journal-22, jumper

I got hard while walking last night. against the friction of everything. there was no one at the beach. the moon was gone. the breeze was adequate and full of teasing. the surf was provocative. lapping seductively. I was thinking about her, but as it turns out, she was fucking him. getting fucked. enjoying it. she texted me afterwards. said he initiated after the movie, before going to bed. she thought of me… though…

I like to jump from star to star during the later hours. I don’t stay too long on any particular one. escaping the pain of each violent surface. darting from here to there. unknown. unsettled. never landing on the same one twice. it’s nice to call nowhere home. feeling irrelevant. like there’s no one waiting…

lying here now, I’m as limp as dead. my spirit is crushed. my cock is careless. she has his, and that’s all that needs to be said. I have some arousing pictures of her on my phone. pixels. defleshed of life. and so, what is there to do about any of this anymore…

(spiritualityhealth.com)

journal-21, I need a new shower head

sarcastically speaking, isn't life wonderful. I mean the timing of things sometimes is just absurd. like waking up one day to find out you're positive for covid and then within the same hour the only one you've ever truly loved says it's over. of course this happens on a Monday because like life, sarcastically speaking, aren't Mondays wonderful

I look for small escapes when I need them. like sitting in silence and staring out into the nowhere for a while. or taking a long hot shower, letting the water completely cover my ears, isolating me into a semi-submerged state as I stand there. the sound of the water rushing by mutes everything else. I hear only myself, but I'm not saying much. I'm in a depth, a distance from things, a vacancy

however, the dilemma... my new place has a shower head that disperses the water in streams that are too thin and too far apart to accomplish this. I tilt my head in every direction, but no luck. no small escape is provided

the weather upstairs in the heart of turmoil is fiercely hellish with the occasional gust from the polar mouth of winter. I feel frozen in place while burning up. I feel a virus is active. covid or love, I'm not really sure which. one of them I will surely recover from. the other, I'm hoping, will just completely take me down

journal-20, out of place

I don't know if I'm happy yet. nothing here knows me and I know nothing of it. feeling distant from everything. uncomfortable and unsure. my familiar home, the midnight beach, is so far away. I should be there right now. I can feel it all around me ... nostalgia is a ghost, slowly dissipating ...

and these same stars are not the same. and these trees that rustle in the wind are not the ocean's waves. the impact is different. I am unaffected so far. but we are still strangers getting acquainted. perhaps misunderstood. perhaps standoffish

I'm a late night soul. never ready for the sunrise. an aching gaze, restless, agitated. but the morning rises beautifully here. nature awakes in astounding colors, fresh with dew and wings and songs. a nude arrival, unabashed and outspoken

I will learn this new romance, embrace this new intimacy, form this new bond. this will be the place of my body. this will be the place of my heart. there's peace here, if I can settle into it. we need some time together. we need poetic interaction. we need not refuse the newness of obvious love. we just need some more time together... for now, I'm still feeling out of place

(my photo)

journal-19, lie to me

sometimes I need you to lie to me. I'm almost begging you, please, save me from the hurt

it's a good thing the soft sand is forgiving tonight. it's more slopes then slop. and there's lightning in the clouds off in the distance. I passed by three turtles making their nests and one more in the waves making its way back to the sea. one of four girls in the group yells out hey, I love you without ever seeing my face. the order of things is inconsequential. everything is random. on purpose or by mistake

prove to me that you're really here. prove to me that you're not someone else's desperate observation. love me with undeniable pain and pleasure, given and received. let's wear out our bodies, down to the bones turned to dust.

it's time for me to go now. I've breached the skin. there's no one else around and I can't prove any of this. maybe I’m lying. maybe I'm not really here. I will save you from the hurt. there was no pleasure, and I didn’t feel a thing

journal-18, climbing

I’m climbing up high enough tonight to meet the fantasy of you halfway through the air. and when we meet, we accelerate, leaving beyond the sonic boom

but caudal lag, in backward drift. the suffering I’m climbing away from. the voice of a poem that needs to be heard. not by many. perhaps... only by me

    ------

   aquaswirl, death-blue
    indication of transition

    I’m exhausted feeling
    this way
      so weak
      so exhausted

    pull the plug
    open the drain

    feed me to the stream
    that leads to the river
    that leads to the sea
    of higher ambition
    of retroactive intercourse
    of harmonious trust

    life-white, etherdeep
    simplicity of existence

    ------

that being said, I can only smile with you. a hundred smiles. a thousand smiles. I’ve lost count. its seemingly endless

catching up to your flesh, and I kiss right through you. it is a fantasy, a dreamland, as I’m climbing up higher into this mystical expression

(image by http://dihaze.deviantart.com)

journal-17, daylight

most nights I feel okay enough to die. the nights I don’t feel that way are the ones that frighten me

I’m getting used to these mornings without you. the stagnant hours, the last speckles of darkness before your arrival. that’s when I talk to myself, when I talk to the speckles. we discuss things that don’t concern you. we hide them, we tuck them away in drawers and under pillows before you get here. and then you intrude. such a pesky rabble-rouser. instigator. seeker of secrets

give me some more time. I’m just beginning to compromise with the voices in my head. not that we’ve made any significant progress either way. but the systems are in place, and your rainbow contributions are scaring away the intricacies of our recently established quasi-solutions

buoyancy - the enabling of rest and unrest without the adherence to direction. you’re a god or a devil, greedy at the tooth, resplendent by design. but why travel all this way to act as a spatial undertow when you know damn well I’ll only burn up upon reentry

(image by Bock Felix on https://daylight.academy)

journal-16, hammering nails

it doesn't take much to become blinded by monotony. to be lulled by the routine of things. over and over again. like the hammering of nails. you set one more upon the board, and with lassitude, you strike the top. trying to keep it all in place. trying to keep the attachment. trying to hold it to form

I never learned how to build a house. but at times I could muster up the knowledge of putting small rooms together. little places to stay. even for just a short while. until the tearing down began. the moving on. the deconstruction of one space before the reconstruction of another

the smallest room I can remember is a confessional. how I fit so many sins into that stall is still a wonder to me. I was not the worst of boys, but I felt the judgement through the screen of the sliding window as the lumbered breathing of an overweight priest set penance upon me. curious... how it was always the same. ten Hail Mary's and an Our Father. he never changed it up. like it was protocol. a scripted response. as if the severity of sin never mattered at all

I am wise enough now to keep my sins much smaller. I don't have to be told, or scolded. and I've forgotten my prayers. I stare into the nighttime skies and forget about constructing rooms. the claw of the hammer extracts the nails. the boards come down. my house is vast and ever expanding. shapeless. discordant. and decorated with exhilarating variety

(Image from jimburns.org)

journal-15, caused by fractions

the moon is in its cool vibe tonight. a semen-swirled drop of silverness upon the black depth of empty. a battered resilience in the foreground of despair. I have a shadow in the darkness. my flesh feels strange. I linger about, or loiter, somewhere between both

there's friction caused by fractions of thoughts disassembled from the whole. mount the mighty monster of chaos and disturb the status quo. this is just another breathless hour within the trip. I'm malnourished, feverish and cramping. unforgiving climbs higher the tide

sentience comes at a slower pace. a softer glow behind the initial burst of daydream delight. I left my shoes in the car to feel the earth beneath my feet. liquid, hard, grainy and mossy. I am wet with it and blistered. and I wouldn't have it any other way

there are no completed poems in my pocket. just random ramblings and meaningless lines. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. what's the point. I'm naked for no reason other than to watch myself age

and what good is another word from me upon another page

(Image from art-milan.com)

journal-14, pathways and bridges

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

crash and burn. another victim of circumstances. some are illusions. some come wild into a long hour's intrusion. the ones I hate the most are the ones that reveal themselves to be true. those blushing guests making their fashionably late entrance to the party

starlight in soft midnight. a whole heaven full of pathways. bridges. synapses. I lick the glue of a metaphorical envelope and send another dream on its way. there are millions of them. billions of them. and who's to say which ones are opened. and who's to say which ones are answered. and who's to say which ones just keep floating away

here I am, dulled, below half a bright moon. half of me is rotting in the belly of a beast. half of me is blooming in a prisoner's garden. all of me gets carefully attended to. and loved in different ways. and tortured

most of this life remains unopened. I'm just now starting to find a few keys here and there. her kiss. their laughter. the open mindfulness of solitude. I am revived by each one. resurrected in them all

its subtle, the transformation from one minute to the next

journal-13, magnet pulled

I'm creating my own compass. magnet pulled to midnight plus five. the haunts. the dreams. the roaming. the desolation. the dead laughter of silence. the intense eye of wonder. abandoning the process of navigation. scattered purposely. across and over and throughout

I wear a dream-hat under a rose-blush barren sky. words make up my gumball-machine head. gaining numbness to this ill-tranquility. if morning streaks gray across the horizon... if I die today... let it be in your arms. falling into familiar. that fleshy open casket. comforted by your pulse. dancing in your light. a gleaming bare of preciousness. innocence restored. spontaneous gaiety. unaware and uncaring. that will be my new direction. my new destination

there are nights lived wildly. barely alive at all. seething. bound in starvation. where true love is self-sustained once the seed has been planted. I carry my infant ego back to you for nourishment and fine-tuning. a novice at this strange instrument. born so unprepared

or born was I at all... perhaps just carried forward, or gently pulled

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

journal-12, into the ambush

your ambient light gathers me. one small footstep into the breeze. unsteady, steadies. falling, falls. and upon touch... resurrected. because hardships are still beautiful if you can take the pain, separate the experience. I consider this a learning. the result, self-evident

ice blue, the tempest. a summer of cold heart. running like thieves before the theft. greedy, into each other. acrobatic attraction. dance-flower pollination

we'll make sense of this at another time. bury your head in me, I am sap-soft and carved out. nuzzle into my neck. take a deep breath of this aroma. ( and I did. and my lips trembled. and my lungs burned with appreciation )

I will travel south with you. as deep as we can go. into the ambush. the glass forest of mirrored selves. familiar strangers, and forgotten

we shall never part

nor become cannibals at our own feasts

(Image by Karl Persson on trendhunter.com)

journal-11, arrival

I had forgotten or dismissed all of the ingredients. jambalaya in the pot, zuppa di pesce, or what have you. regardless, what I'm saying is that something didn't taste right. so years went by and life rolled along and I got used to the hunger, never choosing to indulge. nothing seemed appetizing. or my palate changed. or I swallowed my tongue in my sleep. I really don't know

numb: its a feeling of not feeling. hold a flame to the skin or be kissed by a beautiful smile... but nothing. no reaction. its that absence

there comes a time of change. everyone has a spring season. I sat in my winter and got used to the cold. it felt awkward to dream of the warmth of sunshine. where in this pale surrounding were the colors the others played in? underneath or above or beyond what I saw before me? I heard laughter in a vacant playground. the whiteness stretched out for miles in all directions. somewhere things were blooming, I just couldn't see it

you have to be willing to be rescued when the chance comes along. what I'm saying is that spring is not a place, its an arrival. an acceptance. you allow the thaw. you look inward and outward to see the colors. you feel the blooming everywhere

I hold one persons hand now, and it fits right every single time. the hunger is gone because I am now fed. I taste completion. I feel the kiss and I feel the flame. these colors are new and they are all around me. they come out of nowhere, they come from within. I look at her and I constantly feel the arrival. I wish I could explain it more. perhaps... as these years go by

( my photo )

journal-10, moonrise to sunrise

nighttime starlike creatures in the sea. the bioluminescence washing ashore. flickering their own sultry pattern. until an uncelebrated death in the sand

confessional quiet. and the pews are empty along this shoreline. there's no penance being handed out because there are no sins being committed. these hours consist of innocence and reflection. the release of cluttered minds and deeper troubles. limp evacuations. letting go and surrendering. ( I walked into the shallows and let loose a heavy vomit )

Venus rising. so powerful. risen. magnificent. rippling glow across the ocean. cool breeze yellow-white. faintly distinct below her stature. and good morning Mars and this crescent moon. a diagonal trio. just... breathtaking

( O sun... no... not now... please don't ruin this )

I'm a modern mess. collapsing. rebuilding. in love, in pain, in confusion. in the way of the fishermen who have arrived now. casting their bait into the surf. setting their rods into their holders. I walk below their lines. taught filaments slightly bent with the morning winds

I need to leave. this is no place for me now. all of the hours of darkness and glow have gone. and the trio is fading into the blueing sky

(My photos 2/27/2022)

journal-9, maker

I want to be a maker of things, not a destroyer. a deliveryman. life comes in small packages, discreetly, sometimes anonymously. a knock on the door. I'm unsure. shaken but enthusiastic. unmoved. I stare at the door. the knocking fades away. I live in a valley. I sleep by the brook. the water makes me happy. trickling water is a happy phrase. I've forgotten my address. it doesn't matter. the deliveryman knows it.

on any random Tuesday the empty faces fill my view. do mirth and gaiety know the days of the week? say "Friday" to yourself and try not to smile just a little. she says "FriYay" once in a while and it lights me up. her voice is home, as distant as it may be.

the Anhinga is sometimes called a snakebird. its adept at swimming and flying. two mediums through which to roam. the male constructs a nest before he even has a mate. anticipation... what a luxury of consciousness. a bundle of thrills... just... waiting... waiting... 

when I was much younger, I used to sneak out at night. I'd open my bedroom window, take the screen out and quietly climb through. the change of environments was instantly palpable. leaving one known address for another place that didn't have one. I wanted to make something new, somewhere else. somewhere beneath midnight's umbilicus the forbidden fruit was spread out for the feast. I wanted to be the one who knew where it was. I wanted to make my home there.

(Image from fravery.tumblr.com)

journal-8, transience

heavens in the sky above. mansions on the beach below. both are dwellings that I can't afford. midnight never fails me though. I am housed here. darkness hits from every angle. I'm more blind during the day than I am at night. right now, everything's accentuated. 

I walk a little further on this particular night, all the way down to the smallest light on the shoreline. its there that I turn around and slow my way back. by this time the clouds have passed, the stars have come out to play and the moon is perfectly halved by empty space and reflection. I can relate. and I see halves everywhere. all around. the ocean to my right, dry land to my left. the sand is half flattened by the waves, half chopped up by footprints. my thighs, torso, arms and head are clothed. my face, neck, lower legs and feet are exposed. my mood is half happy and hopeful, half sad and worrisome. I'm halfway through this walk, but I'm still walking.

its cold tonight. well, chilly at least. the stars are always cold out there. what a suffering it must be to only be seen after your existence, after you've been completely blown out. when in some future moment a random set of eyes looks your way and finally sees you, but you're really not there at all. you were. there is proof of you... but if someone were to travel the long distance to find you, they would arrive at nothing. wasteland. emptiness. perhaps only feeling your memory's warm glow along the way. (its getting a little colder now.)

transiency is didactic. its exceptional annoyance cannot be avoided. I live in a moment, then the moment is gone. I am a moment, from birth to death, and then my life is gone. I touch myself to remember I am here. there are three moments realized... the touching, the being touched and the actual thought that initiates the action. wanting all three completes this moment. finger to skin. significant or not. somehow I know it matters.

I'm walking under a spotlight now. a week has gone by. another night. the moon is almost full. you can't paint this picture or take this photo. its a turquoise smoke silvery dim that is astonishingly indescribable. I am wide awake. in the present. a simple 64th note in the complex composition of infiniteness. I nod my head to you O heavens, with your holy rooms awaiting the immaculate. I nod my head to you in the mansion, with your glass full of scotch and your wife in bed waiting. our thoughts could not be more dissimilar. I'm so alive in this bleak moment of permanence. this transience. but hey... its still difficult. besides, I'm just walking by.

journal-7, vulnerable to the push and pull

spent the turning of the new year with the stars and the sea. neither of which acknowledged this passing of time, these simple seconds. such a small matter to things that seem so eternal. what's a minute, an hour, a year to these well-fed beasts of time.

constellations swirl, a golden shooting star, the ship’s azure glow, fireworks crackling, the beach fire huddled around, a shadow-black shoreline bird, the living city lights, slow rise of the big dipper, midnight celebration, lips kissing the lips of another, shallow soft foaming fizzing tide, gentle waves across skin, free float, the ocean push, the pull, the release, couples embracing, the lamplight, a silence, the lonely parking lot, damp breeze, layered fog, 2 am immaculate sky... these are all strange to me. all distant. some known, some unknown. my hands feel full. my hands remain empty.

if we ever get together, will you come here with me. can I chase you into the waves as one year ends and another one begins. can we make love in the sand up near the dunes while forgetting about time. can we talk about forever as we look into the deep space above. can you imagine us, a binary star, seen as one from so far away. seen from here. right now. 

there are worlds without us. there's an entire galaxy below me in the sand. and within every breath inhaled, exhaled. they don't hold my interest for very long. I'm not smart enough to know the complexities at those levels. I'm barely making sense of it here, where I exist. where I know hurt and joy and loss and sacrifice and intense kissing and disappointing rejection and moments of learning and moments of confusion and what love is and what love is not and the depth of dislike it takes to get to hate and the sorrow felt recognizing ignorance. uncertainties abound in unknown worlds. its hard to believe in an existence somewhere else, anywhere that seems less comfortable than here. I have a strange need for a balance to the unseen equation. equilibrium. its a cruel requirement.

twenty twenty-two. fifty-two. insignificant numbers to the stars and the sea. another wave will come after the one that just crashed. another star will form after one collapses. I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay. eternal. I want to exist and re-exist with you. I want to love you and love you and love you, without ending. no time limits. no complexities. no uncertainties. a comfort. can you imagine that. wherever you are. whatever you're doing. I am here without you. feet alone in the sand. eyes lost in the sky. I am here in another year now. still vulnerable to the push and pull. still imagining something of us, much greater than this feebleness.

(Cling by Henrik Aarrestad Uldalen on midnightxmasquerade.tumblr.com)

journal-6, we were not

old AC/DC brings a certain smell. Bon Scott's death. late 70's shag carpet and popcorn ceiling texture. I listened to Shot Down in Flames before asking Abbey out. not the best choice or decision. it didn't go well. I still remember her voice full of hesitations and stutters. I hope she's happy somewhere. I'm happy here right now.

I had a bike and a paper route. an MCS Spider and the Quad City News. the newspapers were rolled up and rubber banded and stacked in a wagon that I pulled around the neighborhood. no care was given while throwing them in the yards. some made the driveway. others made the grass. as long as the wagon was empty when I got home. fingers full of ink. adolescent sweat. a few dollars for some guitar strings and new picks.

his name was Steve Shue. he bought my first guitar from me. a dark woodgrain Gretsch with a black pickguard. I went out and bought my first Fender Strat. he set the guitar on fire one day to give it a "look". Steve wasn't right in the head. he swallowed a shotgun blast years later in an apartment. he was alone. my younger brother was the first to respond. he called me while he was on the way saying "hey, a call just came in, you'll never guess who just shot himself..." I guessed correctly. it was the first name I thought of.

dad called me "Michael" when I was in trouble. mom too. I knew it when I heard it. and most times I knew what I had done. I had 6th row seats to see Judas Priest but didn't get to go because I came home from the mall an hour late. Rob Halford rode his motorcycle on stage. my friends told me all about it. that one still stings a little. I learned how to play Living After Midnight on guitar. Our 8th grade band played it at parties, along with Hells Bells, Brown Sugar, Purple Haze, Fly By Night and others. we called ourselves The Living Legends. turns out, we were not.

journal-5, I walked a violent beach

 

I walked a violent beach tonight. it was raining, I wanted it to rain harder. it was windy, I wanted the wind to blow me the fuck over. it was empty, I wanted somebody to be there. I wanted to be murdered

I heard the waves from the parking lot and they didn't disappoint. five to eight feet I'm guessing. chaotic. nothing at all consistent about their shoreline approach. storm driven wild and mad. we cursed together. they threw sheets of turbulent foam at my legs. I took heavy steps that sunk into the soft sand and fought the suction to pull them back out. I hadn't a fear of combat tonight. when you walk fearless, the terrain is easy

a few hundred yards in, I stopped and faced the ocean. not a soul to the left of me, not a soul to the right. (the sane ones have souls in hiding.) nothing but dunes and grass behind me. in my stance, with feet sinking in and arms crossed, I stared into the sea, into the sky, into the wind. a mix of grays and blacks and silvers marbled. rolling fiercely, crashing together, drifting fast overhead. and there, a spotlight that came and went through the passing clouds, the waning gibbous, but mostly hidden

mind set free (and a little crazy) I didn't move from that spot for over an hour. the waves came against me from time to time, but I didn't budge. the wind was a constant push and shove, but still I stood. the storm clouds let loose for a moment, and then another, but it didn't matter. I came here for a fight

realization (when footprints disappear under a wave or two) that I matter not. my existence is fleeting. here now... gone then. no witness, no distress call, no loitering ghost of mine haunting this shore. pull me moon, into your glow. how meaningless to be a rock in this majestic universe

I never got my fight. all of that violence there before me, yet there was only peace. it took a while to receive it. it started when the rain fell again. lightly this time. a measured distance between each drop. I closed my eyes, unfolded my arms, let them hang out from my side, palms facing the force of the wind, and tilted my head back... somewhere on the edge of fear and courage, I felt the change. neutral at best. no need for religion, no need for science. this was experience. absorption. becoming a part of. I didn't know it or want it when I arrived. I didn't go there seeking anything. that's why I received it. I opened up and let it

there were tears, a few

its ok to cry for things that are gained 

and overwhelm

journal-4, Saturday morning at the auto shop

in the waiting room

there's a table with an

open box of crayons

and a piece of paper

with the outline of a

child's hand in blue and

five completed tic-tac-toe 

grids. X's won four of them

the sun comes through the

southern window and reflects

off of a single housefly that

periodically lands on my

forearm and knee. its little

black shiny body is elusive.

we play a game of fly away or

be killed and it remains 

undefeated so far

outside the window, large 

lizards chase small lizards. 

the store phone rings eleven

times before its answered. 

every entering customer has

a legitimate problem that 

needs attention asap

I'm in love and I want her to

be here so I can ramble off 

these nothings with her. she

would be mad at me for 

playing the fly game. she

would adore the lizards. she

would play tic-tac-toe with

me and probably win. she 

would make these little 

nothings into something so

enjoyable

I took a crayon from the box

and drew a new grid for a

tic-tac-toe game. I put an O 

in the top right corner

its her turn now

(My photo)