vaguely artistic stuff...

To read a slightly hyperbolic fable of dogged determination and a fearsome thirst, click here...

This is where I put thoughts, poems and micro-vignettes that don't fit neatly in any other category...

This is the first attempt to record some of these disparate scraps of written jumble that I have stockpiled over the years... Will it inspire or will it return home to haunt me? Time will tell. Either way, it's information, however chaotic, so it deserves to be accessible for possible discovery by someone emminently more qualified than I to see the reason in the rhyme.

It might help to read some of these aloud (but, I recommend, quietly. Or with a look of righteous disdain so people can tell you're not taking any of it seriously...). A further note of caution: the following do contain the odd cuss word, so please stop now if you're easily offended or morally simplistic (sorry, redundant).

i jerked awake to find my hands and feet being pulled apart
 by ropes
my body formed a person sized "x" and i was helpless
i was also pissed - someone had woken me for this!
then i paused: can bondage be a sexual offense?
could i be found guilty if i was discovered like this?
i smiled. feeling the laquered carved wood beams with my
  outstretched fingers and toes it was clear
no jury could ever convict me of wrongdoing.
obviously, i'd been framed.

sometimes fish fly in bathtubs
and buzzards forget to shave.
occasionally slugs go stiff and cynical
and panda bears get brave
the odd possum sleeps alone at night
as does the sexist rabbit
and truth be told
eating earth's not the worm's most dirty habit

forever is a concept for which i have no patience
and it goes to show you darwin was out of hand in this modern land
where the most deserving have the least preserving instincts.

now socrates, you dumb fuck, you've gone and done it this time
you and your little friends have created quite a stir:
you've convinced us the answer exists,
is within our grasp and reason
now there's an instruction book on life
where the critical lines are missing
with all of the ascerbic wit and insight of a soundbite
and a spike in the hand
a good story to be sure
but never the law of the land

aristotle, you've spawned the frustrated generations
who keep looking but never find the destination they have in mind
crushed under the weight of their own misdirected intellect

i can only say it's not an answer that i seek but to beg the question.
indecision's all right by me if it keeps me guessing.
whether or not i find a thing
i still can learn a lesson
wrestling with my own demons is
better exercise than confessing.

aristotle you pompous ass,
you've made us see in black and white
all or nothing
helps us see you could never be all right
dear immanuel, my kantian friend,
you're the ship that's launched a thousand faces,
spawned the hordes who keep on looking,
never finding
though they occasionally detect traces.

a rustle of the sheets and you're up to clear your head
you said you sort things out before you head to bed

energy is fading fast and patience is at its end
you scare me silly with the graffiti message that you send
the air is still warm outside but you chill me to the bone
you said we had something but now you're getting on your plane
you don't explain, you don't look my way.
i'm on my own

sure it's hard at first, starting out together
when it's fresh and new you sweat it out
whenever you feel that feeling hit you right there where you need it...
when the letter that spoke to me dies when you reread it.
it crumples up love and pride nearby, no efforts can revive me

you read that we had something but now you don't mean it
you pack your bags in record time looking unconvincingly defeated
before you struck the final blow, i slunk down and retreated
you've gone back home
my heart raced the corridors of a tired mind
searching for that hidden lemon rind
that so soured your perception
a bruised and battered semi-ego marveled at the deception
so quick but thorough,
shockingly bright,
it cut me to the marrow with its might.

but i'm not a begging man

close inside a wet embrace
end of a storm streams down her face
"that's what you think" i try to tell her
words are just words, that's all they're good for

a slow sky fades from red to blue
sometimes i wish i knew what to do
in a pound of pain there's an ounce of gold
but if you tell the truth your ounce is sold
the going rate is far to high
for a poor man to live this lie.

a panicked rush, some words of warning
the uncertain face of a danger dawning
a pang of guilt, lost security
the endless cycle from the depths of obscurity.
sometimes stop sounds a lot like go
unless you say it way too slow
the innocent fears what she thinks she hears
even quiet tones can shatter hopeful ears

while you are talking to me
i nod and listen over your shoulder
to the girl i'm watching
whose gaze glistens
maybe it's only my impression
focusing on her friend intently
here's someone i could adore
if she'd only let me.

tight lips let little slip
wooden faces seldom split a smile
words too often let meanings lie, undisturbed
on a bed of innuendo and wine-drenched righteousness

i'm trying to be truly meaningful,
heartfelt prose is just a pose to get you to see me waiting.
not to disturb you from the reverie of your life
but how can you hope to find the passage that speaks your name
if you sit atop the book.

the din of the teahouse is a welcome backdrop for my efforts to find the loose
end of the snarl. even a tangled thread of life can hold sentimental value for
the terminally nostalgic. but whose mind isn't pulled, if only briefly, from
introspective musings by a warmly coy "oh they can't take that away from me."
thanks louie for backing me up on that one. i mean, who doesn't get lonely? is
it that or is it that when we leap tectonic plates we find another form of plate
tectonics to be hurdled in kind. and in my mind's eye, the gap between the
plates is wide and despite my misgivings, i have to see what flows in the
cracks. lo and behold, in the fluid of psyche, i see an end, but of course it's
only the beginning.

why must i struggle to straighten the mess - why can't i just snip the major
loops and circumvent the problem - or hell, just throw it away and buy a new
spool of thread. string is cheap, isn't it? it's the principle of the thing -
why must i always impose this expensive consistency?!

bad music comes easily to some
they grasp it, caress it, clutch it to a heaving breast
face beaming joy and wonder,
nevermind ears torn assunder

wearing the guise of sincerity and knowledge: i'd like to meet HIS tailor.

what a tricky disguise sanity is
creativity, my elusive foe and constant companion
in the comedy of errors that is my life.

hang me from your furrowed brow,
let me dangle before your darkened eyes
an effigy to the unjust, the two-timing
this hurt, too, shall pass
emotional gallstones at last
casting rings in water stilled by time

which came first: the meaning or the words?
you want me to say too much
to invent feelings i've never felt
conceptual constructs at levels too deep
where the spoken word loses meaning

love, overused and hackneyed as it is,
blankets this indescribable void
maintaining appearances and
the ignorance of bliss

how can i express what i don't understand?
i'm only a man, i think,
a man whose life isn't fiction, or is it?
a man for whom truth is priority one.
could that be? or is it my lot to muddle through.

a gravel enema: something i can do without.

the polka: europe's homeliest daughter.

if you strip it back to its essence, profundity is surprisingly shallow.

are we so lost? do we abandon hope, we who enter this life? and godspeed 'til
we shoot through to the next? what drives this need for us to know? what gives
cause for us to abandon hope, to abandon dreams, to accept this life as lost?
like an indeterminate deadline, the afterlife is no incentive for action - it
fuels the fires of human suffering: prognostication through procrastination

and where does it get us? to a place that allows us to leave our responsibility
behind - the kingdom of the unpaid debt extends us its credit. fly with us,
airline of angels, fallen and still to fall.

hopelessness causes us to embrace our captors while we never actually cease to
be free. why must we be divided in faith and purpose, why must we always look
forward? why can't we just be.

i have learned one thing in life: the change has to start with me.
(this was undoubtedly inspired by a first listen to Utah Phillips and Ani)

chased into the jaws of life
innocence is a relative term, a harmless term, a life term
guilty hangs around your neck like cheap aftershave - people
turn up their noses, but the dogs love you
innocence of intelligence is the bliss of ignorance, or a skull
with crossbones.

what's right isn't always good, nor is what's left when the right take over
life is such a fragile state of affairs.

running from fate into the jaws of life,
i bet spielberg wishes he had the option on that one
light in the eyes, heart in the chest beating with desperate determination

a hand, cruel but just,
a prosthetic with rust on its hinges

good versus good when all around is black
the switch is on the wall,
exposure just a flip away

supernatural intervention is no substitute for simple intelligence
there are ample examples of how management from the top down doesn't work
funny how the radio's glow is all i see as i shut off the lights
pulled over running late, spilling it all out
"that's the ticket, now move your little red wagon before i fix it,"
he says, before returning to the mine.

the gulf between what is and what should be is huge to the point of absurity

"hot java always tastes better when it's running down your leg" she said
as she tipped her cup over my lap.
used to be coffee didn't keep me awake
times change
my life's like that.

some cans of worms are better left unopened
like a good answer to the question i ask
why you fly as far and as fast
as a drunken sparrow into clean plate glass

a coffee shop's a good place to mull over life's mysteries
as they mull you over from the next table.
exotic, all possibility, but reality blinkered,
offstage, the bellboy with his samsonite collection
nursing a bruised ego and
rejection whiplash

i'll have what she's having
put it on my tab...
wishful thinking, as per usual.
parry, thrust, woeful indignation
i try to maintain my hard edge,
but find that my rapier wit... isn't.
reality tends to intrude.
respect's a tricky thing
you gotta know it's a game, and how it's played
honesty and sincerity, learn to fake those
and you've got it made.

i know i think of you more than you think i do and i think that you think a lot more than i thought you do

grace lived on the end of my block
i used to love to see her when i walked
past her stoop on those hot summer days
filled with hope in so many ways
sitting on the steps or reclining in the sun
a world raced around her and for all i know
a world raged within, but if it did, she hid it well.
you could taste her serenity, her projection was calm
as she flowed amongst the hacks that jerked along,
eyes on her, marveled and fortified by the vision of her
the quiet calm, not before the storm, but with its power,
the silent awe for her fluid function and form.
the poise befitting an alley cat, thriving, finding plenty
through tough times.
some words have two meanings, grace's had but one.
sitting on the steps, reclining in the sun,
a word undivided, open like a circle,
never ending, always begun.