Nighttime scribbles. Wish I could remember what that great title goes with.
One: did words just pop into your head? Dressed for success? Silently shouting, "Look. At. Me." Well? What will you write in response?
Two: did last night's "Tah-dah!" moment, captured scribblingly, profess any worth when illuminated by morning sun? Or did beer think itself scholarly? Well?
Three: has this image squatted in your mind, vagrantly occupying your attention, its presence exciting but annoying? Evict it by describing it?
Four: if Image brings her friend, Emotion, accompanying your nighttime scribbles, party troika promising trouble plus fun— you've got poetry.
Good luck, sucker, hanging on to your sense of control. See ya after your eyeballs roll back, you forget your agenda, you forget your promises.
Ghosts, slipping treelike through forests populated by people looking just like they once did. Slowly dissolving, windborne gossamer, 'til people look through them. Haunting not others, but themselves with each mirror-ward glance. Remembering when they treated ghosts similarly, in youthful vibrancy.
Angry Drunk Driving my pickup, Six-pack beside me. Timing my throws to Hit empties into the Truck bed. Blind, thinking Endless thought loops.
Years later. Angry drunk. Driving miles while still Sitting in my chair. Still timing my throws Of empty thoughts to Capture blind thinking: Endless thought loops.
More years Still angry. Still drunk. Tired of driving Mental miles worn Deeply in my mind. Emptied soul tiring Of postured thinking: Break my thought loops.
Every day I want 24 hours between today and tomorrow: Breathe I want to quit feeling this tightness across my chest: Breathe I want my stomach to desire food as much as my mouth Breathe I want to enjoy beer as food not medicine Breathe I want to feel as if I know what I'm doing Breathe I want to feel less as if we're doing something wrong Breathe I want to get out of here Breathe
Full of breath I ran screaming; mere hellish jobs looked great Compared to my hell-hole.
I didn’t post yesterday’s poem for which I feel profoundly guilty since my intent had been to post two poems. The day intruded and at 5 p.m. I decided a beer with my wife took precedence over composing the final two lines…and then dinner…and the Home Run Derby… Still trying to catch up to the date: maybe #30 on the 30th? With a two-week vacation coming up, I fear I’ll fall behind again.
Whatever shall I wear today? I've far too many clothes to play This game on ev'ry waking morn. Perhaps something already worn On days just past; but then again, I'll think that they'll remember when, (Though I've no thought for theirs).
This 'problem' stems from when I pay To 'fix' some fashion gone astray. Perhaps more neutrals? Then I'd mourn Outfits bold which would adorn My daily jeans I've donned since when They came bell-bottomed—way back then— And I still had my hairs...
I loved that shirt and miss that hair. March 1977.
Every day a poem: Dawn's introductory stanza Sets me up—better, worse, or In-between. By Breakfast's lines Attitude starts setting, casting Today's foundation. Theme, style, music, tone, harmony, dissonance, all proscribed by this early start. Takes composer's interference to Change this line, this development. Afternoon either resolves all notes, or abandons them to dissipate into "well there's always tomorrow."
In my childhood we peered between [FCC: public airways belong to everyone.] slatted media-control fences, won- [We cannot allow any but market forces to] dering where these LP's we saw came [dictate who will get licenses, who will be] from, artists we'd never heard, never seen [allowed to own a broadcast station, what] over our airwaves. Sometimes these fen- [those stations will play. If young people] ces presented themselves as white, snowy [represent compelling market demogra-] static on those TV channels which deli- [phics, market dynamics will act as incentives] vered no signals. We scoured back [to serve them.] [Record exec: one cannot] pages in magazines, looking for 'just one [suppose your average teenager knows] more' to satisfy our latent curios- [good music from bad. We don't truly get] ity. Our comics straddled two worlds to sur- [this so-called music ourselves, you un-] vive. Real good ones, 'too offensive,' hid in [derstand; certain performers make] head shops near bongs, fringed [better stars than others. We help main-] leather jackets, patchouli oil. Even shows [tain morality, give kids something to do,] we liked fenced us this way, making us [keep them from getting into trouble.] endure dog acts, plate spinners, [Sure, we pay to get our records on] Borscht Belt comedians to catch [the air. Capitalism's the name of the] three minutes from "Today's Latest [game, baby, how the world works.] Greatest Group, the..." Yardbirds. [You don't mind if I light this cigar?] Troggs. Beatles. Elvis. Lovin' Spoonful. [Your local politician: Zoning laws] Car radios came with buttons, we [can be used creatively to keep this] thought, to facilitate quick-punch- [craziness in check. If you really don't] ing from 'that awful song by...' [want your child to listen to this...stuff,] only to hear it anyway on our city's only [don't let them buy it. It's how Ameri-] other pop music station. We saw fences [ca works, donchaknow? {wink}] everywhere: Midwest, small towns, the [Now remember to vote for me next month!] South, anywhere without "a scene".
We chipped at, kicked at, hammered
at, pulled at those fences. Bit by
bit those slatted boundaries fell.
[Where ya bin'? I've sang these words] Ninety-minute TV concerts at [every day. Never saw you here before.] midnight. Imports in our record stores. [Listen to me. This ain't jazz, it ain't classi-] Lyrics about living, loving, dying, in- [cal, it ain't nutthin' but music, dude!] stead of "wake up little Susie" or [Ya payin' attention? Hey! I'm talking] "Tell Laura I love her...", we heard [here! Ah, forget it. You don't get it.] Woodstock's Fish chant. We cheered
"I used my best project management skills! I had sub-projects, dependent tasks, timelines, mileposts! And deliverables? My God! I had 'em comin' out My ass! But scope creep
blew it up. Mileposts changed. Life wanted new measures, new deliverables. I couldn't make sense of it. I adapted, changed, tried to be successful, but when my project finished
I'd delivered someone else's project entirely. Now I'm just confused: Am I a success or did I fail miserably?"
all the voices in my head 