The Daily (W)Rite March 2o15 WK o1

The Daily (W)Rite

wk o1

 

1st day of March and I can feel Spring! Yes, I know, it as cold in Norman Town today hovering around thirty-two degrees (with wind-chill it felt like twenty-eight), but I noticed when the sun came up this morning the line of thick icicles along the roof top were dripping. And about noon they dropped, bam, down to the ground one at a time making a horrible sound when they hit the pavement. And the cars passing under the window . . . in the snow their wheels made a soft crunching noise, but as the morning wore on and the snow melted . . . the tires made more of a squishy sound like rolling over a huge puddle of warm pudding. Yum!

Wednesday, March o4, 2o15
March is a bipolar Richard. Yesterday it was a sweetly warm 58 degrees in Norman Town, but today? Twenty-four degrees right now with the possibility of snow and ice! Come on, March! Stay on your damn medication.
David and I got out yesterday to run a few errands before "the big storm" which hasn't actually hit yet. But never can be to cautious. We stopped first at an old friend's house to just to say hi and visit for a few minutes. Our friend is pretty much bedridden so we talked mostly to his friend that cares for him. After that we picked up bagels for David at the Old School Bagel Café then off to Best Buy to hunt down a movie I'd been wanting to see. The problem was I didn't remember the name of it exactly. I had thought it was In Skin or something like that. Of course, I couldn't find it so I went to one of the "Geek Squad" guys for help. I don't like to ask for any kind of help at Best Buy because the Squad is usually unfriendly and unhelpful.

But I lucked out cause the guy working in the DVD section was on top of his game. He didn't know which movie I was blabbering about so he walkie-talkied a guy in the back, "Hey, Woody (yeah, the guys name was WOODY), you know the name of the horror film with Scarlett Johansson?" And he did! The title was Under the Skin. Now the search was on! Into the computer the Geek went: online name, security code . . . oops! Didn't work! Try again! And on the third try he found it. ONE COPY LEFT! We rushed to the horror section (which I may say, isn't very impressive. Maybe five selections of horror IN the horror section at the most.) AND . . . it wasn't there! In a panic, the Geek called Woody up again, and a few seconds later that big ass Woody (long hair, long unkempt beard) ran out of the back and started searching through the drama section as Geek perused a sci-fi section solution to the mystery. But no good. Under the Skin was nowhere to be found. I lost hope. But then Woody had a big idea, "Say, don't we ship videos back to the distributor?" "Yeah," Geek confirmed, "It could be in the return bend!" They both ran off to the backroom and I waited. Finally, they came back, heads down in shame, "No, it isn't there." I thanked them for their service, found David and started to leave Best Buy, hurt and totally disillusioned with democracy and our capitalistic economic structure . . . AND . . . on my way to the exit I just happened to look to my left and there it was sitting in a display cabinet for Lionsgate Films, one sad little Blu-ray copy of Under the Skin. And I yelled to the crowd, "I found it! Under the Skin, I found it!" And Woody ran out of the backroom and so did the Geek and they smiled and yelled "Hooray!" And David looked at us as if we were crazy. And for a moment, a brief, moment the whole world was calm and at peace . . .  and life seemed somewhat good. {smile}

Thursday, March o5, 2o15

I'm not sure if I should say that I'm proud of myself for spending most of today with the TV off and concentrating on revising a favorite poem of mine and, of course, writing on my blog. Seems sort of
narcissistic to complement myself for finally immersing myself in my art since I've been putting it off for three or more years! But I did get back to my desires, my personal need to be creative. And that is a good thing.

Anyway, not writing anything new right now, but I am revisiting some older work that I feel needs some major rewrites. Yeah, I'm feeling as if I'm just now ready to write poetry. Isn't that strange? I mean, I've been writing for at least ten years! Ten years worth of poems and I'm just now feeling that I might have skills enough to really write some poetry!

I want to share with you this one I'm working on. I began it back in 2oo5 or so. I've already rewritten it several times, performed it for an animation a friend made and included it in my second poetry play . . . and I'm still not satisfied. But here's where it is right now:

Welcome to . . . the Freak Show

 

Shuffling footsteps down the hall

come one, come all the end is near.

 

Where breathing labors like a vacuum cleaner

running out of suction! All those horrible years spent
a munchin' kitty fur, and globs of wadded dental floss.
All our years we grieve, we grieve like withered leaves
in bleak December. All those mourning cobwebs piling up,
all the dust and cigarette butts fornicating on the rug.

 

"Heya, Heya!" cries the Barker from the sideshow tent,

"See the amazing frog boy pickled in a jar!"
And there he is pissed yellow, mossy green
“Slumbering,” some whisper, “slumbering he is.”

 

Our blue-stain collar fingers mock him,

our skeptic sneers, cruel jeers torment his lifeless body
as we await his resurrection on the soiled pocket flap
of the Bearded Lady’s dressing gown.

 

So, better kiss me quickly, dearie, while my tarnished lips

remember how your warm, wet tongue once brought to life —

 

But she'll have none of that. She’s far too busy now

her hands a burying the dead, her tapered fingers
screaming lily white, those red fire tears carve crimson rivers
‘cross her angel face.

 

Our graveyard spirit spits too much these days

and drinks too much  these moments in.
We dance too close to sparrows.
Our sin? A need for simple truths,
simple thoughts that might comfort us,
the multitude of us still dying . . . lying  . . .  
naked in the winter snow.

 

We shall sleep, no more. No more may we sing

for better or for butter or for weather kinder
than the mother who dropped us at the nunnery steps
beside the curdled cream the milkman left.

But willows weep and hang their weary boughs
and mutter blasphemous oaths
as the horsemen trample passed our wailing ghosts.
Too demanding we have been. So cruelly circumcised
from nature's tattered teat no longer can we recognize
the bourbon scented breath of poor departed father
as he staggers through that barroom in the sky.

 

And there we’ll meet our makers!

Brutal gods who ram themselves
deep within our youthful throats
then lick their sores like wounded dogs
and disappear into the fog.

 

They never loved us, no, not at all.-Woodie, 2oo8

(rewrites o6-27-12, 1o-22-13, o3-o5-15)

Saturday, March o7, 2o15

The last day of the first week in March. A little groggy tonight as I force myself to set word to page. I think my energy is improving, but I still have those days when I just want to sleep. This evening is like that. But a pot of coffee, the air conditioning on low and the blinds up so I can see the night gathering around the old fashioned streetlights that line Trout Ave.  helps me stay awake. There's also, the constant worklights spilling out of the high windows of the facilities maintenance building across the huge parking lot. And my special  friend just right of my window, the amber streetlamp on the corner. The darker it gets at night the brighter that workaholic streetlight gets turning the asphalt, the grass, the stoic stop sign that cars rarely pay attention to . . . turning all in its circular path a warm gold color.