July 15, 2o15 WK o3

wk o3

Two hours of sleep between yesterday and today . . . Mother Nature's acid trip. David called in a bit of a panic last night, " I gotta get up at 7:30am, be out the door by 8:30 and start looking for a new apartment!" I  can't say I blame him. He must be out of Bishop's Landing by the end of a month because if he's not they'll  change the locks and shut down the utilities! So, I tell him no worries, I'll wake him up and instead of going to sleep I stay up ALL night because, well, I'm now frantic too . . . for him.

I've shouted at the computer all last night and the night before. I'm exhausted, my fingers need retreading. But my mind smiles at me. It hasn't seen this kind of passion in such a long time. And God? I felt Him snicker a bit . . . yeah, He knows what's coming next, a very high fall into a black, black depression. No, there's no doubt of it. It's the way it always turns out.

Friday, July 17, 2o15  12:30 AM



I should clean my apartment . . . tomorrow. I will scour it from its top to the bottom of it all . . . tomorrow. I mean clean it, really clean it, scrub it, dust it, vacuum the dingy beige carpet into godliness. The sink in the kitchen, the bathroom, the windows streaked with dirt from the last rain storm, clean, all of it cleaned to a shinny, unforgiving  righteousness. And then when it's done, start on the rest of the house. Toss out the bags of garbage that have gathered in the hall, remove the unwanted trash swimming across the lawn, a beat up Chevy in the drive, the Ford sacrificed upon a cinder block pyre, its graying, rusted doors spray painted with gang signs, I think they are gang signs, they look like gang signs to me.  The world, the entire world filled to the brim with vandals marching, marching, clubs in hands thumping open palms, posters screaming red letters, "Life Matters!" "The South Will Rise Again!" "Give Me Liberty Or Give Me Chocolate!" Vote for this guy, vote for that woman. The monsters continue shouting their monstrous words at the few remaining sane creatures hobbling along, hanging on, gasping at the images swirling in their TV sets . . . They hope, they pray that God will come some day and wipe up the mess, this bloody mess we've made.

Saturday, July 18, 2o15 12:48 AM

New air conditioner in the apartment. Bigger, stronger . . . my apartment smiles. I don't think about you at all . . . not in the morning before the heat gets to me, sweats me into submission. Oklahoma summers. Even mild ones attack with the breath of an aging dragon. No, I never think of you . . . but I can feel you thinking about me. I hear you rummaging around in there, bumping into the other ghostly memories that never run out of energy, never stop smacking into my mind. Wide awake, asleep, drunk . . . you don't care. You don't care that I don't care about you . . . your warm blue eyes, that hangman smile you always flashed at me when I pissed you off . . . your hair, soft and dirty . . . as usual. Stop thinking about me. Stop calling me up on the psychic hotline  . . . go back into the shadows, deep into the tomb I created for you and the other . . . lovers? Can I call you that? Can I call them that? Love, a generic word, meaningless  . . . like sunrise and sunset . . . we know the sun does neither. The world turns, but the sun standstill, a drunken ball of boiling gases leaning back against a graffiti covered sky in some haunted alleyway that God condemned a million-million years ago.

1:42 PM
Takes too long to fall asleep. My eyes are always ready but my body always protests with a series of unexplained pains and itchy places on my skin, mostly in the crevasses, those sunken valleys of hidden sweat within a mountain range of fat (caused, no doubt, by poor dietary choices).

But sleep comes when it comes. It is inevitable like death seems to be. And then . . . I wake up, my eyes open, my thoughts begin to slowly rise to the occasion, and the rest of me joins in after three or four cups of very black, very brawny coffee.

But now that I am fully awake . . . what to do? Watch the news for a minute or two . . . make sure the world hasn't blown up while I slept, no rapture transcendence to report, Global Warming still a threat, but still only a threat. Yes, plenty of shootings, Tennessee, even closer to home in OKC. Terrorists or just some guy pissed off because his old lady doesn't love him anymore?

I should do something more with my life. At least do some laundry, clean the house . . . wait! I already discussed that. I hate it when I'm redundant. When I say the same thing over and over again. I must despise myself a lot. But I should do something, you know? I should do something, you know? Something, you know?



Monday, July 2o, 2o15

A small sliver of a moon last night. A thumbnail . . . no . . . a hangnail moon, last night, stuck to the blue, very blue, helplessly blue sky. Venus was there too. Close enough together that I could get a few goods pics of them hanging there, quietly hanging there . . .  deadman like . What do they talk about? God? The universe? The last episode of True Detective?  Hmmm, easier to define God and his ways than to make sense of the TV show True Detective.

David and I had an argument about religion today, or really about the Ten Commandments at the state capital. Not much of an argument. I don't think we argue often. But it was a bit high spirited and in The Diner. Hmmm, I wonder if anyone eating noticed?

A Facebook friend, Francine, said she missed seeing my poetry. She wished for me to write more for her to read. I posted the following on her Facebook page(no, not the pic):

 

Writing has failed me today.

Too much blood in my eyes today.

Demons hate poetry, it sticks to them,

like flies, like the smell of  strawberry pie

cooling on the windowsill.

Besides, there's nothing left to write about.

How many poems based on your face,

stern eyes, the shape of your silhouette

fading just as fast as you walk away from me . . .
how many poems am I obligated to write?
How long do I keep the memory of you alive?

Writing? What good are words anymore?

They lie, scratch at you're thoughts

like cats, like rats, like poison oak.

Words do break bones, cut deep,

invisible slices on the skin appear within

the ever ending struggle between words and poetry,
and poetry and your smile, your stern smile
that never had a word of kindness for me.
Woodie o7-2o-15
 

Tuesday, July 21, 2o15
The last day in this weeks blog and the creative part of my mind is in a desperate war with my vocabulary. There's something here, here inside my head. I can't get it out onto the page. Yes, I can describe it a bit . . . a dull, numbing headache, a twitch, a glitch of thought or, better yet, thoughts. I have moments when it's all as clear as the air I breathe . . . Hmmm, probably not the best analogy. More like a huge, an infinite picture puzzle within a moment, a brief moment when the pieces fall together, form a picture that explains all. And then it's gone. Lost. I know I knew something, yes, something important, something that made existence important, worthwhile . . . but now it's gone. All I can do is weep for it. Drink my coffee, chew on a piece of nicotine gum and mourn with my words . . . its passing.

Finally! Clothes are washed. Not all of them, of course, but all my jeans and cut offs . . . a few t-shirts, a ton of underwear which seem relieved. Too long have they lived stuffed inside a dingy gym bag. And my socks? They mourn more than me for they have lost many friends to the trash barrel, through that black hole that the individual sock is sucked into during the spin cycle.  Life as a sock is a burden I wish on no one.