eight rows gone

9 05 2007

so plenty of time, in summer they run wild with their line

he grows back, casts the first stone

come someone and go somewhere they find

I count crimes, absinthe and lime, a pound and a penny and climb.

You can’t grow back what has no fall and fast they run when have no tell your burying ways in gradual clime as chattering things come wild in behind and pouring the way over water and fall in the idolators day and the christians’ call how many were found and lost in that fall.

And late last night or early this morning, Daimian had a chainsaw for one hand, waving it about and cutting things off including himself in a very upsetting but not life-threatening way.  A restaurant, health food, a painting, ah?  Or none of those fragments except the persisting thought that I ought to tell Daimian about that chainsaw.


I dreamt of a madcap ride from the meeting room to the computer lab, atop a rolling condiment stand and bench with overhead scaffolding,

10 03 2007

all of this after making the last minute call for everyone to come back to attention so I could tell them where to go next and what to do in between.

I dreamt of a perfect sentence.

9 03 2007

Each word conveyed specific and precise information. There was nothing excessive or redundant. To change any word, even to rephrase, would change the articulated content. It was something to do with odds. “The mason’s odds become more readable with each wrong choice,” or words to that effect but not those, not really. Something about odds, and a collection of safe but wrong options, a right one, and some dangerous ones. Read the rest of this entry »

Dreams from the latter cusp of self-disappointment

3 12 2006

Dinner at a hippie/healthfood restaurant (Cafe Gratitude but up a hill in a Santa Cruz sandwich shop way) in one of the hillside neighborhoods I dream of that don’t quite map to any actual place. A little Rockridge, a little East Grand/Wildwood… Read the rest of this entry »

though can’t through

22 09 2006

sort by now and with though from have cut through then and half by white

old can win as walk past twice how they came forth as night began light

eight in doubt and twine for rope caught down under firing pain

those on shelf in write and ray made hope before that gain

as both instead of rock for now

the time we have to leave or play.

Back at Bar 717 for a visit, K was typically cold while walking around with an inspector, and I waved at the usual folks and said hello to some kids and explained to the old friend whose girlfriend I’d just slept with that (even though he didn’t want to hear anything like this from me) I wasn’t trying to compete with him, and that he was at a crux now and had to decide whether he wanted to go the distance with her.  He left and the other fellow there told me it was a crock, what was I talking about, and was just about to explain how anger clouds or skews my perspective when the alarm went off for the second time, or perhaps the third.

I did not respond to what I did not receive.

7 08 2006

There’s an envelope of evals in the corner of the room that I’ll crack open and read, as soon as I get my clipboard in order to start tracking the day and figure out what to do with this bounty of free time.

I didn’t go to camp and I didn’t get the text from the poet saying it was alright to call and I didn’t give myself time to shave my face or head yet and I didn’t say goodbye to my neighbor but now I’m thinking about taking over her apartment.

I checked myself right out from large chunks of the weekend with Jennifer, for lack of getting on to the things I had planned for myself. Now it’s Monday morning catch-up like usual, except that I really do have some time and space to play the game and make up the lengths.

I wore my beach-bum outfit and garnered a few comments; the 7-11 coffee rounds out the look quite well.

Saturday night I dreamt that I smoked pot for the first time in years. It tasted sticky sweet at the back of my throat, and I felt the bubbling consciousness of marijuana high, and the gladness of returning to it, mixed with the regret of letting my streak of sober years slip away. “I need to go to a meeting,” I thought. And I thought of that dream last night, as I trawled through unincorporated Richmond looking for KFC, listening to NPR.

That crazy junk heap of a truck that I piled all of the staff into?

26 07 2006

The one with engine trouble, stranded out there on the rickety pier,

Diesel fuel internal combustion engine on top of a hundred or so splintering, rotten two-by-fours,

All on the verge of collapse?

That might have been a premonition of yesterday, if at the end of the dream,

I’d taken a deep breath, checked my to-do list, asked for faith, said thank you to everybody,

And stood with them as we all got out and pushed.