The Daily {W}rite February wk o3

God! I'm having a hell of a time trying to write today. This is the third time I started this damn entry! Okay, let me try again. I talk about a lot because a lot has happened this week that is mostly just damn annoying to deadly. Racism is running around the Facebook club, and the right and the left are at each others throat over the latest school massacre. I could go on and all about this fucked up country I was born to . . . but I don't want to today.

What I do want to talk about is Tony Maffucci. My friend Tony died a few weeks back. Maybe longer than a few weeks. Today is the day we all get together and think about Tony. And what a turnout it was! There had to be at least 90+ people there in this big room in side a church. And most of them I had served at one time or another at the Tavern . . . and I couldn't remember one name. But I could remember faces, and though most were old and wrinkled, I found the 18-21 year old that used to be in each of their eyes.  And people ate! Good food, finger sandwiches mostly . . . but so good! And there was music by one of the bands that used to play the Tavern all the time. And speeches! No too many or too long but all beautiful tributes to a man we all loved and admired. Rest in peace, Tony Maffucci, you dear, dear man.

Wednesday, February 21, 2018
End of the third week and what a day it has been. The kids and parents from

Parkland, Florida pounced on Washington DC along with students from the DC area and the parents of the slain from Columbine High School, and Sandy Hook Elementary to give testament to the horrors associated with the mass murders that took place in their respective home towns. It was painful to listen to the stories of grieving students and parents . . . and it was also uplifting. These kids, these parents showed great passion, restraint, heroes all of them fighting as hard as the could to stop the senseless murders that has plagued our country 20 years. And , giving the devil his due, President Trump listened silently to every story. And after 70 minutes of listening, Trump went back to being Trump and discarded everything he just heard and told the crowd exactly what he would do about ending gun violence in schools from the crib-notes he had already wrote out before the meeting had begun. The kids, the parents they weren't at all fooled. They knew as soon as he opened his mouth that Donnie Boy didn't give a damn about them or any of the dead. President Trump is a punk. He needs to go. There is no room in America for this guy. That's all I'm going to say this week. If I sound rather pessimistic about the outcome today, don't worry. Yes, I'm pissed but I have not given up hope. These kids are going to make it happen. There is not a doubt in my mind. {smile}

The Daily {W}rite February wk o2

Friday,

Been thinking a lot about the military these last few days due to the fact that Emperor Trump has decided to  have a big "missile" parade to "support" our troops. I'm pretty sure it's just a line of bullshit. Trump doesn't give a shit about the military. If he did, he'd do more that make sure that the guys who fight for this country had better health benefits when they get back from whatever war that's going on. He'd make damn that they got the mental health facilities in place for the brothers who are having a hard time assimilating back into civilian life. He'd make sure that one, NOT one military guy lived on the streets due his inability to cope with peace time. But he won't. No, he'd rather throw a parade, shake a vets hand and say, "good job," hand them a fucking medal, big slap on the back and then . . . will that's it. None of those fuckers up there in Washington gives a damn what happens to the warrior when the war is over for them.

Friday, February o9, 2o18

I lose connection with myself sometimes. No, more than sometimes . . . all the time. Late in the evening my forgetfulness is most productive and powerful. I often find myself gone from this old-gray reality. Where do I go? I have no idea. I only know that I am not here. I look for myself, I truly do. Behind the couch, no, not there. Maybe buried away somewhere  within the layered mound of dirty clothes that guard the closet door . . . in the pockets of my jeans, my Spider-Man leather coat, perhaps? You see how frustrating it is to get so tired of thinking you just disappear, divide yourself into split images so black and white that you can tell if you control the darkness  or . . . is the darkness me? Is that where I've gone? Hiding out behind the wooden toolshed in the backyard of the old family home after getting swatted on the hand by an angry aunt when I dared to stick my hands in the fresh pudding she made. It did taste good until I got wacked! Then all the flavor ran out of my mouth as I ran out of the house to find my way to that dark space between the shed and the neighbor's ivy fence. Crying is all you can do when you're young. I cried. Great bubbles of pudding colored snot blasting from my nose, drizzling down my white t-shirt like a sadly happy rain.

I should write something else, I suppose. I haven't been out of the house for a couple of days, maybe three, maybe an eternity . . . I've forgotten how to walk. It's been that long. I've forgotten how dream. I sleep but I do not dream. Or if I do dream (and I'm sure I must), I can't remember what fantasy I went dreaming through! Again, lost.  Forever lost . . . except for memory, which refuses to be forgotten.

Sunday, February 11, 2018
Saturday was Mardi Gras in Norman town. Streets were blocked off by the police so the parade could pass down Main St. without the participants being run over by unware motorists. But it wasn't that big  of an inconvenience because the parade was only about two blocks long . . . and it was very short. So short they actually ran it twice! Hey! Not bad for a small town! It definitely was fun but so damn cold! The day after and my fingers are still freezing! Yeah, I know, why didn't I wear gloves? Because, silly, I can't pictures with winter gloves on!

So, I got through one pass of the parade without my fingers falling off, and I figured that's enough parade for me! Went to get me a burger at McNellie's. David came in a few minutes later a ton of Mardi Gras beads around his neck. He was so pleased with himself.

Flashback: 4:30pm, Saturday
David and I went to Walmart. Had to hurry a bit because we needed get groceries, gas (Yeah, I see the gas gauge on the dashboard flashing: EMPTY! "Hey, you're out of gas!" "No, I'm not! "Look at the gas gauge!" David looks, "HOLY SHIT!"), take the groceries home and get down to the parade before 7pm. Anyway, I'm getting some ice cream (Ben and Jerry, New York Double Fudge Crunch) And I hear this voice, "Excuse me, sir." I turn around and there is this young kid, maybe 18, and a girl walking away from me and they are laughing. For a second I blow it off . . . and then that old demon shouts in my inner ear, "You gonna let that little fuck get away that." "Hey," I say rather loudly, "You want something from me?" "No." Again, he laughs. Then he and his girlfriend turn the corner at the end of the  ice cream aisle laughing very loud as they disappear. And I start to lose it. my hands tighten up, my breath starts accelerate, my heart beating fast . . . I want to run after that little shit, that little pretty boy motherfucker and rip his fucking face off. But I don't. I just my head and wander off to find my shopping cart. I'm still thinking about that punk as I grab up some tomatoes, lettuce, a few apples.

Monday, February 12, 2018

So, I figure I shouldn't leave the last blog post go without a little explanation just incase it freaked you out a bit. Yeah, I've been pretty caught up in violence my whole life. Always the skinny kid I was the go to guy to beat up whenever some bad ass needed to stomp on someone. Angry stepfather knocked my front teeth when I was 16 years old. Sucker punch to the face. Then two years later he came at me with his 12 gauge. Wrote a poem about it:

Step Up

I grabbed him by his skinny neck

slung his naked ass out’a the bedroom.
For a moment he seemed to float through air

then slammed hard into the linoleum floor.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled

trying to stand up. “Son of
a bitch!” he shouted, stumbled
to his feet, staggered down the hall,
bouncing off the walls like a pinball.

He made it to the garage.

The baby stopped screaming.

Mother shut the bedroom door.

Then Click-click!

I knew that sound.

The fucker jumped out at me
before I could reach the garage
and shoved the unfriendly end of a
single barrel shot gun against my ribs.

“You know what this is?” he said poking

me several times in the gut.

“Yes, I do.”

His eyes went red. He’d been crying.

“You know what this can do to you?”

“Yes, I do.” I—

...And sometimes I wake-up.

Sometimes...  I don’t sleep at all.
Woodie 8-10-11

Wednesday, February 14, 2o18
Last day of the 2nd week in February, 2o18 and it's been a day of love and death.

Yes, another mass shooting this time in a school in Parkland, Florida. 17 children and adults murdered and the death tally will probably go up from there. But this an old story in America, is it not? Mass shootings at schools, movie theatres, universities, churches, malls, a country  music festival where fifty were murdered and 500 hundred were injured . . . there's not a place anymore that we can consider sacred. And our government, our "wonderful" President who is all gung-ho (or if you like, GUN-ho) to put the hammer down on foreign terrorists, stop immigration by "those people" and protect America from terrorists by any means  . . . but when it comes to American citizens (mostly white males) who go out with semi-automatic weapons and gun down as many people as they can . . . well, that's something that we can't talk about, do anything about because . . . hey! The 2nd Amendment. Bullshit. Mass shootings, mass murder is not a right protected by the 2nd Amendment. All those CONservatives, the NRA, the gun manufactures, the Congress of the United States, the Alt-right, they tell you all about the Bill of Rights  . . . but they don't know diddly about the Bill of Rights.

And of course, it was Valentine's Day today. And as usual, there's no love in my life. Love. I've never known love. If I have known love for a minute, for a month, for the time it takes to bat an eye . . .  I've  forgotten the  feeling. Love. I've never loved someone. Never. Sure infatuated for a while with some lovely blond, brunette, red, who spent a drunken moment to "get to know me" but never have I loved. Too ME centered. To interested in myself, my art, my soul  (if I actually have one) to ever give love to another. "Friends." I do have friends. But love? Love is a stranger to me. However, I have written  a Valentine's Day poem (what? YOU wrote a poem?!) that talks a bit about the few women who were able to make a dent in my ignorance enhanced psyche and who I remember (whether I want to or not) every now and then . . . in the darkness  . . . and alone . . . I remember. 

Not a Valentine’s Day Poem

I chose not to write a Valentine poem,

but then decided, what the hell,

I might as well, since it is Valentine's Day.

In The Garage, standing in line to order

a Swiss and mushroom burger you kissed

me, hard. It felt like a passionate, drunk

Mac truck had just smashed into my lips.

I will not lie and say it was unpleasant

because you did taste like 1979, the last year

that our mouths said hello to each other.

And the other one, you know who you are,

the one that I bought a Teddy bear for

on the 12th of each month just to tell you

how thankful an old was to have you in his life.

You were nice until you weren’t anymore.

And then there was the one, the only one, really.

Blond hair, English accent, glasses

that partially hid the bluest eyes . . .

I don't remember ever celebrating

Valentine's Day with you. Perhaps,

it was that every day seemed like

Valentine's Day when we were together.

So, writing a poem about ghosts

isn't the most romantic thing.

But when you have little left

except for memories? Well,

memories are better than nothing.

Happy Valentine’s Day

The Daily {W}rite February wk o1

Friday, February o2, 2o18

Luckily, I got about two hours worth of sleep time before I had to be up at ten to wake David up with a phone call so he could get showered, dressed and ready to pick me up at eleven so we could catch a noon showing of The Maze Runner: Death Cure. Oh! We also had to stop by our friend's house and pick her up too. Yes, I did say "her" because our friend IS a girl named Vickie. I know, I know, usually we don't take a member of that other sex with us, but Vickie need to get herself out of her house and do something. So, me and David are in the same head space . . . forcing ourselves to go out and do something . . . anything. And our choices are limited because I'm not all that interested in music, and David is such a local groupie. I like to ride my bike, but David doesn't have a bike so . . . so, movies are about the only thing we can do to just get out of the house instead standing in the doorway of our respective apartments yelling, 'You kids get off my lawn!"

Anyway, the movie was really exciting, lots of action, good versus evil and shot so well with very little (if any) CGI. Okay, they did use a CGI trick I hate, fake muzzle flash from guns, but the rest of the movie was so interesting that I overlooked this one . . . blemish.

Saturday, February o3, 2o18
There's a hole, an emptiness inside my  . . . spirit? My imagination? Deep down in the ME of me. And like with all holes, any empty space that nature finds it begins to fill it in with . . . mind dirt, subconscious sediment . . . a darkness so dark . . . the eyes begin to scream . . .  And when the screaming  becomes unbearable, the gentle fingers of Nature plucks your eyes out your bald head and feeds them to the crows. And silence rushes into the sockets, the red gouges and order returns cool and refreshing like the wet washcloth mother would lay on my forehead when I was  6 years old, delirious with . . . chickenpox. And you think that chickenpox would be enough of a physical torture for we childrens to get the hint . . .  But you know all this. You knew when that endless silence dropped its eternal spit in those empty sockets the world would dissolve and disappear just as speedily as the blond-haired English girl who swore she would forever love me. And I suppose she didn't lie. Maybe she does still love me . . . only from about three thousand miles away.

Sunday, February o4, 2o18 12:37am
I'm wandering now. Lost in the desert searching for a sturdy prophecy, one made of driftwood, light and durable. A man, an old man always needs a good stick to guide him to the edge of that endless wet spot.

Monday, February o5, 2o18
The older I get, the farther I'm removed from this life, from this existence that at one time was so important. Saturday nights. Beer, the jukebox at the old watering hole. Love. Blondes with thick, sturdy legs, lips like fat caterpillars . . . but no fur. Summer nights, hot, sweaty. You as shadow in my bed or your bed or up against a wall in some ally we staggered into. All of that? A shrug of my arthritic shoulders and the memories dissolve into a puttylike fog that my raspy breath blows into the shadows that the one lone streetlight outside my apartment window provides.

Tuesday, February o6, 2o18
So, again, very little sleep. Maybe two hours or so. Not up until 1:30pm. What a cosmic

 drag it is to sleep most of the sun away. But my friend David called just as I was getting up to remind me that we were meeting with an old friend, Patrick McCord, for coffee. So, a fast dress, brush the old ivories and out the door we go to YuYu! Okay, David's got a thing about this Egyptian coffee house that I don't quite appreciate. Too expensive for me . . . and not that much coffee in the cup. "But I don't complain." David laughed when I said that.

Anyway, Patrick is an old friend from my undergraduate days in the OU Drama Department. A really good actor. Much better at the craft than me. He spent, I think, a year studying acting in London. He came back saying "Shedule" instead of the American way "schedule."
Anyway, we gabbed a while, remembering old stories from back in the day, and discussing how much it sucks getting old . . . er.  

It's good to see old friends. Friends of our youth. Our stupid, awkward youth. A lot of my memories though are not that pleasant. I was an angry sober guy . . . made even angrier when I drank . . . which was almost every night when I didn't have rehearsal. Oh, yeah. I never drank during rehearsal or a show. To be honest, it was just the excuse I gave myself to be a nasty drunk . . . Hey, at least I didn't drink during a show. I gots class!

Wednesday, February o7, 2018
Hey! The last day for writing on the blog . . . AND . . . I almost got through writing something every day! Yeah! Beer on me! So, what's happened today that everybody who religiously reads my blog is just waiting to hear what I have to say about it.
1. Trump wants a parade ala Adolf in his prime. After the parade of giant missiles and even larger egos. And after the parade let's invade Poland. 
2. Went to bed . . . 8am? Hard to tell. Awake, asleep are blending together so much i can't tell which reality I'm in. I do know that I finally woke up (I was asleep . . . I think) at 3:30pm. THIS MUST STOP!  I feel like I'm sleeping through life.
3. I still find myself thinking about something that happened in the past and I get really angry. Old girlfriends (who probably have more reason to be mad a me than I have reason to be angry with them), slights against me from friends. Enemies fucking with me isn't a bother. That's what they're suppose to do . . . fuck with you. But my friends? What the hell, man.?Oh, remember the guy from Art Walk that kept bumping into me on purpose over and over again? Well, I was sitting in Yuyu's (horribly expensive coffee but nice staff) listening to this band and a blobby shadow moves passed and "nudge, nudge" I get bumped and . . .IT'S THE SAME GUY FROM ART WALK! I tell David about it and I get the old, "Oh, he did not." David doesn't believe anything I say about this "nudger!" He doesn't even believe that the guy did it, on purpose, at Art Walk! "He has a PhD! He wouldn't do something like that!"  IF it happens again, I'm going to say something to Doctor Him . . .  but I won't get ANGRY! Or if I do get angry . . . I'll smile while being so. 
4. I'm working on a new poem. Needs a lot of work, but the idea is sound:

Close my eyes and dream about
the love I've lost and never found

just like a pair of socks she disappeared

between swigs from a longneck beer
and music in my ears singing softly

do not go, please don't go from here.
nightmares wake me up before
my dreaming time is up
the alarm clock blares
who cares no one cares
or so it seems to we
who never get a chance to sleep
who never get chance to say I'm sorry

The Daily {W}rite January 2018 wk o3

Monday

I know. What the hell happen to you writing daily, HUH?! Hey! LIFE happened. Yes, the original Russian roulette, the universe, God or the Devil deciding that I got it too easy this life! Nooo! So, whatever powers that be decided to CRASH my computer! But you're thinking, "That's no excuse! Just buy a new one." and I did. I spent a hell of a lot of money too on it too. More than I liked but it's a little bit better than my old one and I need a good running computer IF I'm ever going to get back to showing my art and poetry around town.

6:05pm

Politics drains me of my desire to linger in this existence. Well, maybe not that drastic. But it doesn't do much for my believe that things will workout for the better. Trump and his followers have us by the metaphorical gonads . . . and it's not a pleasant grip. What do we do we the "other side" has no sense of right and wrong . . . strike that. The CONservatives DO have a moral sense: We are right and you are always wrong. But Trump? Is he the evil or just a puppet? He makes a deal with the Liberals concerning DACA, goes and talks to someone and then . . . changes his mind. Yeah, someone's pulling his strings, alright, and We the People are gonna pay heavy price to watch this scumbag dance.

10:30pm

Gotta give David a wake-up call at 11:30 tomorrow morning. He's got a doctor's appointment around one or so. He's been sick with bronchitis for the last couple days . . . and he's blaming me for getting him sick. Ha!

I'm starting to feel better after my sinus infection. The damn cold just really gets to me. But I've restarted the blog and started a new poetry blog, Poetry by Woodie. Yeah, not flashy, but I like the use of my nickname Woodie as my nom de plume! HahahahahahahahaHA! I always wanted to use that phrase:  nom de plume. How pretentious!


Wednesday January 24,
Went with David to his doctor's appointment. Nursed called him in and I sat on a very comfortable white leather chair and read some Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry:
Dirge Without Music
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

An older man than me came and set next to me and started talking about his wife having died and now he has no reason to ever leave his house . . . except to come to the doctors office. And we sat there a while talking about how it sucks to be old (I am hitting 70 this year and the old guy was 78). Don't let anyone tell you, he said in a whisper as if he was telling me a grave secret, that it's fun gettin' old. It's not. The nurse came in again and the old man was taken back into one of the nondescript rooms where they check your heart, ask how you feel and decide whether or not to tell you, You're going to die sometime in the future. 

David finally came out and we went home. I didn't think about the old man that I met at the doctor's office until now. I didn't think about the Millay poem until now. I don't want to be like that old man. I want to hate dying. I want to kick death in balls when it comes for me. One of my friends on Facebook posted the other day that he was wearing pajamas to bed because he was afraid that he might die when he goes to sleep and he didn't want anybody seeing him naked. I commented back, To hell with that! I WANT them to find me naked as the dawn! They'll have a hard time forgetting about me AFTER they've seen my dead, naked body. {smiles}

Friday January 26. 2o18 12:32am

One of those days. You know the type. In the apartment all day. No human (flesh to flesh) contact. Just the TV. MSNBC goes on and on about Trump. I listen. But as soon as Trump or one of his henchman show up to talk . . . I turn the channel.

I wrote a poem about Vietnam around 2006 (My Cream-colored Psychedelic Flashback) that I just reposted yesterday. I was shocked at the number of positive comments. One person liked it so much that they sent it to some semi-famous actor, also a Vietnam Vet, for him to read. Nothing will happen, I'm sure, but it's always a nice thrill when someone likes your work so much they send it to someone "semi-famous." 

It was enough to get me thinking about trying to get out of the house to do a reading or two. Still want to do the Power Point presentation of my poetry and my art work, which if your are a "fan" of my poetry or my blog you know I've wanted to do something to "get my work out there" for some time.

Friday, January 26, 2018 10:19pm
The day existed, the sun trying to light the world through a filter of unfriendly gray clouds that had just began to retreat to the western horizon, where the sun had already claimed its own land. We existed at the same time. A light wind spoke to us in gentle words along the outside of our ears. But we didn't understand a it said . . . neither of us spoke the wind language.

I'm relaxed, thoughtful tonight. A bitter day inside my head battling the evil forces who had taken up their crusade to save Trump from the FBI's probe against him. And of course, his champions, his protectors, the misguided CONservatives, fought against with the only weapon they have . . . It's all Hillary's fault. Obama's to blame." I cursed them a bit, calmed down and told them, I won't play this game with you anymore. Believe what you want or change your thought patterns and get on the good side of these troubles. Will they do it? No, of course not.  But I will not let it pester my sensitive peace of mind.

Sunday, January 28, 2018 12:39am
Been working on poetry and editing pics with some new apps. Semi-busy today, but not accomplishing much. I need to get up early and go do something tomorrow. Sleeping until four in the afternoon is just not making me happy. I need to be up and about amongst  the day walkers for a change.
11:47pm
Guess what I haven't been since Saturday, waking up Saturday afternoon at 4pm. Okay, I did get maybe two one hour moments of sleep today . . . but I just couldn't stay asleep for eight hours at one time which is what I should be doing. And I think I'm hallucinating a bit. I'm fading in and out as I write this not knowing exactly what I put on the page. This will need a bunch of proofing, I'm sure.

Monday, January 29, 2018
Did seem to get some shut-eyes time last night . . . err . . . this morning. You know I'm tired of talking about sleep or the lack of sleep. There has to be something else to talk about to write about.

There's a giant crane, a metal, heavy lifting crane . . . you know what I mean . . . I hope. Anyway three huge red lights on the length of it arm. Only one winks, blinks at me.at the junction, where the arm is attached to the vertical leg of the crane, is a white plastic rectangle that contains a white light, which is much brighter the red warning lights on the arm. The logo and initials of the company  that owns the crane, but the white box is too high up for me to see the logo or name clearly, even during the day it's hard to make out.

I thought about teaching myself to be more conscious about my life. What do I mean by that? Well, take my mind out of sub conscious mode for the most park, start being aware of myself and my environment more, take conscious control of my life. Like tying my shoes, you know? I tie my shoes without even thinking about it anymore. Am I missing an adventure there? Is there more to tying my shoes than tying my shoes? Perhaps the meaning of life is there somewhere within the double knots I use to keep my feet from flying out of my Chucks. I know for sure that there must be a poem in the idea of a grown man double knotting his shoes . . . perhaps it's a symbol for my insecurities about writing poems, about the way I look, my weight,  about life.  I snuck a poem into this blog. Yes, right above your gaze . . . on the left.

Well, this is all I got for January. My writing abilities have taken a bit a vacation, and my Muse doesn't seem that interested in helping me out either. Probably a lot of typos, grammar mistakes. But I did the best I could for the first month of a new year. AND I plan to get better as I "grow" along. So, goodbye, January. You were a great month, but I gotta move on to Feb. and beyond. {smiles}

The Daily {W}rite January o9, 2018 wk o2

Tuesday,
I never know the difference between a cold and a fever. "starve a cold, feed a fever." Not sure which I have but my guess is a fever because I'm sweating with a bit of chill to my bones. So I'll say fever. I'm sleeping a lot but only 1-2 hours at a time. The heart doctor's office called. Well, not the nurse but a phone-bot called. I'm suppose to go in on Thursday for the annual check up. But I got a "fever" so I should probably not go. Tomorrow I'll call the heart doctor, and in my best phone-bot voice, reschedule for next week.

Fredrick Schroeder (Facebook friend) made this pencil drawing (above) of me from this alien pic I created of myself some years ago. it's creepy how much the drawing looks like my real self . . . except, of course, for the two extra set of eyes. :) I think I've written a few poems about feeling alien on this planet.









Alien Backpackers

Friends come and go and come and go

and dreams do too but they don't slam doors
and yell and scream and shout about
"How unfair you are, you fuckin’ bastard!"
 I sleep well, though, when I sleep.
The sleep of a dead man who hung himself
out to dry during the winter months
and didn’t allow anything, anyone
to get in the way of his self-employed misery.
By degree we all must suffer the dead things
that live inside our tiny but quite tidy heads
and won't allow us (who sport a conscience)
one moment, one single dull moment of peace.
I'm afraid I've lost the choo-choo of thought
I started this poem off with. But does it matter
if words mean nothing, describe nothing,
amount to nothing more than an aging hope
that someday alien backpackers will stop by
and read this poem and say, "Damn,
now that guy, he could write!"
Woodie 11-21-13 (rewrites 11-21-15)

Saturday, January 13, 12:12am

Yes, I know, don't be mad. I haven't written in a few days. BUT I've been sick! No, not an excuse I have been REALLY sick with something, sinuses, breathing, fever . . . and I'm not making it up. Other people I know have the same symptoms. So, there! I was worried for a while, thinking that maybe it had something to do with how much I've mistreated body in my past and my age which is almost 70! Fortunately, I'm not the only one with year's crud. makes me feel a bit better. But still, I have to take care to make sure it doesn't turn into something "life threatening."

Still, I do sound a bit like a paranoid hypochondriac, don't I?  Maybe true. A man I did admire, who I thought would live forever did die last week, Tony Maffucci. He was older than me . . . but still. There are those deaths that are so profound to an individual it is hard not to think of your own death. I may write more after I go to bed and wake up . . . today.

1:47am
Did venture out to Art Walk this evening. Not much going on because it was so cold. Below 30 degrees. Like a frozen wasteland. Only two street musicians out on the sidewalks. Brave souls. We made the rounds to the Main St. Gallery and down to the Stash. But I was getting tired way to fast. Stopped for dinner at one of the local watering holes that had food. Patty melts and pub fries and the Ale Bar. Mmmm, good. But that was it. feeling the sickness creeping on me. David took me home, I got in right at 9pm just in time to watch Blue Bloods.

Sunday, January 14, 10:31pm

I wore my new Chucks for Art Walk. That's them on the left. What do you think? Yeah, I know. Weeeeeeeird! But only one guy noticed them at Art Walk. "Nice shoes," he said as he passed me. My friends on Facebook were a bit more vocal. Brother Timothy typed, "This means you got six pairs of tennis shoes: 1 green pair 1 red pair, 1 green and red pair, 1 red and green pair. Okay, so I don't know how that adds up to six pairs of Chucks . . . but I was never that good at science. Anyway my friend David bought the two pair of Chucks for me. I kept trying to talk him out of it but . . . Oh, and David sent me an IM about Ford reintroducing the Mustang from the movie Bullitt! I was so excited. It was a dream of mine to own a replica of the Bullitt Mustang! Of course, I could never afford it, and to tell the truth the new Bullitt doesn't really LOOK like the original Bullitt. That's a bit of a bummer. 
But honestly, do I really want a car that was built in 1968? Hell, yeah!But I would want state of the art air-conditioning and a 21st century sound system so . . . I really don't want an original Bullitt car, do I? Life is full of these ironically ironic moments, and yes, I know it's probably isn't ironic but I couldn't pass up the use of "ironically ironic."

Have a good rest of this day!

The Daily {W}rite, January o1, 2018 wk o1

Monday,
Yes, a fresh new year has begun. Day one. A new beginning, new rules, new desires, new life choices that will be worked on or at until . . . until we no longer care to try. Not uncommon in humans. To try to change one's path, trajectory, the size of an ever expanding universe . . . alright, yes, I'm way over weight a stomach area that's already reached Hitchcockian dimensions.  Yes, alright and I will say too I'll write every day . . . EVERY day . .  . and I will intend to do just that but . . . will I? And yes new poetry, brand spanking new not retreads from the years before but a whole new world of words and rhymes and secrets about this life I've lead. Yes my intentions are pure but will I follow through?

Tuesday, January o2, 2o18 3:43am

Devastating loss at the Rose Bowl for OU fans. But we'll live through it. I'm wondering how the only Georgia fan at Louie's tonight made out. Extremely vocal every time the Bulldogs made a touch down. A few of the hardcore Sooners took it personal. One lady even said something to him which made her "friend" yell at her for acting like an idiot and she yelled back and the next thing we knew he grabbed up his hat and coat and stormed out of Louie's leaving the poor woman sitting there alone. In Oklahoma three things you never argue about: 1. Religion 2. Politics 3. OU friggin' football.

1:43pm
He grasped the open air
and found nothing there.

I don't own a bed just a couch, which makes sleeping a precarious endeavor since the couch's length is shorter than my body. My legs dangle over open space when I lay down. So, I wind up sleeping most nights in a sitting position. Having my feet on the floor when I sleep always makes my subconscious  wary  that while I'm off in dreamland some vagrant mouse might invade the apartment and nibble my toes . . . and i wake up every hour or so to make sure I still got feet. It would be very difficult to wear the new Chucks David bought me without feet.

Thursday, January o4, 2o18 12:5am
So, David turned me on to another great American poet who I had no idea existed. And yes, he is quit the master of words, Archibald MacLeish!

Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and mute

As a globed fruit,

Dumb

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless

As the flight of birds.

A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,  

Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time  

As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to:

Not true.

For all the history of grief

An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love

The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean  

But be.

So, this had me thinking all day about poetry and how much of a poet I am . . . not. No, seriously. I have no understanding of the art. Poems SEE things differently than us mere writers of words. I mean, I write about the moon but it is always the moon as others have seen her or as I have always seen her, but Archie looks at the moon and sees: A poem should be motionless in time /As the moon climbs,/ Leaving, as the moon releases/Twig by twig the night-entangled trees . . .
Do you see how beautiful his moon is, how alive it is, how well written? But maybe I shouldn't be to harsh. How does this hold up to A's description of the moon?

Lately though, he noticed the Moon, his Moon,

her looks had started to fade, to go.

Too many large craters along her brow, these days.

Shadows cut deep gullies along the inside

of her tender Maria . . . transforming her,

bending her pale smile into a dark and dusty frown.
Her charm all but dried up, and his desire
to be with her . . . all of a sudden . . . gone.

11:26pm

Memory. The ghost that haunts us all. The rattling thought, dark and bright like a jar captured in sunlight. I, the me a dreamy thought plastered against the moody shores where black face ducks pick breadcrumbs off each others back. A crack of thunder, faces staring through the cracks, stern, globular blobs, we see the past throbbing, we see the hairs sprouting from the misshapen snouts and there is rain, an army of rain overrunning the hilltops where childhood hunkers down in muddy foxholes. We cannot rip our eyes out fast enough. We cannot wake fast enough  from the slaughter of our youthful smiles and hopeful dreams that have turn on us becoming nightmares, spoiled milk dripping from mother's dead smile. 

Saturday, January o6, 2o18

Started working at Bette Maffucci's Town Tavern sometime in the mid 70's. Great little restaurant. But to be honest I was a terrible short order cook. Horrible. I couldn't take the fast pace a place like the tavern demands. I was angry all the time, mean to everybody including customers . . . and for some reason I never got fired. One Saturday night, I went to the Tavern to eat and Tony Maffucci (Bette's husband) called me over to the booth he was sitting in. I sat down and he shot me this big smile and asked, "You doing all right, Woodie?" And I told him no, and then he asked what was wrong and I just started telling him my whole life story . . . mom and dad divorced when I was young . . .blah, blah, blah . . . drunken stepfather knocked out my front teeth with his fists when I was 16 . . . blah, blah, blah . . .!" and I went on like that for a good 20 minutes or so until I just ran out of things to say. When I finished Tony leaned forward and said, "Hey, don't worry about it, things will get better." And usually when some one says that kind of line you just blow it off. But when Tony said it, I believed him. He was really interested in you in your life.

I mean, through that whole diatribe Tony didn't take his eyes off of me. He wasn't checking his watch and secretly praying I would shut the hell up! None of that. And that was Tony's gift. He was fascinated with other people . . . and other people were fascinated by him. He'd walk into the Tavern and everybody's eye would go to him . . . and he hadn't done anything but walk in! He just looked like someone you wanted to know. He was a good friend to everybody, even strangers. Tony left this plane of existence this last Friday morning. And the world truly is a sadder place with out him.
I think it was his natural smile, you know. Always that welcoming smile on his face, "Hey, sit down, tell me all about yourself."

Sunday, January o7, 2o18
So, the end of a week in the new year. Not bad. Got a bit of writing down, and started a few new poems. I'm gearing up to start searching for publishers for my book of poetry. It's taken a while to get up the nerve to actually try to get published. We'll see what happens. :)