Dropped The Ball

The Menzingers – Lookers

I done goofed. I missed a week. Funny how things workout.

It was midterm, though, hopefully that’s justifiable.

I’m handling school well though. Got myself a puppy (chihuahua/pit bull mix—weird, right?). Working on a bunch of poetry and a couple short stories right now. Slow chugging against the constant current of a full course load at university. I’ll post a couple poems here in a second.

As I’ve mentioned, I am a veteran. I go to school off of the GI Bill, which covers up to 36 months worth of school. A professor of mine recently told me I should look into a double major. Currently, I’m a creative writing major and a psychology minor, but this professor, the same one pushing me to apply for graduate programs, believes that, to maximize the use of my GI Bill, I should pursue a double major.

I crunched the numbers today and realized I need 118 credits total to finish both degrees and the university’s general ed requirements. Roughly that equates to 18 credits per term for 6 terms and a 7th term with about 10 credits (2 years and 1 term worth of quarters). I have already been in school for 2 terms and amassed 75 credits through military training and my work at the university. So, basically, in 3 years I’ll be able to finish a BS and a BFA… let’s do it.

Anyway, here’s some poetry while I continue working on my damn short stories.

 

Forest of Fire:

River of life, run through me
Unhindered, teach me to breathe
Dear river, I feel it.

Finally free
to find a field to fester in
Forgiven, never forgotten
For, given the freedom, families fall apart
And friendships ferment,
In foil frozen.

Forest of fire give life freely
Because it is I that stands at the end
I alone and soon I’ll find it.

A place to hang my hat and my skin
For I saved my money, but it won’t save me

Sleeping with serpents,
Sacrificing suffrage for sustenance,
Suffering in similar pitches but softer sounds
Suffering sweetly to save face.

 

An Edible & A Microdose of LSD:

Lend me your ear! Or at least give me a hand. I don’t have a leg of my own to stand on.

I’m more than willing to speak about things in public but god forbid I have to partake in public speaking.

You’d think as my metaphorical ship sinks that I’d try to find land. Nope. Here I go, down with it. I am the captain now.

And you haven’t lived until you’ve sat through class or work stoned from an edible AND on a microdose of LSD.

And a banana hammock is just a relaxed monkey.

 

Reactions To Steve Running Naked Through Town:

People staring, jaws agape, eyes bulging. Kids pointing, laughing, hiding. Animals cower, shake, howl. Twins with matching facial expressions. Lizards scurry back under cold rocks. Elvis left the building. Ricky ticky tocked out of sight. And Steve ran naked through town.

Spur Of The Moment Poetry

The Heavy – Short Change Hero

School is back in session and I certainly hope I don’t drop the ball with these weekly posts. I’m trying, folks. Here, enjoy a couple short, strange poems!

A Bond As Strong As Steal (intentional spelling):

A gathering of pork skins

and a murder of crows,

where heroes go to die young.

Sheep wool strangling a child,

a bond as strong as steel

the likes of which might steal your heart.

Or steal a steely look at your bride,

yours, the one you love,

the one you’d die for.

The one you got high and left

because she slept with your best friend

your most well dressed friend.

The friend you protected

in the car crash that took you,

the car crash that separated you and your wife.

A Hero’s Welcome:

a dog destined for destruction

well equipped and armed

dressed to the nines with nails and narcotics

ready to riddle the enemy

tagged to the wall and medicated

strong enough to be forgotten

but weak enough to never forget.

 

The Ocean and Me

Cage The Elephant – Cold Cold Cold

If you read Fake Fan: A Short Story, you would have noticed that the main character was afraid of the ocean. It was an important part of the story development, but it was true of its author as well.

That’s right, folks. I am deathly afraid of the ocean, and really any water I cannot see through to the bottom. It sort of makes me laugh, though; if you were to ask me what I was afraid of the ONLY thing I would claim is water.

I’ve stood outside gazing up at funnel clouds wondering where the tornado was going to hit; I’ve experienced deep earthquakes; I’ve seen lightning cut through a giant tree not 100 feet away; I’ve dealt with all sorts of weaponry during my time in the military; rattlesnakes; giant spiders; scorpions; bulls; nothing compares to the amount of fear that wells up inside my chest when I think of deep, dark, murky waters, whether lake, river, or ocean.

I’m currently working on a short story titled Where The Sea Separates, and I began to notice this underlying theme of aquatic settings. This new short story deals with a child-like (the main character is a child) fear of the unknown. In a lot of ways, I think this is my subconscious way of dealing with my fears on a shallow level.

I recently saw a post on Facebook, it was about 6 minutes long or so. Normally, I don’t sit through such long videos. But it was all about a personal idol–you may know him, Jim Carrey.

This video, Jim Carrey: I Needed Color, spoke heavy words to me. It made me sit back and analyze what it is to be an artist (of any type, not just painting as he is in the video). The highs and lows of getting something right or wrong with

images-2.jpegyour work. Trying new techniques to get people to focus on the subject matter, to make them think and feel and understand what the artist feels, it is all so heavy. He talks about facing his loneliness and using his art as an outlet but that even bright vibrant colors become dull to his eyes. Just as in my work, if I use a word I like too often it becomes mundane. Played out.

He goes on to describe how paintings of Jesus are some of his favorite. He speaks of his relationship with a higher being almost nonchalant. A friend of Unknown.jpegmine described it as a modernist’s view on religion. He speaks much about allowing people to peer into the eyes of Jesus through his paintings and recognize they aren’t alone but even he never claims a religion, just that he feels very passionately about the idea of Jesus.

I myself am agnostic but the main focus for me was that painting, or in my case writing, about what you feel your psyche NEEDS to express is important. I’ve always been told to “write what you know,” as I’m sure any serious writer (and some not so serious writers) have also been told. So, if I am so terrified of the water then I must be incredible at describing the feeling of this fear.

I’ve come to the conclusion that writing about water is most likely going to be an underlying theme to many of my works. I am excited to think of dealing with my fear through my favorite activity and I hope I deliver the way I know the subject matter can. Maybe someday I’ll get in a shark cage and submerge myself deep out at sea… art is a dangerous thing.

 

 

Re-Think (A Poem)

Culture Abuse – Dream On (two posts in one day…scary.)

the record player spins and spins

skipping across the etching in the vinyl

like a rock skipping across a lake or pond

or like my mind skipping lines in my head

then drawing on thoughts like

slitting one’s throat on the tips of a white elephant tusk

or crossing a border to hear new sounds

like trumpets or strings

like the knights blow and fools strum

when the king rides

so too does the moon in the night

and the wolves hiding in the trees

attack the birds climbing out of holes

burrowed to hide from the rabbits that run through the prairies

howling at the sun

and as it rises so too does the needle off the vinyl

the rock off the pond

the white off the elephant

the border off the land

the trumpet from the lips

the fingers from the strings

the knights from their title

the fools from their reputation

the king from his horse

the moon from the night

the wolves from the trees

the dirt from the birds

the rabbits from their lucky feet and

the sun from the prairies.

Fake Fan: A Short Story

The Avett Brothers – True Sadness

Somewhere along the way, I stopped lying to myself about the beach.

How on Earth do you tell someone you don’t like the beach?

I never go in the water; it’s cold and unknown depths freak me out to no end. Because of this, I never fulfilled the whole experience, but still always claimed to love the beach.

I just like the feel of sand under my toes when I throw a frisbee around. Fuck the water.

Believe it or not, my mom is full-blooded Cherokee; just ask the Englishman that married her.

He was a Raiders fan and drove a Ford truck. Raiders fans drive Chevys.

I remember when we were leaving the beach, back when I was 6 or 7ish, the big one-ton truck had a tire removed and “Fake Fan” sprayed across the side, the Fathead sticker scraped off leaving behind a bit of facemask and the ironic letters “aid,” – by some twist of fate we would receive none – and in big block letters “FAG” across the windshield.

That was before I understood that word or grew to take offense to it. Though I had been made fun of for seeming different in elementary school, nobody really learned that word until middle school; I learned to protect myself against it.

I started taking Kickboxing classes at 8 and the first time somebody called me that name I beat her ass from one end of the playground to the other. Took about 4 “security guards” (they’re yard duties, don’t let them fool you) to pull me off of her.

My mom was pissed. My dad was proud of me for sticking up for myself, and when the time came, I told him how I felt long before my mother.

She probably could’ve guessed but her fathers would tell her to wait for me to come to her on my own terms. Denial is a slippery slope.

Much later in life, I visited Dad to see how he was holding up. Mom was gone now and the funeral wasn’t far off. I brought home my boyfriend and laughed hysterically when they got in a fight over the old Ford sitting in the driveway, a new Raiders sticker on the tailgate. He started placing a new one on top of the old one every couple of years so that now it’s raised enough that there’s a noticeable edge.

About five years later Dan and I went to cremate Dad. We had married a year prior to that, Dad was the best man and had seemed the same old geezer I had grown to love, no health issues at all it seemed.

He was lonely. Turns out a broken heart is a real thing.

Mom I could handle, but Dad…

Dan unhooked his boat and drove me all the way out to sea where no ports and no piers were visible. When I opened the Urn there was a note at the top. I tossed handfuls of the ash on each end of the boat and then slowly dumped the rest in a circle around the boat as best I could. Dad was only 57 when he passed, and mom even younger…

I opened the note after crying on Dan’s arm for a while, the sea air slapping at our faces.

“Thanks for facing your fears.”