Im afraid to. There are too many questions left
unanswered. Its like the taste of blood in your mouth. It awakens and disgusts you.
But I need answers. So I reach unto this miniature library shelf I call my own and
open another large book. The words seem cryptic at times. I run my ngers along the
edge, pinch, and feel a breeze from the uttering wings of the book. I stop and focus
my nger onto a page and feel the rough texture between each ripple of my
ngerprint. Black shapes on off-white pages. They seem like foreign symbols as my
mind gets bogged down. This isnt the route that I need. Like a map, I consult the
front of the book through its table of contents. I nd another trail and head down it.
This time, success. I reach over onto my desk and grab my slick black gel pen. I can
smell dust in the air from all the days spend studying at this wooden desk, neglecting
its proper care. Quickly, I scribble onto my Five Star binder the words begging to
escape my mind. If I do not hurry, they will die and be lost forever. My memory is like
a wisp. I jump, mid-sentence. A knocking at the front door. I stand, chair wheels
scratching at the already worn out oor, and I head to the front entrance. I pause as
my hand reaches toward the handle and I change my mind. I turn like a soldier on a
dime and make for the window. My hand caresses the tough white material blocking
the world from me and I squeeze a handful and pull an edge over.
#11
Monday, March 3, 2014
Asylum
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A gray building, windowless, set apart from the rest of the world where the mind can
be at rest from the rest of this insane world.
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A peaceful place and refuge
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I, for one, am particularly partial to this room. It feels small, quaint, warm like home.
The walls are egg shell colored and the oor, close but speckled with a hint of fan in a
few places. Most of them look like little ames or paintbrush markings. My bed is
simple, simple like myself and there is one place where I can even look at a mans
face. It seems worn and weary, but at peace. He smiles at me every time I see him!
The only thing really to complain about is the taste I keep in my mouth which is
nothing short of halitosis marmalade with a pinch of molded garlic. The food is much
better on the way in. I love the smell of the corn each Tuesday. Each little pale yellow
kernel just sends delight into my life. Yes, I love it here in my little room home.
Outside of here, they were trying to catch me. They were always watching like hawks
with devil eyes from every corner. In the mart, they would glance quickly my way. Oh
how they couldnt hide it form my expert eyes! And the whispers, they drove me crazy
how much they thought I couldnt hear them, but I know that they were trying to trap
me. But here, I am a peace. I am at rest. When I whistle, the room whistles back.
When I stare at the ceiling, I see images of happiness from my past. What kind of
place is this? This asylum for the weary wanderer. I think Ill grab my pillow now. So
soft and cheaply made, so humble. Yes, thats nice to just lay my head on it and let
my dark hair cover my face. Its like a tent right on my noggin. Oh the colors I see now
with my eyes closed.
#12
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Yawn
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Opening to the abyss
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injection of sleepiness
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mouth wide open
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inward scream
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disheveled hair
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no makeup
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stretched neck
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early morning
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contagious, infectious
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coffee mugs and espresso
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warm breakfast, scrambled eggs, crisping bacon in the pan, each pop signaling a
moment closer to a satised appetite, frozen biscuits warming up in the oven, rising to
create a avorful cloud of soft insides
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bedhead
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without trying
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smell of bad breath
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touch your hand over your mouth, guard it
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run your hand over your head
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roll over and pull the covers over your shoulders, dig the side of your head into your
pillow
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be quiet because everyones still sleeping
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yawns cant hold back children on Christmas morning, batting their eyes, once, twice,
letting out a sustained yawn and whispering to each other, Its Christmas! little feet
run to the living room, staggered gaits attempt to keep up, they see the colored lights
of the tree rst and under it, piles of toys in boxes or set out with ribbons tied to them,
a purple bike with ribbon around the handlebars, a green box with a gold bow,
squealing, running to their parents bedroom and shouting get up! tasting chocolate
and hard candy from their backs, listening to carols on the tv radio
#13