Saturday, December 29, 2012

"first enlightenment"



i remember lying on the soft clay and grass bed
staring, already missing
summer camp

the sun beamed down like rays of heaven
through the tall pines and
i was fifteen

my mind a mix of
churches, confirmations and
real life kids

confusion

as i lay there
head on a soft rock pillow
dressed in levi's and flannel

i heard the mountain kids playing
water polo in the mountainside pool
too cool for a sprat from the Tidewater
so i just laid there thinking
of the past week

smoking cigarettes in the woods
with two girls
and
skipping rocks up the babbling brook

it was like Heaven and childhood revelation

hours later my dad picked me up
and i got to drive a little on my
learner's permit
back down those mountains to
regular life
but it had changed

i never saw any of those kids again,
but i have never lost the memory of that sun
and that rock pillow that
cool mountain morning.
12/29.12.pgr

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

“Hit ‘Re-start’ America: A Not So Modest Proposal”

I was thinking late last night. During the waning hours of Christmas, as my wife and children slept in warm beds with full bellies and contentment I couldn’t help but think of the millions of others who weren’t so fortunate. I stared at the sky outside thinking of a friend who was in the process of frantically trying to find any information at all about her family in the tornado stricken region of Mobile, Alabama. It is Christmas for many, but yet another natural disaster for some others. As I searched the internet and news channels for information I saw the pictures of more destroyed houses and ripped up trees; uprooted lives. I was given a vision of sorts as I stared into the star spangled black.
I was staring; daydreaming at night, and could “see” a map of our Nation. Taking into consideration the recent damage in Alabama, the images of the rollercoaster in Seaside Heights, New Jersey and all the broken and burned homes left behind by “super storm” Sandy, as well as those still without means in New Orleans, Dade County Florida and my own backyard, down Hatteras way. I could see this map and all of the areas devastated that have yet to be fully restored, lives still awaiting purpose, and hungry and cold children. It was like looking at a map on a fancy news show during an election, with different areas lit up different colors, but instead of Red or Blue I saw the colors of green, purple, brown, white and grey. Disaster zones, areas being blanketed in blizzards, and all of the hurricanes blown and tornado touched areas in different colors. Each color represented millions of our brothers and sisters who were either displaced from their homes or stuck in their homes, lacking provisions, some lacking hope. The vision was a spike in my brain, and stirred a sense of urgency, just short of anger in my heart.
My thoughts soon changed to a search for solutions to change these unfortunate realities. I thought of all of the empty F.E.M.A. trailers around the country. I think of all of the foreclosed upon homes as well. I thought of all of the corporate greed, and corporate “personhood” which may be at least partially responsible for the lack of rebuilding, and of the general lack of compassion overall by not a majority of Americans, but by a small few really who hold the power to make all of these disparities into equalities. Why, I wondered, would our leaders not help these people when there is clearly a waste of money and energy in regards to the security and surety of so many “American dreams”?
I thought back in history to my ancestors in Jamestown. Nobody was buying or selling houses to one another, they worked together as a community to build their church, their school and their houses. They worked tirelessly together to build it all, one building by one, until every need of the new settlement was met. Those people were in fear of the natural owners of the land which they had just invaded. They sought to protect themselves from that which they did not understand, and this led to much conflict among humans. Now it seems that most Americans have forgotten the humility and teamwork required to build that first settlement and have instead chosen to follow that path of fear and conflict, worrying more about what they have and can get than those who have little to none and may be trying to “get theirs”. The Empire is again crumbling.
I imagined what I deemed a “not so modest proposal”. It is fact that we have many more empty and foreclosed upon houses than we do homeless people in this nation and many of those foreclosures were either allegedly illegal, or set up from the beginning by greedy loan officers and investment firms allowing people to buy homes that they never should have been sold due to their economic status, in order for the sellers to make a fast profit. The last two decades have seen a very different approach in the once simple concept of banking and investing. We have seen men and women locked up for speculating, literally betting on the ability of persons to succeed or fail. They used imaginary money to make bets, and make more imaginary money. (In a manner of paraphrasing) What I am about to say will be viewed by many as one of the largest and most liberal minded giveaways to the undeserving in the history of our country; however, the late Dr. Martin Luther King, The Dalai Lama, or Christ and the Prophets would call it the greatest move towards peace on earth, and goodwill towards our fellow humans in the history of humanity. A small few people could make this happen legally, and an army of millions who are out of work as well as our National Guard and Military could put on green arm bands and facilitate this. If the lawmakers in Washington would listen to the people who have been screaming about the insane contributions of corporations which we KNOW has influenced our Congress and listen also to the voices who cry out in the night as they have had their lives destroyed, or taken away by acts of gluttonous financial institutions, perhaps there could be a change of heart among our elected officials and lawmakers. American tax dollars bailed out the same financial institutions which were responsible for the bankrupting of a good percentage of people who may have been homeowners or business owners yet those same financial institutions still record billions of dollars in profit every year, and they are no longer making loans. I am no economist, and I am sure anyone who desires to may debunk my argument for this reason or that, but Truth is Truth, greed is greed and gluttony is gluttony. We all know this simple fact.
I propose that “we the people” stand together, through social network sights and community meetings, and put heavy pressure on our leaders, from the Office of the President on down to turn what is now disparity into equality, a “re-start” of our Nation. We can take what was good from our forefathers and the builders of our first settlements and create another beginning, erasing the hate and fear. I say if you are homeless, and you will work to help restore a home then let it be yours. If your bank illegally foreclosed on your house or allowed you to get into an upside down financial situation by ignoring responsible lending practices and profiting from your loss, you get your house back. Finally, I propose that if we have so many empty F.E.M.A. trailers, as well as so many homeless and displaced persons from the natural disasters that have stricken our hard working folks, our National Guard, Military, and volunteers should be mobilized to move the resources to where they are needed. There is a great debate about the wastefulness of programs such as F.E.M.A., and for good reason. I cite mismanagement and apathy. Our country has leaders but no leadership.
To sum this up, much to the chagrin of people who choose to lock themselves up against their neighbors and the world, my proposal is simple. We should band together and petition and march on Washington, as Dr. King did, and demand that the money, our tax money, tied up in this bureaucratic quagmire, be set forth in the effort to wipe out the scourge of homelessness and poverty in America. I say this should be the legacy of the NOW generation, to serve notice to the rest of the good peoples of the earth that this is what America is and stands for. I was watching a documentary on the last days of Dr. Martin Luther King last night, and there were two quotes that stood out; the first was “let’s kill that dreamer and see what happens to his dream”, and the other was “you can kill the dreamer, but you can never kill the dream, hallelujah”! If the late Dr. King were alive today, I am sure he would march with me, with us that choose to adopt my proposal. I am sure that the Dalai Lama and Jesus would walk hand in hand with all of us to make this happen, and I am sure that some of you will stand with me on this simple idealistic commentary. How many of us are ready, willing and prepared to see this through? Too many people have died to create this great nation, and more than a few, but far less than the many conspire to see this nation crumble like every Empire before her. It is the job of the people to take this country back, non-violently, in order to restore that old flicker of Hope, known as the American dream.
This is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and all like him throughout millennia that have recognized impropriety, imbalance and injustice, and who stood up for the rights of all people to have the same opportunities afforded the few who hold control over the majority of society’s hearts and minds. Most of these brave men and women have had their lives cut short to lengthen our reach, so what now shall WE reach for?

Friday, December 21, 2012

“…it all looks the same, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.” from the journals of Peter Butler (3rd piece)

I remember my hands smelling of the grease from an old hydraulic door hinge that had been blown ajar and was banging on the back of the house. The night was forecast to be windy and apparently I had left the screen door to the spare room open slightly. A gust took it open and bent the piston. Using nothing but will and hope, I held the piston and the rest of it there, and bent it back to at least closeable. This Left my hands smelling of the grease I mentioned.
I hadn’t been sleeping well at all for the past several months. My mom has been fighting a few different kinds of cancer, and there is nothing left of her but a hope wrapped in weathered feathers. I took five tranquilizers at around four this afternoon, along with a quart of Mexican beer, and succumbed to the pillow by eight. At two-thirty I was up again; dry mouth and intrigued by all of the wind and rain, normally my favorite sleep track. My wife on the couch with babe on the breast left the bed to my oldest and me. I was snoring and Emeline had fallen asleep watching an animated feature about a man turned beast, and then man again. As I said, the dry mouth had me up for a swig of Coke and then back to the bed. I lay there tossing and turning as the wind screamed warnings to the awakened and to them on the wing.
I am insane. I have always had a plan. After years of running, shooting, burning and sleeping with one eye open, it seems one develops a sixth sense; kind of how a Jamaican dog can sleep in the sun all day just behind the tire of an auto and jump up from sleep mere seconds before the driver carelessly pulls away. Tonight I had been listening for one thing; the crack. There are several dead or dying trees near our bedroom; trees that once made homes for owls and flickers, trees that have long since given up the ability to bend in these Northeast breezes. Every one of us alive has these seasons. And every season brings its beatings and its gifts. I lay there thinking of the poetry in that, my dying mother, and my sleeping daughter to my East.
I was almost asleep when I heard it. I knew when I did that one of two things would happen; the tree would lay down easy in the midst of vines and seasons of underbrush out on the back lot, or it would come crashing through the roof. There weren’t many branches left, but its trunk was heavy with rot and rain. With my head pointing north and laying supine, I could hear the immediate and thunderous crack, followed by the tearing of vines just outside my right ear. Instinctively I rolled left and grabbing Eme’s pajamas, pushed her over the edge and laid her down gently on the floor. A split second later I was covered in it. I could feel cold rain on my neck and shoulders, but nowhere else. I could taste and smell the dust of thirty year old insulation that used to be part of the attic. A quick explosion of dust from the drywall ceiling turned quickly to a thin paste, covering it all. I tried to call out to Holley, but I could not. Either something was crushing my chest or my back, but I could get no air. I could barely sip shallow breaths in the seconds there, silent.
Holley quickly appeared. By this time Emeline was in full throat, safe, unscratched, but scared out of her mind. Everything that little girl had ever known of a home, a world, a life had just exploded as she slept. She looked up from the floor screaming, her perfect face next to mine. I smiled at her, shushed her, tried to reach out but could not move. “Don’t worry sugar, Mommy’s coming, it’s alright.” I tried to mouth the words, but again, with very little wind behind them, barely audible.
Holley rushed in and scooped Emmy up. She took her into the bathroom and placed her in the tub with the youngest, my Ella. I could hear them all screaming as Holley rushed back in to help me. It felt like a million pounds lay on my back. I felt crushed but not in pain. I assumed that a section of the ceiling or the fan or something must be pushing down on me, but all I could really feel was the cold, dirty water dripping down onto my cheeks and neck. As Holley struggled to push and pull at the debris; roof joists, soaked sheetrock and the fell tree I heard her yell to the girls “don’t come in here! Daddy is going to be FINE!” Her voice cracked as she said it. She rushed to the bathroom and quickly returned with a cool, damp washcloth. As she wiped my face and brow I noticed her fighting tears. “You’re going to be alright baby,” she said, “just a few more minutes; people are on the way, I called 911.” It seemed that hours had passed when in fact it was probably six or seven minutes at best.
Things began to suddenly look differently. I could barely see out of the window from underneath the rubble, but a strange glow was replacing the black and wet and dust. I thought about my mom, the hamster I had when I was eleven, my girls, and my wife; and then I heard her again. “Wake up baby, please…” she pleaded as I opened my eyes again to see her, tearfully staring into mine. It was like she was looking at the entirety of me through my face, my eyes, my lips, my nose, my chin. Her eyes leaped like flames from one point to the next, her gaze pained. “They’ll be here any minute.” She said calmly.
In that instance, I began to see tiny phosphorescent orbs floating around me in the room there, and it appeared that the sun was coming up. I could hear the first responders on the scene, and it was clear that nothing lay on me, but through me. Some lucky rotting branch had just the right angle in to enter the upper half of my right lung as I rolled over to push Emmy out of the bed. It missed my spine somehow, although not completely, and had made exit between my navel and my appendix. “Son of a bitch” I thought, “after all of this.”
I had almost made it, I thought. After all of the running, the revenge killing, the arson, the snakes, the clowns and hairdressers, my boss and all of his guests, and thirteen years without a raise, I had almost made it home, and the day before the world would end to boot. Ah well I thought, makes sense in the same way it always had. Holley was there, in and out, wiping away the sweat and grime, mumbling to herself, eyes closed then open, and all the while clutching my beads.
It must have been around three in the morning when I heard the first saws begin to rip and felt the first dull tugs of what would be the attempt to free my body from the bed I had made. Holley noticed a fragmented smile and asked “Pete? Are you okay? Pete! Hey! Talk to me!” I smiled and mouthed some words, still unable to find much air. I remember trying to tell her that the sun was coming up, that I could see it, but I doubt if she heard me. The men managed to free my right arm first. I had no feeling there but she took my hand in hers and placed it on her cheek. It felt warm and soft, like the first face I had ever felt. She leaned in close as I struggled to get the next few words out. I was feeling weaker, but better. “It’s sunny.” I said. I don’t think she understood. “And it’s the craziest thing I have ever seen,” I continued, more slowly now, “it all looks the same to me as it always has, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.” I watched her eyes close and thick tears begin to stream as I felt sleep approaching. “Don’t worry hun,” I whispered, “it’s all going to be just fine.”

Sunday, December 16, 2012

OPINION: The “War on Christmas” is a crock.


This will be short. It seems that it is that time again. As families gather and rush to buy every living or non-living thing for their family and friends, the assholes at Fox Entertainment love to push the agenda on the war on Christmas. Why ?
I grew up in a Christian America, and we loved Christmas, still do. In the wake of the last few years of crusade however on behalf of the Bill O’Reilly’s and Pat Robertson’s, this time of rejoicing and loving one another has been hi-jacked by a bunch of right wing fanatics. The last time I checked there were no secret convoys from the Muslim Brotherhood to sneak weapons up to the North Pole and attack the lie called Santa Claus. It IS the first lie many of us tell our kids, never mind the free pass in the name of good will and keeping our tots happy.
This is what burns me. I live among Buddhists, Muslims, and other folk that DO NOT celebrate Christmas, but I am not afraid of accidentally wishing one of them a Merry Christmas. I mean come on, the meaning of the holiday, be it Ramadan, Hanukkah, Christmas or whatever is to rejoice in the good that we have and wish for future blessings among all people. This message has been lost.
Lastly, Christmas is celebrated by a bunch of folks borrowing from a pagan solstice celebration and has misconstrued the meaning such that it is now a global economic watermark; how much did they spend? If this were in fact a celebration of the birth of Christ, which for 99% of Christians it is not, one might point out that He was NOT born on Christmas, as our teachings tell us. The lies do not stop there.
So, in closing, to my Christian friends and family that feel some sort of attack from a boogeyman, hell-bent on wrecking Christmas, seek the true meaning and live it. Love your brothers and sisters as your selves. If I happen to see you and wish you a Merry Christmas, or a Happy Holiday, the sentiment is the same. I mean to convey that I love you and yours and I hope the season as well as the coming year bring you great joy. I think Jesus would stand with me on this one, although I am a Deist/Buddhist. Throw stones at that, and have a very Merry Holiday/Hanukkah/Kwanza/ Ramadan or pagan ritual.
That is all. Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men says it all. You are either a devout follower of your prophet, or you are lost in a capitalist scheme. In any regard, have a good ‘un! And FUCK this “war on Christmas” talk. Blessings be to ALL people. That is what my heart, and my Creator teaches me, no discrimination. One Love.

The Way of the Gun

The Way of the Gun

I could just as easily call this short piece The Way of the Virus, or The Differences in Eastern and Western Philosophy, oft mistaken for theology. For years now however I have been working on a theme along the lines of “what if we humans got it wrong from the start, or what if we have chosen a path to deal with our threats that is completely ineffective, and has just worsened our chances to survive as a race? There is a thread which flows through societies and permeates every aspect of a peoples’ socio-psychological make-up. That commonality among us comes from our struggle, since time began, to control our enemies, from microbial form, to human.
I posted something along the lines of “they that choose the way of the gun shall perish” and was met with a mixed reaction, and well deservedly so. My cousin Steve, whom I love dearly and a new friend Brian, also made great points. I chose to write this little piece to expand on what I meant to convey, in a weird, metaphorical or philosophical sense.
In choosing the phrase “the way of the gun” I meant to convey the way of conflict. This is the thread which permeates our Western culture, religion and philosophy. From the beginning of many of the Holy Western texts, there is an immediate conflict established between a so called “good” and “evil”. We are taught from a very young age to watch our backs, to look out for the boogeyman, and to be ready to defend ourselves. Our medicine approaches this struggle in a similar way. If one gets a virus, then we make a vaccination to kill the virus. The very next year the virus is stronger, and we must alter our vaccines to kill the “new improved” virus. In warfare the same practice has been observed for centuries. We have learned that if one plane, or ship, or tank won’t do the job, we will make a better one, all the while, perpetuating that which I feel is ingrained in our Western psyche.
In most Eastern philosophy, these so called “good” and “evil” forces are viewed as parts of the same whole, there is no separation. In order to live a balanced life, one must respect every aspect of living, whether sickness, or tragedy, as part of the necessary whole and turn inward for answers. We in the west turn to leaders for actions. In the East, it seems that many people accept that whatever they have done, wherever they have placed themselves in time and space, they have done so willfully, and any consequences must be dealt with using a different type of understanding, one which seeks balance, and not victory.
I have often thought of writing an Orwellian style novel about man versus virus and how we have gotten it all wrong from the beginning, and in the end it proves too late, the virus wins. In Eastern medicine and the holistic Western styles which borrow much from the East, illness or imbalance is treated as a natural thing, and countered often with natural remedies put on the planet before we were in an effort to restore a body’s natural balance. When confused, or sad, they turn inward, and seek the reasons within their thoughts for why their actions have brought them to this state of being. In the West, we go to churches, and offer money in exchange for the absolution of our transgressions, but how many of us fully gain any understanding of the far reaching effects those transgressions may have had?
In closing, if we choose the way of the gun, the vaccine, the conflict; we will eventually be undone as a species, in my opinion. If we choose the path of understanding, that of community and compassion, and learn to treat our enemies as ourselves in an effort to understand them, from human to pathogen, we may have a better chance.
Keep in mind, I know nothing really, just musing here, and expanding in about 700 words on a very simple point. I do not own guns, nor do I fault those who do, but every decision we make leads to a consequence of some sort, and it is my opinion, that as long as we in neighborhoods refuse to accept the differences of our neighbors, we will never truly realize harmony and balance as a global community.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

(pgr 12/11/12) -"Little Grey Cat Bird"

my little Grey Cat Bird is back
she visits me when cool winds blow
she huddles in the border of bramble
past a tiny bench in my backyard

the spring comes and she emerges
red underneath the tail there
and plump, just sitting alone there
outside the window as i wash the days away

my little Grey Cat Bird has returned for the winter
and i will enjoy her visit until spring
chases her away. for she is not mine
yet she returns.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

from the Journals of Peter Butler..."not today"

“not today”

Some days are good; I wake up and continually smoke ganja. The day goes. The stress of the little ones tearing the house down, the working or not working, they all blend together in a nice orchestrated mess and then I look for my old friend sleep. Some days you never know what you might get, but you start it the same way. It is living. Today, after smoking a good bit I got a phone call from my dad’s cell phone, never a good sign. This stopped the buzz. Then he asked if I had a few minutes to talk, sounding weary, maybe tearful, cursing. He doesn’t do that. This stopped the clock. Then he went into the plan for Christmas visits from me and my brothers, and our families, and why. This reddened my swollen eyes.
Holley came home and went to get some cat food, and to buy me some cigarettes and beer. She took the little ones. Holley knows daddy.

I went into the closet where I keep it all and rolled a smoke. I usually smoke filters, but lately I have been conserving, breaking them in half and rolling the broken halves when I don’t have money to buy whole ones. I stepped out into the graying, day after orange of an overcast sunset, leaned against the Ford, and lit up. I thought about selling stuff, I thought of my mom and the trilogy, and I thought of nothing, choosing otherwise to just stare over the tree lined horizon, and the quiet highway. A few drags in, a Southern Shores cop pulled up to the corner of 12 and Loblolly in plain view of me. I watched him watch me from the corner of my eye. I kept on smoking. Sure enough, he turned his lights on and pulled in, very abruptly, authoritatively. Hell no, I thought. I, unmoved, leaning on the Ford watched as he slowly exited his drunk chaser, and approached me, his hand on his steel. “What’s that you’re smoking?” Obligatory. “Before I begin”, I started,” I hope you have a recorder on, because this is tobacco, and a jury of your peers will surely convict you should you take this one step further, once I tell you calmly what I am about to tell you.” He said “that’s very eloquent son, let me see that ‘Cigarette’.
I dropped it at my feet. Then I began. “I’m watching my two and four year old all day, as I get the call,” and I went on explaining everything about my sadness, or apparent comatose stature, and indignant speech. I told him how anyone who could read between the lines of the story would see him jailed for any misunderstanding or show of force on his part. I told him how I’m already on massive doses of anti-anxiety and anti depressant drugs. I added that lately it’s a pile of sleeping pills too, and all that plus beer still wouldn’t knock me down until four or six a.m. I also told him calmly and stoically, still unmoved, that should he decide to cite me for anything from littering to whatever you’d call my serious and crappy demeanor, he had better call back-up and an ambulance first, as well as his Commanding Officer, as I planned to file charges of violation of civil rights, those given a broken man, bereaved in his driveway, smoking the leftovers of a few whole cigarettes. He looked at me like a man looks at a stray cat, or a car accident, or a new baby, and then he got back in his cruiser, and just slowly drove away. You never know what a day will bring. I have heard it, and said it, but I never understood the between of those lines until now.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

“american Capitalism” -Peter Butler

I was just standing there, staring at my dead highway and smoking my smoke as the wind blew proper for the season, crisp out of the Northeast. Its cooler tonight, I thought staring up into black and stars, it rained earlier but it was warmer before then. As the smoke began to taste hot I turned, stepped out of the shadows of the Odyssey, and made for the front steps.
I couldn’t have taken more than five or six steps when I emerged into the light, just past the Live Oak tree and then I saw it. This thing must have weighed fifty pounds or more, this beat up looking, pissed off Grey Fox. As I moved into the light, from the driveway it saw me. It started half howling and weaving, running back and forth from one side of my path to the other. My mood changed from mellow and my calm collapsed. These things can be dangerous. I worked with a man who was attacked by a rabid one. He said it latched on and he had to nearly kill it to get it to let go. It shredded his arms and gut. I thought about this, as I also thought; I just want to get back inside, feel that cool and calm and mellow again. As the adrenaline kicked in and I felt under attack, my brain began to spin. I thought immediately of the entire collection of cool tour guide pickin’s I had brought home over the years and littered the yard with. Right nearby there lay a ballast rock.
This rock may have been pulled from a river by some indentured servant two, three hundred years ago, in England or Spain to be used as ballast in a wooden ship, bound for the New World. This simple stone may have eventually been replaced by cargo heading to the old world, and turned into the cobblestone streets, still laying in some of our most beautiful cities; Savannah, Charleston, Norfolk and New York. The journey ended as did that of many souls and ships along my coast, the Graveyard of the Atlantic and North Carolina’s cash cow.

Seconds passed as I thought about all that, while the fox took a stand, right between me and my rest. I grabbed a rock that lay close by, it was about double the weight of a duckpin bowling ball, but half the size, rectangular and oblong, and rolled smooth by centuries of storm. I knew that if I threw and missed the fox would surely charge me. I also remembered that I used to be a pitcher.
Now and then I still throw things, small or large things. As I stood there, eye to eye with this mad or hungry beast, maybe ten or twelve feet away, I tossed the stone up and down. I was getting the feel, you know? I was sizing up the weight, the distance, all of the trajectory and what not. I had an idea and acted quickly. I lunged toward it, in the motion of throwing to see if it would charge or flinch. If it charged I was likely screwed, but if it gave me a “tell”, I would be the victor. Lucky for me it dropped down, and to the right, like a Collie playing with its master. Immediately I threw, taking aim just high and left of it, figuring it would run that way. I didn’t hit it, but it ran away into the shadows, past the Live Oak trees. There was no soundtrack to this. There was nothing but a heartbeat in ears, and the eventual smack spark and bushes of a stone ricocheting off of concrete and into dead underbrush. One could at once hear that and the beast running to its mellow, and calm. It was either taken by madness, or disillusioned and felt cornered. The beast felt that I was the intruder, but isn’t this the thread of meaning in life? We both felt the same, that moment.
I quickly made it for the door and was inside and safe, slowly returning to calm again, slipping into the couch’s caress. It was a draw. That little wild thing wanted me like a big oil man wants every whore’s hole in the Republic of Texas. All I wanted was to be left alone, as I put down the smoke, the one that tasted hot.

Monday, November 26, 2012

the weeds and the vines

in my yard
where
wooden posts give lean
there grows a
beautiful botanical barrier
which gloats
unkempt
to passing gardeners

the holiday has left us
with it’s travelers and
it’s gifts

the four day week
end
gives way as the
keepers of the
carnival
sweep frantically
and pull steel down
in a race against the
dark and the rats
and the battle over what’s left behind.

---the weeds and
the vines.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

end to an off season (memorial day 2010)



it is the end
of the beauty
found in
the cold and uncertain

there is one more to come after this one
i wrote it last night
it should appear in the
published
work

this morning began
like most of the summer
as i rolled past the speed limit signs
by the fire station in duck
and the movie theater in corolla
the limits are once again
fallen
to make safe the way of
the lost tourist
i push the
ford up behind the
slow ones
the ones with no
g p s
onlookers gather and roll as the
pretty things walk the streets again

fireworks blaze illegally
young boys will try again
along with
alcohol and displays of
bravado
mostly sweat and the showing of
skin
the wave has not yet crashed
though it builds
steady and capable of
destruction

hold that for now

but
this morning
two joggers
one carrying our
flag
reminded me early on that
it is memorial day
a day to honor our fallen
and
the end to the rest

we will have a few
more weeks before
the kids get out
and families roam free
and cope with
each other

months from now
labor day will return us
to grace
and peace
fitting
after the service and
the seas and the winds
have had their way

tonight the wind blows warm and
dry

the floor of my yard
crackles as the
breeze blows loose the
last acorns hanging
in my live oak
leaves shed through
march and april
crisp in the dry
death of may
leaves waxen
presented
ready to store the fast and fat
summer rains

we should wish to appear
as this steady

there is time to lose
money to make and
preparations
for
the coming of heat and
moisture is upon us
and i sit at this machine
wondering
over the hum and flash of
cars outside my window
will this be the season

and the bubbles in
the cheap cava
break in me and
carry tired thoughts
away
as this muscle
frustration and
mind
ready
to bear the weight of the show
once again

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Driving Home from Collington Today

I went to Manteo earlier today to pick up a bookcase for my wife. I was going to do it last week, but a hurricane interrupted the plan. Little did I know that slight alteration would change my world forever, but not in the usual way a hurricane would. My friend Richie went along to help me with the heavy lifting. After finishing the job, I dropped Richie off at his house and continued on homeward. As I was pulling out of Collington Harbor I received some very sad news about a family member. Fighting back tears, I took a deep breath and turned up the low-fi. The old Ford may be weather beaten, ugly, and unsafe at any speed, but the sound system is ample, so I cranked up some thunderous dub, King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown, and pulled out.

In need of fuel, I pulled into some the little shit can gas station right around the corner, followed closely by a Kill Devil Hills cop. As I pulled up to the pump and shut her off, he pulled up beside me. “Turn it back up.” he said smiling, which was slightly confusing, so I turned it back on. “What is that?” he asked, “and may I see your license and registration”, still acting somewhat normally. I produced what he asked for, and showed him the cover to the disc, to which he replied “Well Mister Butler, can I have this?” Sort of smiling, I said, “Well sir, I can’t let you have it, but if you have a pen and paper, feel free to write down the title, and I’m sure you can find it pretty cheap on line.” Almost before I got that out, he drew his weapon and smashed my drivers’ side view mirror. Not thinking, I quickly said “what the FUCK man?” as his next move sent the fisted handle of his gun across my jaw with a loud crack. “I don’t give a shit about your jungle music boy” he snarled, “and nobody around here wants to hear you blaring that shit either, don’t you have any respect for people?” he continued, more angrily now. Not knowing what else to do, I just sat there, silent, jaw throbbing, and I could taste blood. I was pissed, but he had a gun. “Cat got your tongue now smartass?” he said smiling. “No sir” I replied, slurring now, swelling. He dropped the cd cover on the asphalt and smashed it with his boot before walking back to his cruiser, looking over his shoulder briefly and finished with “I don’t guess you’ll be around here blaring that shit anymore, will you?” This seemed like a rhetorical question, so I sat, still, and silent. As he began to enter his vehicle, I got out with my phone to take a quick snapshot of his car; surely this asshole was going to pay. He saw me in action and quickly returned. As I slipped the phone back into my jacket pocket he got right up in my face, pressing me against the Ford like a High School senior trying to steal a kiss from a freshman. Almost doubled over backward, I watched his lips move as his teeth gritted. I could smell Marlboro and onions as he said quietly, closely “I thought we had an understanding boy” before doubling me over with a knee to my groin. I slumped back in the Ford, still in shock, and watched him drive away.

In need of medical attention, I started for the hospital. As I got up the road a few miles, approaching the light it dawned on me. I have a picture of his car, fuck him! I could turn right and head to Nags Head and the ER, or I could go left, to the KDH cop shop and report it. I chose left. I pulled in, and walked in the front door. My mouth was slowly filling with blood and I was continually spitting it out. Barely able to talk, I approached the officer on duty at the front desk. Apparently my assailant had already radioed his buddies at the station to brag about the white dread whose ass he’d just kicked. Not knowing this, I fumbled for my phone, as I tried to talk, painfully. I couldn’t move my mouth. Everything was all slurred. The magnitude of the situation became increasingly evident as the pig on the desk said “well, what do we have here? –what’s that you say boy? I can’t understand you, what are you drunk, high? You know this ain’t the soup kitchen boy.” He continued. About that time, another storm trooper appeared from the back, and they began to round the counter which divided us. Hell no, I thought, not again.

Now I am no bad ass by any stretch of the word, but I am clinically insane and sitting on a powder keg of memories of ass kicking’s from many years ago. I have also taken a few self defense courses. As they approached cuffs in hand, I knew what was happening. I slumped to the ground, feigning pain, faintness. One of them started to reach for my collar and I jumped up fast, ramming the top of my head into his chin, sending him down onto the floor. At the same moment, the first one from the desk reached for his weapon as I was reaching for it as well. This man was big, but fat, slower to move than the street boys, and a struggle for the Glock ensued. I managed to get off one shot into his thigh, which put him down. I screamed at him “ROLL OVER ON YOUR GOD DAMNED STOMACH, NOW!” and he did. “NOW, CUFF YOURSELF, HANDS BEHIND, YOU KNOW HOW!” and he did.

Suddenly, my assailant appeared in the doorway, unaware of what had transpired just seconds before. I took aim. He was startled to walk in and see me, bleeding, swollen, and pissed, as two of his boys lay on the marble between us, one unconscious and the other one bleeding and restrained. My tone turned calm now, almost sinister, I was entering a place in my mind I never thought I would be. “Kindly place your weapon on the ground SIR” I taunted, “or join your friends on the floor.” He removed his gun, and kicked it towards me, and began his rationalizing. “You know son, you don’t have to do”. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I interrupted, and commanded slowly “and just lay down on the fucking floor, and I will just walk out of here, and then let the chase begin.” I smiled the smile of a crazy man, a man who had forgotten about the soul, and all sense of right or wrong. But he wouldn’t lie down. He took a knee. He tried to reason with me. “Alright now son, I’m trying to save you now, you don’t realize what it is you’re doing” He insisted, his voice now cracking. “LAY DOWN” I shouted once more. I wasn’t going to give up now, end up hanging in a cell, in this post Hurricane goat fuck, and especially not by my own belt, an apparent suicide.

He said more, maybe three words, maybe ten, I can’t remember now. It was all a blur. Ten minutes or an hour may have passed, but it seemed like one or two seconds to me. Suddenly the thought hit me; soon there would be more showing up, and I would have no chance. As he babbled, I took careful aim from three feet away and put one of his buddy’s bullets in his skull, and left the gun on the floor. As I walked out, I noticed several cans of gasoline there outside, extra provision left over from the storm. There were maybe two or three five gallon cans, full. I doused the cruisers and the front office in a fair amount of petrol, and still in pain, mouth swollen shut now, I jammed one of my cigarettes into my mouth, and lit it. For a moment I was terrified, as the reality of the previous hour slowly began to register. The feelings of shock were disappearing. As they lay on the floor before me, two of them moaning, and one gone forever, I took a good, painful drag of the smoke, and exhaling, spit smoke and blood into the fuel on the floor. Turning, I walked out the front door, entered, and started the Ford. I looked over the mess I had left there, and as the sound of sirens became increasingly loud in the distance, threw my smoke out the window, and lit the whole of it on fire. Three men, two cruisers, and a small town vampire cave went up like some scene out of a favorite old movie.

Thinking of the irony, I reached for Cheap Trick. I skipped a few tracks up to “downed”. It was always one of my favorites, since I first heard it on eight track, on the sound track to “Over The Edge.” I turned it up to a speaker cracking decibel. As I pulled out, I listened as those old familiar lyrics filled me with a sense of strange solace, and calm again. I didn’t care what would happen next. I suppose I knew. But nevertheless, I drove away, not fast, as the song began; “I’m gonna live on a mountain, way down under in Australia, it’s either that or suicide, it’s such a strange strain on you.” It sounded as good as it did when I was just ten, jumping around on my bed with a tennis racquet for a guitar and I thought, what a curious line, “it’s such a strange strain on you.” And yes, it is. Such is the nature of a life on the run.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

“Super storm Sandy”; The New Norm?

I guess it was ten years ago when I first saw a story depicting a major hurricane impacting New York City. Last night, that prediction came to pass, as Sandy made landfall along the New Jersey coast with devastating force. Much of Atlantic City, NJ was severely damaged, including landmarks that have been a part of that area’s history for more than a century, which now lay in rubble. Much of lower Manhattan was flooded as well, crippling the mass transit systems, and causing hundreds of thousands of power outages. Although everyone saw this coming, days in advance, many thousands have lost everything, and several dozen have lost their lives.
As I watch the news now, the day after, I am also astounded by the damage to my home, the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Many people within the global scientific community are conceding to the fact that no matter what the root cause, the sea is warming and rising. This year, for instance, the Northern half of the Atlantic Ocean reached temperatures three degrees higher than ever in recorded history. In light of this fact and many other facts about of the effects of climate change on our daily lives, some are taking heed to warnings from the scientific community, and preparing for more of this weather, most likely for decades to come.
This change in our global weather system is not only responsible for stronger storms in our oceans, but the drought conditions much of our nation, and other world nations are facing. These conditions are not predicted to change for the better for decades at least. While some continue to ignore and mock these scientific predictions, a few are listening to the science, and seeing the proof in their neighborhoods right now, again.
The Governor of New Jersey has vowed to rebuild, and to go one step further, rebuild with a plan for enduring the future catastrophes that are sure to come. I have seen reports where he has pledged to base the plan for reconstruction on not just a one hundred year plan, based on current predictions for sea level rise, and temperature changes, but looking forward with a five hundred year plan. Many may find this approach “cavalier”, or wasteful, however, I have been beating my head against a wall of resistance to change for years now, calling for a similar plan for our coastal plain development and infrastructure. I find his plan to be that of a pioneer, a visionary that believes that the legacy left behind should not be more disasters and financial losses from continuing what I believe to be wasteful practices, such as are currently in place here at home. With only touching on two of the projects under current implementation here in Dare County, NC, one might find more than $2Billion in “wasteful spending”, potentially over the next fifty years. This is yet one more futile cry, to those of you that choose to believe in the predictions, and who do not want our State run by politicians who’s only goals are to think in four year increments, and getting re-elected by pandering to tourism dollars, mostly from our real estate moguls.
In closing, I just want to state that I will continue this fight to re-think the way we develop our area, not only for our continued enjoyment, lifestyle, and safety. But I think it is imperative that we immediately begin to heed these warnings, and implement a hundred year plan, starting with our coastal school boards, to get funds to our teachers and tools to our children. We need to inspire them in math, science, and engineering. We have a choice. We have Congressional candidates who have plans to develop green energy sources, and bring the businesses that will build the solar panels, and wind turbines to Eastern North Carolina. I am backing him, and I hope you should all choose to do so as well. We can not only rebuild our infrastructure more responsibly, but in doing so, create thousands of jobs over the coming decades, and attract companies such as Google and Siemens, among others to our area. We have a choice, in my opinion. We can continue to back those that want to keep up with business as usual, and continue to be ravaged by future storms, or we can demand a responsible approach to changing the very face of North Carolina’s coastal plain. We can, like New York, and New Jersey, serve as a beacon and an example to sea side towns worldwide that will be faced with the same challenges that we are sure to face as a community in the decades to come.

Monday, October 15, 2012

On “The Anatomy of Vines”



Every organism on the planet has but one basic instinct, and that is survival. The rate or frequency of adaptation of each organism dictates not only the survival of one species over the next, but also creates our global food chain.

In the case of the virus, we see seasonally how these adaptations affect our daily lives, from influenza to the common cold. Humans come up with vaccines to survive the attack of these organisms, and in turn, the organisms adapt to our efforts to control them. It is, and has been, a seemingly never ending story.

In the case of vines, they develop tendrils, to cling to existing structures, trees or buildings, in order to reach high into the air, above the canopy, to the sunlight. This displays a basic survival instinct to get to the energy source necessary for more growth and development.

In any case, this basic need of organisms interacting with one another seems to boil down to one thing; the competition for food. In the case of the human organism, however, we seem to be witnessing a global devolution, as we deplete and poison our food sources, or allow them to be poisoned through either our apathy or our ignorance.

I just wanted to see if anyone out there was awake. Vines are neat.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

still chasing, but now for no reason i know


with eyes half open
and fists still clinched
and hoarse for no reason

something had bumped us

and gotten away
and i chased but
just screamed at
cracks in lined pavement
that ran away as
i woke.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

The Truth about The Meek

thought on the quote
"the meek shall inherit the Earth." *

*this generation shall learn
the truth
about many things

one of the most troublesome
of lessons will come
when the "world"
learns
the origin of
the meek

they will be face to face with
the meek
as they roll
money and
war machines
over our homes, crops and
dreams

so what next ?
what shall
the meek actually
inherit?

-not that this writer
endorses nor denies the
validity of
the passage
in the first place

but
this is always up
for consideration
in his herded
head top

a
many-faceted
jewel of
s

Sunday, September 30, 2012

mas. (from Beaverdam; nudes 2001)

struggling
to find a pen before
the sounds leave me

inspiration from this
dirt seat
rock pillow shared with
lady bird beetles
and ants

old men holding hands
walking to
free coffee church
look to save me

annoy me

my ride is sure
to pass me by
in one of these
white foreign cars

blue hair and still
drunk left over
from my one
night gone (
my one night hotel
out of my
ninety hour prison)

-my surest sacred dream

my partner sleeps
soundly-
surely, in a bed alone
which i can not find
and
i have found
heaven alone in
this disguise of
street urchin flames

scabbing- mostly healed
ink
it tells the story
of how to find me
-bending
the eaves of the gate
and leaves on this tree
drop one, every moment
to remind me
___
every thing i wish
to spill in thoughts
so subtle
while i am too bored
or happily rested
to scratch down,

i am the few
the proud
the bird
the stop:sigh
and green sign
hanging from
the border of this
picture-framed
small town in
big city mama's clothes,
i write one last farewell and
blow my nose.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

none, found notes

the sun
,
set searing cold
breezes through

un sheilded
.eyes

it was
perfection
in stop -
motion

nothing
more
for
now
required

Thursday, September 6, 2012

late summer rains fall hard, beating newness into destruction


as the majority of the
herd migrates back
towards the familiar
grazing fields of home
for now

a hard rain falls on
the sand
and on the roads

separating the microbes
and grime specks from
blistered blacktop

the remains of weather beaten
sea glass chewing gum
and solarcained silica

yep
the rain falls hard
as the thunder rolls
telling us all
the bank is closing
and the storm that feeds us
is approaching

Sunday, September 2, 2012

birthday for p.

i was drawing you a peony
as the season's wrong for fresh ones
and the sun was taken from me
by nimbulous distraction

and so i started dreaming
and flowers and the garden
and dreaming really thinking
turned my flower into laughter

the petals glow
where tears once ran
along a sandy cheek

they light the face
which lights for those
the room as in you peek

i wake and sketch
and i can't draw
but if i could i think
a flower just can't say enough
peony red, or pink

so here's my stem
as pretty as me
to lay down by your door

to keep all other weeds away
while you are looking for.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Why The Face ?

hey kids, it's uncle peter again. if you know me, then you know i'm a tour guide. if ya don't, then the last fact is irrelevant, hell, it's irrelevant whether you know me or not. i had a tour the other day, 7 people, in a vehicle that had seating for eight. that is the main thing to consider, above all else. well, maybe that's the main thing. anyhoo, i had this one the other day and at the conclusion, was more appauled, and insulted, then maybe at any other time in my life.

the tour started out fine. i was piloting a vehicle which has a funny configuration, 4 seats inside, and 4 seats outside. as i had two seperate parties, and in the interest of fairness, equity, i said to them all " now if eveyone wants to ride outside, you will force me to 'play dad' and remind you all to switch, half way through." we all laughed, and everyone made friendly eye contact, exchanges of pleasantry, and agreed.

the family from Pennsylvania, one of two parents, and two children who were obviously eager for the back seats offered them fisrt to the other three, one of whom was from Boston, the other two, her parents i think, from Chapel Hill, Boston originally. we all cimbed in, and away we drove.

all along the way we shared, laughed, and communicated as a group. i noticed at one point that the older of the group of three, i think the mother in that trio, had a hard time climbing up and into, or back out of the rear of the truck. it is a high climb, but i provide an extra step stool. she never mentioned any pain at all, i just noticed it. along our ride we talked of coastal plain history, wild horses, and pirates, and their ilk. we snapped pictures. i climbed on and off of the hood of the vehicle, paining my freshly broken toe, to get them all family photos, Kodak moments to last them a life time. i offered them indigenous plants to eat. to keep this growing story short; as i said, we all had fun. then it became time to remind them of "the aforementioned switch."

as all moved around, and the mom of the Boston/Carolina three took her seat, i noticed that her seatbelt looked a little moist and sandy from the inevitable conditions found on the floor of an offroad safari jalopy. i informed her that if the condition of the belt was going to ruin her white slacks, that she didn't have to wear it, it was really no beg deal. this is when she informed me that she was "not concerned about her pants..." she said smugly, she was "more worried about her leg!" this was the first mention of any leg trouble. no matter the reason, at that moment the air changed, a pout began to form as her mature lower lip began to protrude, and from the moment that she crossed her arms and turned to gaze out of the window, we never regained eye contact. the ride back, about thirty minutes, was silent. as everyone looked around, my fingers tapped the terrible rhythm of "I Can't Drive Fifty Five", by Sammy Hagar. You see, i use whatever music the oldies station gives me each morning on the commute in as a distraction when this sort of thing occurs. why oh why it couldn't have been "Kashmir" or "Immigrant Song" by the Zep, i can only wonder, but getting back to the story, and my original point about beeing insulted.

as we all got out, and i was passing out those little cards by which the guests remember me, and how to rate their experience for my boss' sake, i noticed argument between the displeased woman and her spouse. if i were to guess, it was over whether or not to tip me. so as we all shook hands, exchanged mutual appreciations and bid one another farewell, i turned to the woman, and her two. extending my hand, and saying cheerfully " thank you, etc," the man, and the woman i figure to have been the spouse and daughter both smiled a genuine, but almost telling smile. both shook my hand and bid me good day. as i turned to the other woman, hand extended and a sincere "thank you very much, it was nice to-", she took her hands from her pockets, placed them behind her back, and while extending her pout, turned away from me as if i were never there.

i have done a lot of thinking since then. i have mused on the good old throat punch. i even think back to initial feelings of going into mine own pocket and refunding her money, to gain what i might deem my right to give her "what for." but as i think on beyond that, i think of her fear, her bitterness, her hatred. i consider the source, and i am happy, for the first time in my life maybe, at least recently for sure, to let it go. i have no more resaon to fight with her than a shovel which digs a ditch that i may not care for. i have no fight with the tools of those implements which practice on behalf of hatred, bigotry, fear, and the untold stories which chain those which hate me, hate my kind. my fight is with the source of this affliction of the human condition. i just wanted to pass this on to a few i know that would care to listen to this testimonial. i am a human. all i am, is a human. that is all any of us are.
WTF ?

Saturday, July 21, 2012

sometimes i think a lot about nothing, and sometimes this makes me feel like a hypocrite...

i was at the grocery store
i go there quite often
they have basic things
and others that i want
i go there quite a lot

it seems that
around holidays
and special times
they ask for money
for the poor
sick and naturally
disastered
they ask but also have
baskets
and bags and boxes
piled up with stuff
to give away

middle grounders

usually during these times
i find myself lined up
with others who go
there a lot
some dressed well
some speak spanish
some with kids
some bare feet
some on skateboards
or just from offices
some so frail
and some so proud
all
together
if separate
but quite often
more often than not

coexistence as probabilities
like numbers on dice
or on ping pong balls
or stones in a lottery

i taste two trips in there
to recall a flavor
which laid itself over my owned thought
those two times

as common practice
the cashiers boss will
have them ask me
or you if you would
like to round your
purchase up from
six and fifteen
or so to seven
dollars and i generally
not even thinking
respond as yes
i would like to
or more like
no i don’t mind
the play works
and i bite the
what is eighty five cents or so
what would i have
done with that

and then

this one day
i am behind a
slightly greater man than me
and when the cashier asks
on behalf of her boss
and whomever holds
the sway to put us all there
the slightly larger human tones
begins the tale of what he has done
of where and how and how much and
of his general distaste for
being hit up like this
as if by common beggars
moved to action by deception
depression addiction apathy and self
inflicted lack of position
i listen to a good few
yes sirs
from the cashier
and as my total is wrung
and
as my electronic transaction approaches
i detect the air of the meek
and the flogged confidence
still in recoil from reproach
as i smile
ignorant in stance and intent
and ask
how is your day

looking up from behind the blue smoke of
her last guest she feigns the smile and says
fine
and how are you today

the second time was with
my wife and daughter
it was cold with rain
and the stressful tight and
heavy shouldered time as
rent
and the rest of the bills
were on her
and were on me
like a good budgeteer
she would also decline to add
the weight less than keys
from our pocket to elsewhere
when asked by the man forced
to ask us
and we left

i said
i don’t care how broke i am
i always go for the round up
or buy the shamrock or the
heart
or whatever
when they give me a pen
i write our daughters name
on it
figure its like karma
or strange credit
even if i barely have the
same to carry
and what is that dollar
or less
what more is that to the needing
against some precocious bullshit story
of giving enough already
really
giving enough
and already
as the hurricanes have stopped
and the earthquakes are no more
and they only shoot your neighbor
and they only rape his son
and the winter says its colder
and with taxes i don’t have to
and the vaccines killed diseases
now they just need kill the autism
and if i had seven dollars
and i needed seven hundred
even faster than tomorrow
i can give you one of my seven
because whats more than owing seven hundred and
one
against the dwindling probability of the next bowl of flour
or how can i worry that i will be secure if my
rent falls late but it wont it never does be
cause
we find it
we do it just like the afflicted
find their water
the trampled find their spirit
and the buried find that just enough voice
work when there is work
hustle when there is not
scrape when hustle fails
borrow when our brothers have and
beg
when not our families
our governments
nor our churches
can
provide

and i have seen the sands
get swept back up the beach
and down again
no matter what the season is
eventuality brings our storm

Friday, July 20, 2012

foreword

it's a lie
to say it's a shame when
one of the herd
falls down;
sickened,
crippled,
dying and/ or lame

a fool's shame to say
that we don't have the
time
to notice the fallen
or
the falling.

we are convinced,
scared into the feeling that
we can't afford the
time
it takes
to look up from the stampede-
wipe the dust from our eyes
created by this futile race
against death;
against looking back.

we tell ourselves
that we can't manage to
track
the sick and the dying,
while the sickness
and the" means to an end"
track us relentlessly
day and night.

foreword

it's a lie
to say it's a shame when
one of the herd
falls down;
sickened,
crippled,
dying and/ or lame

a fool's shame to say
that we don't have the
time
to notice the fallen
or
the falling.

we are convinced,
scared into the feeling that
we can't afford the
time
it takes
to look up from the stampede-
wipe the dust from our eyes
created by this futile race
against death;
against looking back.

we tell ourselves
that we can't manage to
track
the sick and the dying,
while the sickness
and the" means to an end"
track us relentlessly
day and night.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

it started as just another hot day, and then the weight of the world replaced the sting of the sweat in my eyes

the joggers are back
as are the cyclists
and the flies
one of the latter
keeps buzzing around my
hands
as i try and bang out
this insignificant
note
useless attempt at
describing
what my days feel like
lately

i have this week been
threatened
by the learning disabled
father
of a learning disabled
street urchin
seen trespassing in my
garden
trespassing i say
subnormal or not
the hardened shell
of my blamelessness
offers no sympathy
while
the memory of my
autistic cousin beckons
as i search our
similarity

it was during the middle
of a three
fourteen hour day
stretch of kayaks
bugs
lotions
salt and brackish water
baths
and one hundred degree
plus heat
i lost eleven pounds
since tuesday
and now it s
saturday

i sit here among my
virtual
crowd of friends
the MC5
iggy's daughter
scene stars from
NYC
and LA
as the better part of
pennsylvania and ohio
swarm outside my
air conditioned
store front door
i hide inside here
sneaking out only briefly
to fetch my red note book
looking for reasons to
remember

if not for these little
trips
i could forget the
sun burns a total but
fading tattoo
reminder of the trials
of the last week and the next week

outside my door
the descending atmosphere
waits patiently
still and
accommodatingly
to wrap itself around me
once again
choking me
sweating me
wringing all sweetness and
moisture from rapidly aging skin
and increasingly intolerant
barking bones
summertime
and the naked dance
of the living

my friends play shows
burn down bars and
honky tonks
and call to let me know
when they will hit
my town
as i sit here
amid the pile of
new and used office supplies
aging kettle corn
and a sample for reference
of the dead biting flies
which tormented the
last group we took up there

funny
some enjoy the show
some overhear the moans
of my associates mid day
and ignore
and maybe not funny but
fascinating how
some will drive by
six to twelve hours of
shantys, row houses
poverty and goats
in the street
just to reach the resort
and
never
question
the eyes they pass to get there
i
have always found
at least interesting
the juxtaposition of
the ideal to the
absoluteness that is
the life of the poor
and the ignorance
of that inequity
by the affluent
the
callous and gratuitous
nature in the
exchange between
the purchasers of dreams
and the sellers of flesh
no penance
no acknowledgment
of the true cost of
the life of
one human being
and the sacrifices made
to provide the whimsical
with the feeling
the experience
of the lived

none
save the children of the
poor and burdened
shall know the
worth of this
assignment

that clarity given
to the bottom
the one on the
crumb
who see the truth
in that discordance
between traveling
class and
water bearer

maybe i write these notes
in an attempt to
never forget the
weight of that
basket
or the faces of those
on the side of my road
or the fact that the
only true distinction
between president and pauper
between doctor and waiter
bartender and drunk
is lost
gone since the moment
the stars aligned and
the many sets of these
twins were born
and were then scattered
separated by the
boastful hot breath of humanity

vouchers for paycheck

there is a
sense shared
by the ordinary
by the down trodden
folk
a misty common
thread
which warms my
heart

it
comes from the
acceptance
without question
of

participation with
in reason
in

and the
stewardship and grace
with which
we provincial
people
care for
serve and endure
the master
callous society

washing the feet
of those that
mock us

for therein lies
mean comfort

unheralded

derived from
the shared travails
and tolerances of
we
silhouettes
we outlines of
objects
seen against that light

we arrive pressed
cut out
forged
ready
willing
and clothed in that
consolation
that while
radicals
of all sorts seek
to inflame
to mislead
and then rise
to power on these
our well bronzed
backs
we hold the truth
not promised
yet
brought the hard labored
about what can be done in one day
versus
what can be done with one mind

when we are
willing to
believe as
our children
that we are heroes
we will no
longer
carry that water

so endure
human kind

driving past that church on Beaverdam

laying
lying
laying
lying

only belly sounds
squeals and the grinding of gears
in the still mid morning
-angry morning

what do you want

what do YOU want
I count the prayers...

well you shouldn't
i lost my smile.....
a million miles from home

what do YOU WANT???
i
hear them scream at me
as i blow past the graveyard
but i can't make sense
of a single word said

i am sure,
in a way
it's pretty close to
slow down

in a grandmother's way
-or like an angry old man

the waking life is fatal (lyric)

a soul needs to sleep and drift
away again away again
to find a peace that hides when he's
awake again awake again
the winds blow the stains away
out there again there again
-grass stains on knees from crawlin'
round again in town again

and it struggles to be clean
not sure just what that means
a consequence of disbelief
and his pattern of running

of late the time's not been that
great again great again
the soul's sleep is plagued and it's
insane again in dreams again
must be the waves he makes with
storms again bad karma them
from filling days with all that short cut
waste again blown brains again

and it moves through darkened streets
like a mind gone fire blind
chased by the ghosts he beats,
struggles to hold down by day
with drink and gasoline
and a few smaller bites of pain
that keep his tired bones running

but by nite
with body down
it's calm again thank god again
'till the sun reminds him that
it's time again not fine again

needs to spend time on all
the flowers in the grasses thin
instead of leaning on the what won't
change again the chains again

thinking about the hell of being a poet

well, i was just sitting here about an hour or so ago wondering some of the same stuff, why is it...(i wondered) some times stuff runs out so fast i cant type good enough to keep up, and its some mind blowing shit, or so i feel, but anyway other times, like earlier tonight, or last i sat down to try and write yesterday, i was so slow....not feeling it, looking at the junk like a bunch of dumb words with no purpose or meaning. then tonight, as i was thinking that, i just looked at the writing medium, thought...lets check this out, started reading something i jotted on here quickly the other day, revised it...and good or bad something came flowing back anyway, you know the lines write themselves....so step back a second, take a few deep breaths, a few full swigs or a few whatevers it may be, and just wait for it to write itself for you, i predict its coming soon.yep, thats what i say, and stand by. yessir and dont get hung up on the perfect line here or there, if i get to a point where i lose it, but i got the meter, the rhythm...i leave blank space, follow the idea out of there till the void fills itself when im in the shower or something, on the throne. yep. sorry so long winded, i am insane you know. everyone will some day, it goes along with the first discovery--that most nobody has made. really, i love you mr steve reel. you are a hard worker, and i know you don’t care for the flattery, and might paint yourself a not so hard worker,cause you don’t think life is about tooting a horn or something, but as i have known you here and there, you always have the works going on, and i like that, and wish i was playing more, im just a poet. we are both free thinkers, and that will get a kid in trouble now and then, seeing through the two way glass...lots of people would call that paranoid talk, figure the lack of trust in the illusion of this system is a dangerous and foolish pursuit. lots of people, the kind i call my family and friends call that type a hero.

never mind the camels and the sand, just keep your heads firmly planted in the asses of those of your ilk

i live on a
drifting sandbar
nothing holds us to anything

the system is alive
responsive
as the ocean comes in
and goes out
as it has for years
the beaches
estuaries
marsh
forests and
animals
all move up land

only
stupid
fucking
tiny
little
dick less men
scurry
up then back
in trucks with
books
building like little ants
on the shifting sand
selling speculators dreams

stealing money
to buy time
or
so they hope

harvesting the ocean floor
constructing the facade of
beaches and dunes
everything moves here but us
tumbling and vanishing
the monuments
accomplishments
from our hands
into the sea

we will leave no trace
yet we try
erecting
all that we might
in hopes of
what
showing some future
archaeologist that
twenty first century man
thought he could hold back the ocean
with borrowed money
cheap cologne and
slight of mechanical hand

stupid stupid stupid
fucking humans
always busy
doing
never being
never seeing
nor observing
not learning

we will continue
playing golf
plowing the channels
and hosting the masses
with gritted teeth
we will sing and play
and drink and ogle
and congregate in
great halls and
small holes
patting our backs
and sniffing our farts
until our time is
found right for
removal

and then none other
shall follow here
until ices once again
descend
and recede

some of us will make it to cities
to sit around and
sip coffees
tell the stories of how
we escaped the great travesty
that was mans endeavor
to sub divide nature
to redraw the lines like
when redefining nations

black yaupon coffee
ilex vomitoria
under prints in
black and white
of the live oaks
the ibis
and the lush life

the was life

i should not write
when i should be
setting fires
and cutting nets

i should not hate
the apathy afforded
the cool crew on my block
but the smaller part of me
really wants to

i just hate the sea when
skirted in the show
of the affluent
while the stewards wrists
remain
manacled in metal
tethered to toil
as
saints to their service
drifting
in and out of
existence like dreams
fallen to the bottom of
the water mans
well

were i not striving
for harmony
i might wish for impunity
and the will to burn
all that surrounds
on behalf of the progress
of the natural and the
not yet


yeah i cuss
but
fuck your clique
and your fashion
and your feigned
societal empathy

stand alone for once
as your purpose
needs you now
to soar
or to lie down
forget those dreams
borne into you
as our now demands
action
worthy of some day
being record

lines scribbled many summers ago ( untitled)

-and the last bugs of summer
think about autumn and know their works
are done
carry on or chase a breeze
and find a summer someplace else
find a summer some place else
i still maintain that the sun is insane
to try and drain but never warm
enough to dry this teardrop in my eye.
tiny salted rain drop with
your reflection in it's window
looking over miles and miles
and asking my lips to whisper this;
close your eyes and the sun is
love, and I'll be here
when your day is done,
you, my only
one.

it started as just another hot day, and then the weight of the world replaced the sting of the sweat in my eyes

the joggers are back
as are the cyclists
and the flies
one of the latter
keeps buzzing around my
hands
as i try and bang out
this insignificant
note
useless attempt at
describing
what my days feel like
lately

i have this week been
threatened
by the learning disabled
father
of a learning disabled
street urchin
seen trespassing in my
garden
trespassing i say
subnormal or not
the hardened shell
of my blamelessness
offers no sympathy
while
the memory of my
autistic cousin beckons
as i search our
similarity

it was during the middle
of a three
fourteen hour day
stretch of kayaks
bugs
lotions
salt and brackish water
baths
and one hundred degree
plus heat
i lost eleven pounds
since tuesday
and now it s
saturday

i sit here among my
virtual
crowd of friends
the MC5
iggy's daughter
scene stars from
NYC
and LA
as the better part of
pennsylvania and ohio
swarm outside my
air conditioned
store front door
i hide inside here
sneaking out only briefly
to fetch my red note book
looking for reasons to
remember

if not for these little
trips
i could forget the
sun burns a total but
fading tattoo
reminder of the trials
of the last week and the next week

outside my door
the descending atmosphere
waits patiently
still and
accommodatingly
to wrap itself around me
once again
choking me
sweating me
wringing all sweetness and
moisture from rapidly aging skin
and increasingly intolerant
barking bones
summertime
and the naked dance
of the living

my friends play shows
burn down bars and
honky tonks
and call to let me know
when they will hit
my town
as i sit here
amid the pile of
new and used office supplies
aging kettle corn
and a sample for reference
of the dead biting flies
which tormented the
last group we took up there

funny
some enjoy the show
some overhear the moans
of my associates mid day
and ignore
and maybe not funny but
fascinating how
some will drive by
six to twelve hours of
shantys, row houses
poverty and goats
in the street
just to reach the resort
and
never
question
the eyes they pass to get there
i
have always found
at least interesting
the juxtaposition of
the ideal to the
absoluteness that is
the life of the poor
and the ignorance
of that inequity
by the affluent
the
callous and gratuitous
nature in the
exchange between
the purchasers of dreams
and the sellers of flesh
no penance
no acknowledgment
of the true cost of
the life of
one human being
and the sacrifices made
to provide the whimsical
with the feeling
the experience
of the lived

none
save the children of the
poor and burdened
shall know the
worth of this
assignment

that clarity given
to the bottom
the one on the
crumb
who see the truth
in that discordance
between traveling
class and
water bearer

maybe i write these notes
in an attempt to
never forget the
weight of that
basket
or the faces of those
on the side of my road
or the fact that the
only true distinction
between president and pauper
between doctor and waiter
bartender and drunk
is lost
gone since the moment
the stars aligned and
the many sets of these
twins were born
and were then scattered
separated by the
boastful hot breath of humanity

indolence, insolence, mensa lips, rose hips, and chamomile...

message from inside the
bottle
people all over listen
they miss what IS really
they dig and dive and wallow
in other peoples cerebration
and cesspools
looking for some glimmer
of hope
sparkle in ribbon form
running like a vein through
the strata of vagueness and excess
comprising their daily mirror
holding out that last ditch wish
to find that which they have not so far

that which was promised to them by the
man on the teevee,
the bigger dick
the swarm of lovers
the safety of the babies
the house on the beach
the motorcycle like james dean
the wind that comes with it
the hair to blow in said wind
the freedom to be whatever they wanted
as long as that did not interfere with
work

and i
one of them
pass by them
one of them
and tip my hat as
one of them, “HI !
how ya doin” kinda smile like one of them
and they look at me like i'm an idiot.

the guy wrangling metal carts in the rain
outside the supermarket, when my
baby girl was sick, and i would have been
fine to just lay on the couch
smoke my stuff and watch the football
on a cold ass gray and rain filled day.
who turns his head away
or the lady behind the cash
register at the pharmacy next door
when i've already stood there
for five of my minutes
smiling
and late for what my day demands
but hey if she really needs to price
saint patrick's day schwag in
january and wants to do so while watching me stand at her register
until she is ready
fine. that is fine-
but being the first to speak
and smiling
and to be met immediately with
IMFINEHOWAREYOU!!!
so fast and devoid of even any angular
component
just a pipeline from her
frustration
right to my
get the fuck out of here.

here is the thing.

it'd be one thing
i guess if it's just another case of
another a.hole customer
all smiley and wanting help,
but it could just as easily been a
FUCK YOU TOO
kinda thing,
why do we nod, wave
why do we hold doors
slow down for people
why don't we ?
why do i allow the cancerous stew on my day's thoughts......
why not, as my boys up north call it
the" mallloy salute"
?
because i have chosen not to
today
i have made the choice to be a
decent
human
today
not glorious, not wealthy, and
not famous just not any
more harm than good
today
but let
santa clause
or saddam ryan seacrest hussein
or even post concubine tiger stroll
that stretch across the lot
towards the sidewalk in front of the
cheap chinese food store
and those same idiots
you and me
would roll out the red
carpet
send the limo
forget the kids and
cancel christmas
just to brush against
that type of world
that sort of semblance

and that is what is wrong
with the world today;
as simple as that may seem
as stupid and however
crass to bring the correlation
but
when we have gotten
to where we can not lift
our head from the trough
to acknowledge the choking
of a brother
beneath the gluttony of our mass
then how will we ever notice
the raping of our dreams by the ones
at the table
the ones throwing the scrap
the ones watering the skies

i began this day with the
simple trading of
instant messages, the kids
call 'em
with a friend i used to see
pretty much every day
and now will be
lucky to see
a few times a year
we used to entertain them
every day.
them and us.
today it was
indolence
insolence
mensa lips
rose hips
and chamomile.....
aww.

hot hazy and just to start

for starters
today just aint
normal

its all fuzzed up
grainy
like an old television

one with old
antennae
the movable kind
and
the screen is
all wrong
like watching a
cold weather
college football game
in a dump of a
stadium on the
least of fields

sore
red but not
the color is all
wrong actually
or the hue
or the tint
or the contrast
something

something has this one looking
and feeling not right
the greens are mossy grays
pale blue is silver
browns drying to
tinder box orange and
yellows

sea birds just hang in
the still and softened
mixture of gasses
we breathe
unsure
whether rain or
ash will visit them
today

word is the
oil slick
is rounding florida
like a serial killer
and it seems the
murder in the gulf
was just diversionary
as the spill sets sights
on the keys and
the carolinas

there
maybe that’s it
the quicksilver and
mud and tar
reflecting and refracting
the sunlight to blanket
my blue

maybe that’s why
my today looks like fire
has been

maybe its the
quarter million
new neighbors
this week
wearing out brake lights
and rubbering necks
who do not care
that it kills us
to bear this child
for them

the every year
like open flower
trod upon before
burning up
in surrender
round mid day
or
maybe its
just haze left by
humidity
that wont
go away
its
the day after
memorial day
and the march of
the gasoline cans
is just getting
under weigh

beaverdam I (the real four) thoughts on a bottle of Jack Daniels given me one birthday

-last thing i could understand
that she said

oh my God....(then sighs)
my father can feel this
damn you're an evil boy

as i sweat and
kept on rowing

the next moment noticeable
was hazy mountain dusted
sunrise
slammed shut by steel
and gray thunder heads-
all the more reason
to never stop the
drinking-
"there's hope for the bone yard"
the jack bottle collection,
at least for one more season

it's four in the morning
in another dream hole
and i'd play that
bothered guitar if
they weren't sleeping-
if it wasn't four in the
afternoon for me...
-i'd be asleep like them too
instead of stewing my
self absorbed child
in a broth of less than
what could be.

open

and when they i
itch
i rub my eyes
until colors swirl
like lightning nymphs
to hills of gray
all in a
line
dancing slightly
falling off the
edge of the
viewing screen
like lava lamp
thick drops of
eel ec tricity
melting down slower
now
as if to almost form
a wide face
in bronzed
chain mesh
but
more like a
mountain face
azure colored
clay mudslide

Saturday, July 14, 2012

thigh highs and satin socks

close your eyes...
-wanna take a ride ?
nothing but blue skies burning
-blazing hot blue flame
burning as gas ignites
meeting unknown on the edge of
this domain-

and are there other lives?
other forms with eyes
that taste and feel as we
sometimes stupidly do?

"i'll believe it when i see..."
is what the wandering monk said to me,
"sure, it just may be, but i have not
seen it, i will wait until i see"

wait !
what was that? -this
bead of sweat and now i'm hot
and my brow turns and
downward feathering and spiraling
sing my lovely children!, sing!
as another bill the taxman brings

-and hey you! red hair and
asian lips,
sing that song for me...
put on thigh highs and
satin socks and bring it
home to me.

light my candles, in a daze
'cause i found black.
it's god to me,
how else is the light expected to see
if not reflected off of me?
lower self, inner child, or
gatekeeper may be
that which may just kill for life
or fuck as the blind, inherently
-wishing to reproduce the self
in hopes that future life may see.

don't judge the last few lines
my friends,
think of all the waste that lay
between your birth and yesterday
and ask again way down inside,
do you see all that differently?

my flower lays now at your feet,
now...what is it you think of me?

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

red night (excerpt from "Nor'easter")

the red green and
blue lights played
and danced a
frantic jerk on the
fake fog
as we played songs
songs like emeline
songs about irish whiskey
and weed
songs by other people
who will never know we played them
as the tourists
whooped and hollered below
the on stage serenade

there was an
anesthesiologist from
richmond
horse breeders from
missouri
the drunken dough boys of
swan beach
and one raucous table full of
bears and beards from the
hills of pennsyltucky
apple-tinis and
red headed sluts

as the boys and i
stuffed a victory
and our guitars
back in the van
them
pondering rest and
reefers
mine
eyes bore in focus
mind thirty three miles
away as i
pulled the keys to the ford
from my beaten
black leather
zipper scraped hand asking
can i feel it now
can i just go home
argument between my
senses and conscience
as my body throws my
hand to turn the key

plug in the portable
music player
cheap trick
hello there
whalehead club bound

fifty minutes later i
pick from the thickets
a tandem kayak
fit for one
two gallons of gasoline
and the winston
repeater
camels and a lighter

the mind and body
of the thief
must be subject to torment
i care nothing of the soul
that is for another
judge
i choose to shower the former
in heavy drops of
fast lead and fire

you must bear in mind now
and with importance
that in that sand box
where i work
and friends do
and my family has
lived
they ride by us daily
and scowl
my guests aghast as
small minds in big trucks
worry by
they lay spike strips
on my path
no shit
two by twelve inch
salt treated
shot or filled
otherwise with
thick
new
hand driven framing
nails
they
dig holes in my road
throw molasses soaked
feed corn down
on my land to bait the wild hogs
so that they may come out
and shoot them by night
by day they conspire
watch my movements
learning my schedule
wishing they knew which
bait
might lure me
so
do not judge
as i turn up the volume
lose the perspective
join small picture
politic
and turn neighbor
into crime scene
transform
shining yellow swamp boat
to
the best cliff hanger
the north beach sun
has ever endeavored to
question

this red night
i burn the text i
would have written
and finish the chapter
begun when the
citizen became thief
mine became his
and watched became
aware

i take all the
responsibility
a shovel would take
for digging a ditch
but
you might blame the
morning haze over
carova
on me

fireworks are
still illegal but
i see them
every night
as fresh souls arrive
not yet stained
by the jaundice of
coastal plain
winter
i
watch as some kid
shoots his mortars
announces the arrival
of two wide eyes
as
the color and sparks
fade back
leaving the x ray
clouds against black
heavens
i toss the end of a camel
and start the real show
thinking of my daughter
and a movie i saw
in 1979

and watch

and wait

Saturday, June 23, 2012

j.s.


i
have met many
women or men
who have offered
anything
in exchange for money
for happiness
for need

but i have in
my life met
only one
whore

and this person
posessed neither
want nor need

that
only
one

how truly
fortunate
my life
is been.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

one faint scream or hush in vain

i rub my eyes
release some sand
replace the glass

the colors whoosh
without my hands
to help me now

fingers fumble
words write wrong and
someone

back and forth like
rollercoaster
wooden, splintered on the
side where love is
jammed

jagged in the
corners
cold when the
night
falls

i write want
so fevered and hard
try not forget

one wrinkled eye
line one faint scream
or hush in vain

twenty five years
the hand has scribbled
since half awake
beneath that pillowed head
fourteen
and writing the text
before me in my dream’s sky
cartoon scroll I followed

wish now to not
a frame leave out
misplace a drop

not one sample
not one dragon
not one fenced cop

tired is my highway (02/01/00)

i was sleeping outside myself again
and I saw my favorite sweater
and I grabbed my favorite jeans
and I could see it all
full color
from the viewer in my dreams

i’m tired I told me, and go home I said
-for me it’s always been more than
easy to fit whatever seams,
mend what is torn after blood is cleaned

i slept into the blue again
i slept into the sand
i cut myself on old, smooth green
and cobalt rolled sea glass
i left the vacation. stop.
i twisted one more knot in my rope
and they cut off the other last one
and they paid me after I already left
and they claimed it was on Tuesday
and I asked…stopped myself and
i said to me that how is it
you let him do it- why won’t you
just let it be…why don’t you
just drive away hard –set up a
hot dog stand, sell single malt scotch
at eleven a.m. to all your builder friends?
and laughing back, hell yeah I said and
turned to me again…you don’t see
the me I see – you don’t know the one who is me
i’m true the one who throws away
and I’m the one who smokes all day and
i hold on for your pussy ass when
you think it’s good to hold on-
and I’m the one who holds me up
when you push my tired legs around
and make responsible promises to those you love
whenever you’re turned on, or your eyes get turned around

i’m the one- the one that you asked for
when the way became too hard
and this bitch of a world took off her face
and bit into your back –
took away your student i.d. card
i’m the one; laughing again and saying
i’m the one in me that’s me
and you’re the me in me for them
and you go to work when I tell you
not to, and then I get it done
you’re the one with the bank account
that i always fuck up
and I’m the one who won’t let you run

and hell yeah, hotdogs and single malt scotch
but first things first my son
and it’s pay off the ones that you promised
the moon –and blast off for the sun
we’ll drink more of milky life
when the seasons all are one
i am you for me, it’s true but
tired is my highway
blood on pavement has made
me cautious…but
only for a little while.

I woke up from sleeping outside
and I saw me in a smile,
a cat’s eye…
a fence.