At seventy-five, he dived twenty-eight times.
A "macho-man" accumalted to the cold.
"Better to win, but better to be a good loser." He pointed face on.
"The weather is fucked up.", he said.
" You know of the coming, well it is on its way soon, but who really cares if we all go poof."
"Boom!"
"We are all going to go right?" he stared at me, like an information booth on hold.
"Yep, poof!" I blew cigarette smoke to the right in order not to offend.
"Absoultely." I kinda sang those words to him, like opera. He smiled.
"You come to New York, come back."
"You belong here." he grabbed my hand. We were both made for this conversation.
"Of course, Bob, and I hope to have more of these moments." I pulled out my borrowed keys to upstairs.
"I am going, to the cemetary to lay flowers on my wife's grave and my son passed two years back." The pavement was his focus.
A fire truck sirened by.
What do you say in these moments.
"I will see you soon." I patted him on the back.
"Keep being a fish and everything will be in place." I hugged him, proudly.
"You'll be back and next time with a husband."
I watched him walk away. He limped and did not pay attention to traffic.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
"Easy does not enter into your grown up life." The Weather Man
I love my daughter. I love my neices. I think that they have taught me the most. Especially, about reading. Lately, I have come across some really wonderful junior fiction books. One in particular is "i can't tell you." by Hillary Frank.
If you have read my writing, one could probably notice, I am not too excited about craft. I have been schooled and trained in writing, creative writing, but Allen Ginsburg changed my mine indefinitely when he stated "F**k Craft." These books have changed craft and opened minds of the young writers and I hope parents will read what their children do.
The point of this, reading these contempory junior fiction books, I realize that in these times, everything is possible. Children are becomming increasingly smarter, loosing their innocence at an earlier time than "we" did, but in deep-thought, those, like my little ones, have choose a path of education. With these books, they can realize that life is not living in a bubble and there is more to life than barbie dolls and being spoilied. And although junior fiction books maybe bought by the younger generation, I think adults should read them too. The lessons learned will be endless.
If you have read my writing, one could probably notice, I am not too excited about craft. I have been schooled and trained in writing, creative writing, but Allen Ginsburg changed my mine indefinitely when he stated "F**k Craft." These books have changed craft and opened minds of the young writers and I hope parents will read what their children do.
The point of this, reading these contempory junior fiction books, I realize that in these times, everything is possible. Children are becomming increasingly smarter, loosing their innocence at an earlier time than "we" did, but in deep-thought, those, like my little ones, have choose a path of education. With these books, they can realize that life is not living in a bubble and there is more to life than barbie dolls and being spoilied. And although junior fiction books maybe bought by the younger generation, I think adults should read them too. The lessons learned will be endless.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Herman and adieu to letting go!!!
I feel loved
I feel it surrounding me..
in a French accent, in a dream, in a reality.
I saw it in the photos of Herman Melville's house.
Through his woods, his window.
I let go of my vein in my head that matched the one under your eye,
I said adieu.
I say it now and always.
I dropped the poison.
I am now anew.
I can sit alone or with old linkings
I am loved.
When I read "Israel Potter", and the mountains of The Berkshires
I was shocked
how I have been missing out.
how I was once in the midst of blue mountains,
now I can go anywhere.
Thanks to Herman and saying adieu,
to letting go.
I feel it surrounding me..
in a French accent, in a dream, in a reality.
I saw it in the photos of Herman Melville's house.
Through his woods, his window.
I let go of my vein in my head that matched the one under your eye,
I said adieu.
I say it now and always.
I dropped the poison.
I am now anew.
I can sit alone or with old linkings
I am loved.
When I read "Israel Potter", and the mountains of The Berkshires
I was shocked
how I have been missing out.
how I was once in the midst of blue mountains,
now I can go anywhere.
Thanks to Herman and saying adieu,
to letting go.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
WHAT IS REAL?
At times, the blood pressure cuff felt like your hand, but it was not. The shakes were enough, like you were there shaking me. It was just the cloud of morphine, there was nobody there, but a small man in the corner. He was drunk, like my old boyfriend. I don't know how he got into the hospital room, but he listened to my life story, eventhough my breathe smelled of old stomach pain and fevers.
When I was sent home, I discovered he came with me. In the morning, all hungover, he was making oatmeal and toast. What a night, he blasted at me. I sat down at the table and he gifted me a bowl.
You were like an owl hooting for a mate, so I just thought you really needed me to be by your side.
This must still be the morphine or a drip dream. My feet were firmly planted on the carpet and this carpet is no joke.
So how are you?And how did I let you in?
You let me in, I let myself in.
I do it all the time, when I find people in the hospital talking away in mutters. You were all mutters too.
What did I say?
Your head would pop. You talked of your serious army wound, I checked and all, but I found it hard think you were in Korea, being young. You said the war was like the best sex you ever had, so I had to linger kid, because, well who would leave ya?
He starting smoking a pipe. He looked so ageless.
I must still be in the hospital. This oatmeal tastes straight from Ireland. I am twenty years old. Prison, but war.
The doctor came in calling my name. A hard tap drum. Waking up in a bed with a sheet on you an all medical-speaking white coat freak is undescriptive.
Your alive kid, but you need significant help. Your re-uptakers and dopamine are playing dirty tricks on your brain......
Wait, is he a beat poet now, where is the old man in the stinky corner and my oatmeal.
Wait, come closer vision. This is not real.
When I was sent home, I discovered he came with me. In the morning, all hungover, he was making oatmeal and toast. What a night, he blasted at me. I sat down at the table and he gifted me a bowl.
You were like an owl hooting for a mate, so I just thought you really needed me to be by your side.
This must still be the morphine or a drip dream. My feet were firmly planted on the carpet and this carpet is no joke.
So how are you?And how did I let you in?
You let me in, I let myself in.
I do it all the time, when I find people in the hospital talking away in mutters. You were all mutters too.
What did I say?
Your head would pop. You talked of your serious army wound, I checked and all, but I found it hard think you were in Korea, being young. You said the war was like the best sex you ever had, so I had to linger kid, because, well who would leave ya?
He starting smoking a pipe. He looked so ageless.
I must still be in the hospital. This oatmeal tastes straight from Ireland. I am twenty years old. Prison, but war.
The doctor came in calling my name. A hard tap drum. Waking up in a bed with a sheet on you an all medical-speaking white coat freak is undescriptive.
Your alive kid, but you need significant help. Your re-uptakers and dopamine are playing dirty tricks on your brain......
Wait, is he a beat poet now, where is the old man in the stinky corner and my oatmeal.
Wait, come closer vision. This is not real.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
SHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
everybody is a shhhhhhhhhhhhh!
they want so much to be heard that they only listen to their own voice
because when said louder it rings out...louder maybe someone will hear.
but what if you been listening all along?
what if you watch those faces that pass you and you just know underneath a wrinkle or a smile, there is a story that is shouting to people who are not listening.
in the bar, there is always conversation
there is always some kind of look for perfection
and people are clinking their drinks and drying out.
they believe I am not listening, when the guy next to me is pulling at my skirt.
I want to say something, but I am remembered of the past
so I shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
just like you shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
but your louder because people like you
your new and loved
I am old and damaged
you ask for my heart
it is not an option
but I listened all along
even when there were needle marks
even when you could not promise the world
even when you could not go because your anxiety was too much.
I was quiet.
everybody has a story.
everybody talks loud to be heard, but sometimes it is better to be shhhhhhhhhhhhh!
they want so much to be heard that they only listen to their own voice
because when said louder it rings out...louder maybe someone will hear.
but what if you been listening all along?
what if you watch those faces that pass you and you just know underneath a wrinkle or a smile, there is a story that is shouting to people who are not listening.
in the bar, there is always conversation
there is always some kind of look for perfection
and people are clinking their drinks and drying out.
they believe I am not listening, when the guy next to me is pulling at my skirt.
I want to say something, but I am remembered of the past
so I shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
just like you shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
but your louder because people like you
your new and loved
I am old and damaged
you ask for my heart
it is not an option
but I listened all along
even when there were needle marks
even when you could not promise the world
even when you could not go because your anxiety was too much.
I was quiet.
everybody has a story.
everybody talks loud to be heard, but sometimes it is better to be shhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Rough draft
New York-1955
He was in love. Once. He even told his parents. Told them, the romance was just like the movies and her smile, a sparkle, a sparkle that no Miss had come close to his heart of affairs.
He gathered them around and gleefully announced that if she accepted, he would propose marriage.
The time was exact. Her favorite season, Autumn lingered in the air windy and light. She then brought out her grandmother's trunk of sweaters. All colors, she wore them fitted to form and matched the favorite lipstick, fire and ice.
He was her fateful meeting. They met at the bottom of the apartment stairs. He with a rose each time, sparkle she.
Out into the evening, a stroll became an intensity inside his bowels. Not five hours before, the confession, "she was the one" became a bare sentiment of the parts of his brain, uniform, past and fantasies. He held her hand tight as she conversed in breaks, in gasps, but he could only hear panic. He frantically interrupted and made certain she knew, he only liked speaking to her, he only loved being with her.
Interruption. Closed blinds. Shut down.
Dear love:
I wish much joy. I am incomplete satisfaction. A matchless eye to yours. I am not a man of dignity or force of which could give you the pleasures of love that I have convinced you of. I hate the habit of inaccurate observation, not of you again, but my intolerable miserable poverty-stricken attitude. There is a shade of uncertainty in my life I have yet to examine. When I am in your deepest company, your clear brain of science and nature, leaves me at a longing to destroy my nimble moving hands as I write this to you. You are a heart alive to all beauties of nature. I am not entitled to worth or sanity. At the point in our heat and passion, I only lived in the moment, but now I concieve myself to be a found liar.
No sorry or strong desire for
forgiveness will ever happen between us,
Raynard
The letter arrived first day of snow. After two months of no contact. All her sweaters were neatly put away and she sat on the trunk to unseal the letter.
The conculsion cannot be escaped. For all she knew died in lessons of old philosphy.
He was in love. Once. He even told his parents. Told them, the romance was just like the movies and her smile, a sparkle, a sparkle that no Miss had come close to his heart of affairs.
He gathered them around and gleefully announced that if she accepted, he would propose marriage.
The time was exact. Her favorite season, Autumn lingered in the air windy and light. She then brought out her grandmother's trunk of sweaters. All colors, she wore them fitted to form and matched the favorite lipstick, fire and ice.
He was her fateful meeting. They met at the bottom of the apartment stairs. He with a rose each time, sparkle she.
Out into the evening, a stroll became an intensity inside his bowels. Not five hours before, the confession, "she was the one" became a bare sentiment of the parts of his brain, uniform, past and fantasies. He held her hand tight as she conversed in breaks, in gasps, but he could only hear panic. He frantically interrupted and made certain she knew, he only liked speaking to her, he only loved being with her.
Interruption. Closed blinds. Shut down.
Dear love:
I wish much joy. I am incomplete satisfaction. A matchless eye to yours. I am not a man of dignity or force of which could give you the pleasures of love that I have convinced you of. I hate the habit of inaccurate observation, not of you again, but my intolerable miserable poverty-stricken attitude. There is a shade of uncertainty in my life I have yet to examine. When I am in your deepest company, your clear brain of science and nature, leaves me at a longing to destroy my nimble moving hands as I write this to you. You are a heart alive to all beauties of nature. I am not entitled to worth or sanity. At the point in our heat and passion, I only lived in the moment, but now I concieve myself to be a found liar.
No sorry or strong desire for
forgiveness will ever happen between us,
Raynard
The letter arrived first day of snow. After two months of no contact. All her sweaters were neatly put away and she sat on the trunk to unseal the letter.
The conculsion cannot be escaped. For all she knew died in lessons of old philosphy.
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