Friday, April 11, 2014

spring time poem i made at work.

The blood on my hand is the blood of the lamb
I make a sacrifice to ease my pain
Come blow in, my warm spring
Come grow in, my fleeting bride
I’ve given of myself for your blooming touch
And await, as a beach to the tide.

Friday, May 11, 2012


Down on forward’s field
The air is electric current and
Night felt on the skin by subtle touch
makes moving last on your mind.
Distance is an ocean, but calm, from face to fence;
Vast pitch-black, no lights tonight,
comfort the ground and allow me to hide and cool.
Feel energy. 
Feel energy in my feet born
in the chasm pressures of our rock.
Climb and strike out of my eyes and head,
Towering steely blue bolts bow in the night.

Down on forwards field past the entrance of the gate
A time to look right thru you to the meadows we see there.

mint gum and the effects of sensory memory on history

I can remember the days when the smell of mint gum meant I was on a date.  a co-worker is chewing the gum about 8 feet from where I am sitting.  Now she is stretching.  The smell brings me back to high school when the girls still wondered what sex was and when they still thought the smell of their breath might turn boys off.  Innocent enough; to smell like mint and to taste like mint, just in case.  

Mint still growing green and fragrant; young and moving in the breeze and sun.  I am taken back again to a couch in a family room of a young teenage girl’s family’s home.  Her parents are gone.  We are sitting on the couch, and she…is…chewing…mint…gum.  I swear I am back there again, sitting beside her in a vast vacuum of a universe of a room her family gathered in on a floral couch to watch TV together on early evenings. 

And here we were.  Now.  Excited and anxious.  Scared in some moments.  Heart beating.  Mint in the air.  How she seemed calm and in control.  How I felt new in a new situation and wondering what was right and if I was doing the right thing to make her think I knew what I was doing.  I can feel the texture of the couch—the stitched red roses on green vines that felt bumpy as individual threads while my fingers flicked them and tried to feel each stitch as I stared and studied them intently trying to locate and ignore the questions in my mind. 

And then she said she’s sick of babysitting and she wanted to have fun for a change.  I knew she was interested in exploring the borders of her young teenage experience but I was now scared.  Scared I had gotten myself in too deep.  How do I make a move.  If we get started, how will i make the next move—what was the next move?  New and slow-motion, awkward movements took my arm around her shoulder like I saw people do.  I leaned in and she did too. 

I realized I needed to take my arm away and off her shoulders in order for our lips to touch.  So I awkwardly slid my arm back across her shoulder and craned my neck to kiss her young lips and taste the mint inside her mouth.  I remember my neck hurting, but most of all, I remember the mint.

I am brought back to reality.  Sitting at my desk.  Staring at my dual monitor set up so I can work more efficiently, navigating from my personal e-mail to the internet radio with the greatest of ease. 

And time is ticking by.  Not quickly, but just as it should.  Look out the window.  now, hands, fingers on the black keyboard in front of you.  type type type type.  Stare at the white mug in front of you. 


Here I am.  Sitting and writing.  Thinking about last night.  Thinking about the date I was on.  Thinking of the girl I shared drinks with at a dive bar I’ve never been to that had a good beer list.  The way her cheeks became flushed was endearing.  Her cheeks turning pink and me thinking of strawberries blooming in little patches.  Vines, green, growing and spiraling, turning back over on themselves and sprouting little precious succulent fruits.  Right there, on her cheeks, in front of my very eyes.  She is pretty.  She is nice.  We talk and laugh and have fun and remember other times when we felt new and our skin is fresh from peeling the dead cells off and I am exposed.  I am exposing myself.  And I am enjoying it.  The beers flowed from the taps and we shared time together.  I had some ipa’s.  I think I had a Belgium.  She enjoyed the beer.  Her skin was so smooth and white.  It looked so soft.  All I wanted to do was lightly run the backs of my fingers over her pink and white cheek to feel its smoothness imaging it is cold and rigid and made of marble or porcelain. 
The time went by quickly now.  I didn’t think of time or movement and then she offered to drive me home.  We were ready to leave and it was late.  I didn’t want it to end, though.  The next day of work didn’t exist.  Clocks ran backward and the streets buckled.  The exercise was fruitful.  We pulled in front of my place.  I thanked her and was not at all thinking about how to end the night.  I was just being.  Talking.  Not wanting to let her out of my site.  I said I was going to kiss her on the cheek.  I was going to feel her skin.  Feel her delicate, strawberry little gardens.  The cold, hard cheek.  What would my lips, my lips! Get to feel.  How would it be?  How will my beard react after being exposed to such a treat.  These facial hairs that get abused, rubbed, left out in the cold, forgotten and overlooked.  How all their service would be paid back with one short, pretty moment brushed up against her swirling, spiraling sweet skin.  I say I am going to kiss her on the cheek and she smiles and I move closer to her.  Me sitting in the passenger seat, leaning over the console to where this jewel lay, this jewel I am not sure of, this jewel I know is precious but not yet known.  I’m like an idiot with a lightbright.  I know it will be fantastic but I am not sure how it will be fantastic.  I kiss her.  It’s fantastic.  Now go, mike.  Say thanks and leave.  Thanks and go.  I left the car tasting strawberries. 

And suddenly, I am back at work.  logging on to my computer and doing things that are completely average and not at all extraordinary. 

Friday, November 12, 2010

the terrible twos

the terrible twos

walking down the sidewalk--clipclip clipclip--johns boot heels contact the pavement.  clipclip clipclip.  walking in twos.  clipclip clipclip.  he thinks, "this is a casa blanca night".  john will often retreat into the world of black and white moving images on a bright rectangle to act like his friend.  maybe share a bottle with lauen bacaul and mr bogart.  "is that who that is?  lauren bacal?", john wonders.  no matter.  elctonic images give him the same feeling as other images, be it real living people, images in his mind or his wild dreams.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Sin Peter's Story

Another day. I woke up. Hungover.

My friends are all derlicts.

Im one too

sin peter is at the bus stop. It is hot as fck. At least 88 degrees. It's been hotter lately. Sin peters space is a small bus shelter, ya no the ones that are all over the city. Plexiglass all around and 10 by 4. this one is actually clean but sin peter can't lie down cuz of the arm rests. Those dam armrests on benches. No man can sleep on those. This stop is one of the new stops. The kind that has a tv in it. Or I guess its not really a tv but some kinda tv that just plays ads. Sin peter has seen these before and knows the world keeps on going. Hasn't passed him by cuz he is still livin and breathin. Sin peter is winning for all accounts. He has beat the streets, disease, being broke, losing everything. So a colored screen a bus stop is nothing new to him. Sin peter looks to the left. He sees cabs lined up to take some of the people somewhere and he almost laughs out loud. Lord knows all you know is temporary. Go where you want cuz when you get back it aint not the same as when you done gone. Nothing is the same cuz you probably hustled out of where you been or think you belong. But really, every day is the same as the day before. Look for money look for food look for someone that's the same as you. As sin peter, he just gets hot. He is feeling like his eyes are on fire and his body is on fire and a part of his leg is on fire. These fires might be infections or who knows. Who cares. They might go away. For a while. Still lookin to the left sin peter sees the bus and a place he can sit and be cool. So hot out. A bus is a place to be cool. Sin peters stuff is huge. His pack is big and smelly. He wants to bring it with him wherever he goes...................

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

now. new. there. here.

i've been places.  i've been here and there...the road has said ok.  go ahead.  tread on me.  roll over me.  say hello.  say good-bye.  we've traveled there together, the road and i.  we have met the sky together.  we have met the mud and dirt together as well.  the road has taken me here.  where am i.  my times and thoughts have spanned the universe, looking for meaning and pattern.  looking for where i fit.  looking where the stream meets the horizon.  meeting people as i go meeting ideas as they pass.  dying all the time.  living all the time.  feeling everything and feeling nothing.   sparks flying from my eyes.  sparks flying and burning.  warming frozen fields and warming insides of cold things.  the branches.  the grasses.  images have been burned in my mind.  no cold can move them.  the memories are there but have been covered in dust yet still perceptable to me.  i don't want to lose them because they are lessons learned or mistakes or not mistakes and i don't want to lose them even if they aren't the best things ever.  i need to feel the earth.  under my feet.  and in my head and in my mouth and lungs.  it is here where i belong.  it is here where i begin to understand myself.  it is here that things can begin to change.  change....

Thursday, August 19, 2010

so it worked. including misspellings

ok.  so this is my first real post.  i dislike times new roman.  times new viking is ok.

i am watching the sox beat heck all out of the twinkies.  bout time.  buerhle is a bad, bad man.

i am starting a blog under a pseudonym, as i wouldn't want to incriminate my real self. 

i went to the store to buy things.  things bought me.  i went to the street to run.  the street ran me.  i opened a bottle of wine.  the bottle of wine opened me. 

is anyone else suffering from allergies?  i sure am.  my eyes, they do burn.  gonorreahaaaaa.  ah, that kramer.

i went to work today and did some.  oh wait, i already played that game eariler in this, my first real post.  i wonder if anyone will get to this blog.  or whatever they call it...maybe "access this blog".  i am technologically backwards.