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Jake Gyllenhaal starred in Bubble Boy? Somehow this eases my mind. It means we are all capable of majesty. (The thought resonates cliché, but that’s how we’re programmed to hear it. Our culture belittles earnesty in a cynical world.) No matter what people feel about Gyllenhaal, he dates Reese Witherspoon, sports a beard, played one of the great indie movie characters of all time, and had a spot on the MTV celebrity softball squad. Come on, the man has lived. Follow Jake’s lead-stand up if you stumble. We have to chisel through rock to get to gold; that’s the beauty.
A potato pancake
5 Dollops of Sour Cream
Three Mission pancakes-
An Adalberto’s tx Burrito
angie’s mac & feta chz
vitamin D milk
warm Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies
Dinner with krissy wetzel,
though That will never happen again
Café wine in Paris
Coney dog diner in Detroit
a prayer for Owen Meany
Dad’s bbq burgers and liverWurst sandwiches
drinks with Bob among TALL nimble creatures
late night munchies in the windy city with will and julie
My Famous Fish Tacos and homemade sauce Tartar over Allen Ginsberg’s a supermarket in california
Do I possess the intestinal fortitude to face death? If I knew tomorrow I’d die but this would serve noble purpose. Daunting, but I believe I carry the dignity. What, I determine death’s design? In the divine scheme, mine, everybody’s deaths convey utter inconsequence, but what if divinatory demise resounded no gallantry? My fated day nothing more than a close to a brief stay? Storms brew in quiet times. Cushioned folds of time rock and roll ebb and flow. A hooded darkness dances in my eye. Let me have the heart to face it and the joy to embrace it.
In a scattered sort of mood. Mellow and carefree from too much time in the sun. Keyed up and ready for church basketball. Pressed for time and under the gun for the right words. Numb and yet to register reaction from losing a promising prospect. Craigslist appeared to have handed me the key from financial strain and to August freedom, but the opportunity proved elusive. Negotiations broke down and I’m left strapped like the Clippers. Shit. Don’t think about that now. Competition will soon provide a respite from frustration and sweet Dotty’s blues a hand to hold in difficulty times.
There are secret places within these city streets never truly seen except in recesses of your mind. These places call to you from dreams; personal observations that have lapsed quickly into the unconscious. Your logical intellect maintains a façade to protect sanity, but tendrils of awareness seep into the conscious during sleep. And when you arise, those gossamer memories promptly recede with everyday’s arrival. But if you can remain in a waking stasis for just the right amount of time at the just the right time of day, you can float in the fantastic that lays just below the surface.
My backpack follows me where’er I go. The straps remain true after years of use. White canvas takes on a grayed patina, but the fabric resolutely glows. In the bundle, I carry my multitude of everyday experience. Today this includes my bike lock, discs for a morning round at Morley, towel and flip flops for the beach, a sweatshirt in anticipation of cool, desert nights, a clipboard cataloging daily errands, a book to continue in quiet moments, my writing journal and utensils, and a large water bottle. This satchel secures each day’s journey and rides the lengths upon my back.
Fantasy football always progresses to an obsession. With each free moment from editing a resume packet, I check the projected 2008 running back statistics. After reworking creative writing pieces, I have to compare Matt Waldman’s ‘Crank Score’ quarterback rankings with their average draft position (ADP). Printing out a finished work allows me to solidify my predrafted players on Antsports’ mock draft. Before shutting down my computer, I make sure to take a peek at Matthew Berry’s top 200 list and draft strategy. The real world has its momentary satisfactions but nothing tops the glory of running a fake football team.
She hummed hymns to the soft twilight, hoping he wouldn’t be disturbed. Her skin swelled in several places, but not noticeably. There was another row, but that’s okay, mama taught her strength. This was no different from the torrents of childhood, but that’s okay, daddy toughened her skin. Her man wrestled with the same whiskeyed devils as her daddy. She remembered mama sung psalms after, whispered wishes for a more peaceful realm. Mama’s prayer had finally been granted and she now rested for eternity. When, she wondered, would she receive her reprieve? This was the only escape she could imagine.
What have I let myself be talked into? 100 degrees of dry heat in the San Bernadino sun? Common, Wu Tang Clan, Nas,
great in theory, right? But mobbed in a sea of 36,000 people? I hoped to spend the day creating unit plans but will I regret the missed opportunity sweltering, sweating, and spinning among a throng of humanity? How the hell is this even tempting? Why collect experiences like trading cards to file away in my mind? Is it somehow confirmation of a brimming existence? Or is it only smoke and mirrors-justification for cowering from life’s formidability?
A solitary diner dove into his burger with gusto. The doctor disapproved the diet, but the man would not be convinced to relinquish a last pleasure. He ate alone, but wished no pity. He had ridden gracefully through life’s waves and suffered the loneliness of old age with dignity.
The guest chewed contentedly and perused daily news. After finishing, gnarled hands folded the paper, tossed a coat over his arm and laid down an ample tip. Rita, a talented waitress and gracious woman, threw a generous smile his way. He winked back and strode through the door into the night.
A true love found:
He books down sidewalks, late for the archaeology conference. Bounding up stairs, his mind meanders to mysterious Assyrian plains and his body clobbers her. Eyes meet-she grips his extended hand; a shiver and a rumble pass between. Minutes later, the two are having coffee, conference forgotten. In three months, they get a place. Ten years further brings children’s laughter. Myriad memories beyond, they’re laid to rest side by side.
A true love missed:
He races towards the train, head down. A car horn breaks his reverie-just time to dart around some poor woman he almost smashes.
Shoes strapped, legs wrapped
shorted in black and gray,
Arisen a body soft from bed,
time to wake the day.
Electric waves curl up arms,
leading an uphill charge.
Divine endorphins released,
my soul floats above pounding feet.
Red dragonflies tease the flowered ether.
and vast roots mangle the fine earth.
Eucalyptus groves, an untamed allusion
prehistoric relics avoiding dissolution.
My chest snaps free of leathered bonds
loping through fantastic lands.
Every pore glistens, sun refracted drops,
toxins evaporate under azure depths.
Aloft of the loam, racing the day,
Existence in underground corridors,
burned indulgences through the night.
I stopped to lace my shoe and felt a car rush by. Shit, that was too close.
At its best, running is a meditative experience; escape from querulous worry. At worst, running is a brush with death; cars, drunks, dogs, you name it.
Today, though, traffic was mysteriously sparse-no landscaping trucks, no housewives in minivans, no mail trucks. Coming home to a sweaty end, signs of life emerged. A uniformed officer speaking to my roommate. Approaching the porch, I overheard snippets.
“…identified a jogging pedestrian struck from behind…nothing paramedics could do…”
Weird, I was the only runner in the house.
He shook hands exiting with fellow churchgoers. His loquacious wife prattled on while he secured his son’s seatbelt. He paid no mind to the child’s obsession and took to familiar streets.
A yawning garage astride verdant landscaping welcomed them home. Family and friends arrived. After patiently engaging his mother-in-law and enduring his father-in-law’s misdirected politics, he slipped to the garage to greet friends with cigars, bellowed laughter and natural humility.
At night, he perused passages detailing Western man’s history as his family slept safe and soundly under the fruit of his toil. He smiled contentedly and switched off the lights.
Ten years ago, you died. You won’t provide medical care for needy children, weave melodic transcendence, or discover energy for a world burned thin.
Ten years ago, Gaia took your body to ocean floors and God took your soul to heavenly heights. You never knew your first kiss, your first shy caress or love’s first shock.
Ten years ago, you left a hole in my heart. I’m glad you never saw your father and I grow distant. Or knew awkward growth. Or fell on your face. You were sinless in this world and I trust are shining in the next.
Do these maestros have any idea? Do they have nightmares of bandito kidnappers and untamed dogs? One slug, they’ll bother me no more. One day, I’ll be running the street. Some way, their face will not assume disdainful looks when Latino students refuse to be whiter.
What is school for a Latino street kid? What else do these cracked sidewalks and broken homes offer? We just buried my cousin. My tears fell last night on the bed my brother and I share. My mom weeps not at another useless death but because there’s not food in her belly for two.
A grin graces my face passing through the security gates. An auspicious visit to the library is a nerd’s dream. In my backpack are worlds I have yet to visit. Wondrous words adorn the pulp and unique insights illuminate once dark caverns of thought. Between covers is contentment and escape from stark reality. I revel in the essays of a bespectacled Bradbury, travel the Night Country with Eisley, and commentate on the essential fallibility of man’s progress with Asimov. Whatever it is that tickles your fancy, words will be there. Whatever it is that gets your goat, books will abide.
Skirts bleat on cell phones sipping sparkled water atop
Wrought iron grates in the umbrella-ed shade
Would be poets eviscerate consciousness upon
Flat back fitted black couches pillowed by Pollack
Fat men drink fruity concoctions in
Fat thrones of leather, surfing soundlessly in headphones
Crazily copper wired kitchen chairs buttress
A panoply of medical texts barricading a glassy eyed student
Bamboo boned, green seated seats support
A disillusioned Vietnam vet as he spews a communist’s Manifesto-infiltrating
youth with dreams dancing in revolution and anarchy
A game of Scrabble and iced lattes between
A gaggle of giggles and half whispered confessions
I’m sick of treading water in turbulent quietude. A step forward to becoming the intrepid man felt inside and one back to that unconfident befuddled fool. A push toward authentic promise then a stumble renewing self-defeatist tendencies. Standing erect against a crush of consumerism and engrossment in obligatory entertainment. Wallowing flaccid in the morass of a clouded mind and weak willed insipid indulgences. My intensity of being a blessing and a curse-my eyes shine with transcendental light but grow wan with lack of direction. We don’t change who we are, but shape our character in reflection’s glare and deliberate purpose.
Scarlet drops soak my socks. A knuckle burns arthritically from an ancient injury. Leg muscles tremble, gorged on adrenaline. Limping slightly on a slightly tender ankle. Struggling to peel a sodden shirt from my back. And I sit, floating delicately in primeval stew.
This body we have been granted to impel, to break, and to heal. Random scars decorate my hands, closed lacerations scatter my torso, forgotten abrasions litter my legs, and childhood gashes hide behind brows. In a woman’s hands, my wounds are haute couture. It is when we stretch our stamina’s bounds that we approach the amaranthine crux.
This sucks. Slipping from San Diego’s sunshine into the silent shade and an antiseptic smell scales my skin. Still sanitized air suggests the sickness inside. Sounds escaping from concealed speakers attempt to transmit serenity. This only strengthens my suspicion of the masochistic disposition of this enterprise. I shrink from the distressed stratosphere and shirk the senile salivating in wheelchairs. Someone says my name and I stride hesitantly to my assigned space. I am seated on a stool and shudder at sterile instruments’ steely stare. I start at each sound of slamming doors, anticipating a supercilious smile accompanied by a syringe.
Please don’t light up at the outdoor tables.
We understand it’s a little ludicrous and wholly hypocritical
To sell cigarettes at this store and then
Ask people not to smoke on its patios.
It’s also a common connotation and a completely conceivable
Defensive reaction that ignites an offensive rejoinder
To light up.
So, in abeyance of two perfectly lucid arguments,
We’re politely suggesting you smoke elsewhere.
We’re certainly tiring of pampered patrons protesting
Toxins supplementing their toasted tuna.
Not everyone, though, can be accommodated.
Please realize this is the fallacy of politically correct culture.
Thank You, Management
Rocks rattled below blue studded tires. Chocolate clay unfolded under wandering eyes. A predatory quest led down wide rutted lanes. Treacherous puddles beckoned the bike, but deep troughs laid in wait for the unwary rider. Arriving sopping wet from the waist down I entered mirrored gates.
My eyes feasted on tangerine tins brimming with gummed delights. My nose filled with East European delicacies: knockwurst and sauerkraut. My ears acknowledged the spectacled sentinel manning the register. Outside, my tongue lavished liquid yellow ambrosia.
Energized at another auspicious conquest, I traveled toward timbered trails, seeking to unveil new wonders among the wood.
Who’s the first beast to pick up sticks on progeny's account?
The first ember of animation began an unassailable sequence.
Why employ those mechanisms for posterity’s sake?
An homage to intangible mysteries igniting being.
How did a question construct so much imagination?
It is not a finite conflagration and you are only an instrument.
In what places were these tools made?
In many darkened dwellings and lighted caverns ringing melodically with divine spark.
When were trumpets sounding?
Always in your combustible carotid compositions.
Where can I keep my heart from overwhelming?
In acceptance of transitory bounds as the momentary essence.
Lingering on late streets, our bones buzzed in quiet anticipation. I leant back as they stalked the landscape with potent purveyance. Their predatory eyes lingered thirstily upon potential prey but the night was sparse. My primal inclinations stirred in the heat of their untamed aura.
Their eyes did not tarry, instead darting in expectation of the next electric moment. Their humanity shimmered intermittently between feral appraisals of darkened streets. They were disciplined men whose obedience trebled that ferocious animation lurking just below a superficial civilization. My skin itched for fury as primal cadences hearkened in latent corners of my mind.
That bread’s got body.
Protected by Illuminati.
Angelic peanut butter
Blessed grape jelly
A crown of thorns
Cannot pierce the dough.
A barbed circlet
Cannot pierce the soul.
An ode to Angie’s Holy Bread portrait. The piece induces higher level thinking and looks cool to boot.
Speaking of art, I heard a sweeping indictment of San Diego artists last night by no other than an aspiring sculptor. Seemed rather offensive to criticize a group of creative thinkers based upon geographic generalizations. Critical creative analyses remain essential, but a universal condemnation rang ignorant.
Many a Man
Many a seed has man sown.
Many a sunset has man seen.
Many a deity man has worshipped.
Many a tribe man has inhabited.
Many a land has man tamed.
Many a beast has man trained.
Many a burden has man carried.
Many a brother has man buried.
Many a story has man spun.
Many a song has man sung.
Many a tool has man devised.
Many a machine has man contrived.
Many a moment has man championed.
Many an opportunity has man wasted.
Will this tale be continued or has man used all his chances allotted?
(v) An easing of pain, anxiety, a burden, etc.
Man oh man, finally landed a teaching gig. After months of searching, fortune smiled upon me at the San Diego Board of Education. Arrived at the board yesterday to process substitute paperwork and instead landed a district interview. The morning following, I nailed the interview and, just minutes later, was assigned an opening for 10th grade English. Arriving at the school, eager colleagues identified the yearling in their midst, whisked me away, showed me the ropes and loaded me down with materials. Their sweet relief and my pedagogical responsibilities renewed.
Together with porn and chat, astrology helped to launch the Internet. Now it distracts my writing attempts. Woo me with extraordinary personality traits, tickle me with inherent powers, and tempt me with latent destructive capabilities.
Not only can you receive a personality description depending upon birth date, a future forecast grounded in heavenly movement, and a daily tarot hinting at the smoky curtain of coming night, but you can tap into past lives via Edgar Cayce. No shit! Who were you formerly: a cardinal, a king, a criminal, a Choctaw, a crocodile? Twenty bucks seems almost too inexpensive to unveil.
No way, the Volcano Taco?!?! Talk about pushing paradigms. This is raw ingenuity. It’s the most groundbreaking concoction since the triple cheeseburger.
Now, I rage at our rampant consumerism, but put bacon and ranch on fried chicken, call it Monterey, and I’ll be in line the next day. I acknowledge the hypocrisy of my enthusiasm, but for God’s sake, the shell is lava colored!
Of course. there are bombs like the Arby’s Italian Roast Beef, which shoulda’ been called the Rancid Shit Sandwich, but this doesn’t stop me from forging ahead. I’m American damn it and I’m gonna’ fucking indulge!
Mike Patrick on play by play and UCLA’s dancing-the last man standing in a slugfest with Tennessee. 3 lead changing drives
a game tying field goal as time expired. Both offenses were beat beyond regulation after 2 game changing drives
. A made and missed field goal and Volunteers return to Knoxville with long faces.
And I’m done man. Kinda’ proud finishing a writing project. Still gotta’ edit the previous one but there’s no more ideas to flesh out for this batch.
UCLA wins the best game of this early college weekend and this is wrapped up. So peace.
The Tip Jar