The Master's Plan

Complain, complain, complain is all we ever seem to do! We bitch and moan and weep and cry, and never even think to try. To try to please our master’s plan. To try to strike out each demand. We bend and moan and swing and shake. “I’ve had 'bout all that I can take!” Our master sneers and we all cower. I push myself through every hour. Complain, complain, and to what end? I could cry until my eyes will rend! And someone's always asking “could you” and “will you,” and so I pick up my socks and boots again. The master’s plan is ripe with stink. It’s fat and loud and doesn’t think.

International Falls

I almost died going to International Falls. It was about a decade ago and I was driving a convertible. This slow semi affronted me and I tried to pass. As I was coming up to his cab, the semi approaching in the oncoming lane was going too fast. Before my eyes my life flashed. My eyes laughed before my fish. My mind bent. I swallowed my mint. I was driving fast while being yanked into the anti-realms of northern Minnesota. Pulled into the portals of slow-motion horror. The trip was tedious at first, but shit got all abstract in a flash. Things got really bent out of shape and deadly. It was me and heat and speed. It was the “incubator years” of my next great self. I was shrugging off useless features and wincing for a faint direction. I stepped on the gas and dashed passed the cab, in front of his grill, fractions from death. My eyes wouldn't blink through the rippling chill. I went to the border whole and secure; In pieces from International Falls I returned.

Rattle and Fuzz

I got what I wanted while losing what I cherished. And thank goodness. Thank the goodness of our drifting planet. Thank the gratitude producing events that make me sing. But, despite my gratitude, I am sick of writing meaningless things. It is so mathematical. A type of slavery that is no longer charming. My perspective has become foggy. My attitude gets choppy. I need a new voice. Maybe a dusty voice that strains. Right now I'm too quick to approve of every clever technological device. I’m shaking hands with pseudo-dignitaries, as they look past me to more important things. “I need a new voice,” I tell them. “Thanks for your support,” they say, above the rattle and fuzz of the great event.

This Boat Will Sail!

I’m alot less sure about important things as I used to be. Everybody is specialized and pontificated. I’m designing the newest Noah’s Ark just to sneak away with my zoo society. I’m varnishing wood planks and brilliant pontificators are wooing me with their impressive brain tricks. Contests are being lost all around me as I hurry along the mast with my hammer. Nails are tapped and shutters are attached. "This boat will sail!" Yet, I’m alot less competent than I used to be. I read. I steal. I cheat. Reason is a storm cloud hovering around the sundown. The woman is knitting. The dog is chewing an imitation bone. I pound my hammer on the mast. I lean out over the side. It is rising to consume me, and I am dashing for the tool box. I’m up to my ears in it and far less secure than I used to be.

Hijacked and Diminished

Sometimes things get hijacked and diminished to the point where you have to just scratch your head and weep. You blow your horn, but the vessels don’t respond! You ring the bell, but all you get are a flock of birds blocking out the sun. This, then that?Prude penny-pinchers smirk as they collect their little coupons into a pile. All I want to do is color and draw pictures of silly things and write poetry and stories that make people smile in their brains. But all this gets hi-jacked and smoted and instead I’m dodging traffic and holding my breath every minute of every day. People are sending me “Get Well” cards and I ain’t even sick. People are writing eulogies, but I ain’t dying! I’m just hijacked and a little diminished. I’ll be alright.

Less Pleasing Law's (Haiti Edition)

There are victors and there are victims and there are fancy-pants celebrities hovering in cloud-cities waiting to exploit us all with their calculated flash and provocative affectations. We are running through the rubble. We are dashing through the destruction carcasses. We are assessing all the evidence of the less pleasing laws of science. With a jolt of the earth and the congregation of masses the tragedy is set. Queue the heartbreak. Queue the non-profit forces and their cameras, and all of their other "horror-capture" technologies. We are running from death and stench. We are running for safety and security. We are dreaming of profit and peace. But the earth jolts every time the people congregate, and every survivor sees the scenes with shock and perspective. Each survivor has incentive. And it is so hard to trust the help of others. It is so hard to believe the intentions of safe and powerful people.

Inconsequential Poet

Inconsequential poet, tapping upon her keypad. Her little "expression computer." She lusts for affirmation. But what she really, really, really wants is confession. What she really wants is to reveal who she really is. She wants real revelation with genuine acceptance. She is a sad, sad, sad lady. She sips upon her comfort beverage. She cozies up inside her insecurity jacket. She is a modern day "abstraction technician." A "plot pilot." A "meaning mechanic." She looks over her shoulder. She is needed. No she isn’t. Nevermind. She is the inconsequential poet. She is ambiguously incendiary. She looks at the time-clock. She looks at the calendar. She has nothing to say. She starts writing about herself in the 3rd person: “Inconsequential poet, tapping upon her keypad.....”

This is Worth a Dollar

I’ve been too human for my own good.

With a tendency to squander and destroy.

I was going “that way,”

Now it’s “this way or die.”

Oh, this thing in my eye?

That’s a railroad tie.

I’ve been trying to get it out.

(I haven’t slept well in months).

It doesn’t matter where the elevator takes us.

It doesn’t matter if the election is rigged.

(Money is only valuable because of guns.

Weapons sustain the value of money.

Export - Import

Extrovert - Introvert

It’s not an astrological situation of any kind.

It’s organized violence - the threat of pain.

“What is this worth! Maggot!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! Please!”

“We didn’t hear you! What is this worth!”

“A dollar! Oh God, a dollar! Please,

that is worth a dollar!”)

Boarding a Plane

My attention was being prostituted to several creditors who were snooping around my house-bush searching for a check. There’s no check here. My adrenaline was elevated, my complexion was worse than ever. Now it is the holidays and people are looking at me for a gift. I shrug my shoulders. I board the plane. “I’ve taken all that I can take.” A lovely woman baffles me with her persistence. I save a seat for her on the plane. Randy tells me to maintain focus. Keep the plow oiled. He tells me I am spread too thin. The cloth tears. I am hiding my checkbook in the kitchen, under the sink somewhere. I am washing my face and increasing my water intake. The months are blowing off the page. Creditors are sneaking into my window sills and giving me prudence advice. Risk-less mentors share their safety strategies. Fearful advisors tell me 7 great ways to hide. I’m boarding a plane, with Barbara by my side.

Auditory Joy (2/8/01)

He was afraid of speaking in front of crowds. Worse yet, he was afraid of singing. Hell, he would not even sing in the shower or in his car in the middle of the desert in the off chance that angels exists and they might just happen to overhear his song. But there he stood in front of 30,000 people waiting for him to sing. He did not remember how he ended up in this situation, but, for some reason, he promised that he would sing them a song. The crowd grew silent and his chest tightened in fear. His lips jittered and sweat profusely. He could not feel his tongue! But the crowd was beginning to get angry at his silence. He knew he had to at least utter a noise. He inhaled as much as his packed, heavy chest would allow and let out a quick melody: Aauuita. He opened his eyes expecting a booing, angry crowd. But the people were quite taken. There was an escalating uproar of applause. He let out a longer noise: Aauuuuuiaaatatatataaaaaa.... People roared with applause, cameras flashed, lips were whistling. Then he REALLY let out a melody:

Yeahahall-Lowammmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaaa-Aauuuiatataaaaaaa....

People fainted, others had seizures from the rapid snapping of pictures, wrists were snapping from violent clapping, and some even keeled over dead from the weight of their auditory joy.

Interpretations and Floggings

Your gospel interpretation is syncopathetic. It vibrates through the atmospheric chamber-barrier and compels the nuns to seek. Popes surround me with disapproving hand gestures. Erotic priests are peering from the bushes at all our current innocence vessels, who prance through the grass with tattered pants. Your proverbs are translucent and your sermons challenge the masses to ever higher levels of low self-worth. Hilarious anti-preachers are flogging the airwaves with strategic sarcasm and there is no way to stop it. Your scripture interpretation is idio-empathic. It bends your guilt-mechanisms and instills an urge to smoke cigarettes. Prudish smilers own the streets and determine the nature of television advertisements. Mutated anger floods all of your exchanges with the lower classes.

He was in Good Form

At about that time he began to slowly regain a sense of himself. A woman with a dog said “you’re centering yourself and that is good.” But he shrugged that off as silliness. He liked how things were going and he was in good form. True, swindlers and chaos advocates were damaging his assets, but he had faith in his depth of character. Second-hand associates were reading lame books about “Attitude Adjustments for Success,” and silliness like that. But he shrugged it off and continued moving how he thought best. Spiritual guides stroked his mystery lobes, but he retaliated with articulation and explanation. Pessimists accused him of being optimistic, but he shrugged it off as silliness and retaliated with a cold splash of cold reality. He was in good form and he was well positioned for growth. His assets were character based and growing.

Mortal Master, Mortal Plan

Sleepy, fatigued pencil boy, chubby in the lover’s guild. Selfish with the magic pants. Winter moods contort the music of mindless men wrapped tight with fluids. Intensify the hype and story. Discourage truth and feign your glory. But never speak to build the other. Because they are mice, not men or brother. Inflated man, Expanding torso. Strike the blow-torch sweet revival. You can never match the master’s powers. So tuck those plans for later hours. The master is a mortal man. The master is a mortal man. His plan is strong, but it won’t stand. The master is the portal fan. He stokes the pathways through the levels. He barks out orders, prepares the gavels.

Trickle-Down Cosmology

I was drowning in mediocre beverages and writing substandard prose. The world rotated around a dollar sign. Gravity was controlled by trickle-down cosmology tied intimately to certain cost-effectiveness ratios. The music was good, though. It connected with us and exacerbated our surliness. Wisdom was deconstructed into short statements. The cost of truth was so high, all we could afford were aphorisms. And when I swallowed the last drop of my mediocre beverage, I walked out into the smog-filtered sunlight. Each step was a flitter as my euphoric ambling brought me to my next destination. The world rotates when the dollar sign tells it to. But nothing controls my thoughts but me. I am the thought keeper of the highest degree. The key is inside me. The key is inside me.

I Was There Staring

It was the tail end of a global recession and I was overeating. It was at the bottom of hitting bottom and I was having trouble sleeping. The weather sucked worse that TV sitcoms and I was sick of the gray and the rain. I see people crossing paths and I question their love for each other. I see couples dwelling in their houses and I wonder how their love dynamics work. It was the beginning of the recovery and I was increasing my water intake. I was crossing things off of my to-do list and thinking about my future. It was the start of something special and strangers were walking around me unbuttoning their coats. There was a star ascending the stairs, and I was there staring at the stars.

The Protocal Has Been Initiated

Spark popping creativity thrower reaching back for another brilliance-flash. Reaching into the deepest caverns of his resource factory. Throwing creativity splashes into the forlorn faces of the GDP carriers. Each skyscraper is an anthill and each cubicle dweller is an ant carrying their crumb to the king. Each crumb carrying cubicle dweller is a GDP facilitator. Lean back and watch the fractured castles crumble in unison. Wounded rebels descend the anthill. Hordes of civilians congregate around the book burning bonfire binge of the crumbling civilization. Religion fades. Meaning dissipates. The masses are kept dumb enough to be ignorant of their futility. The nation activates the "learning shields" and initiates the “stupify the masses” protocal. I reach back for a brilliance-flash. I scream out the anthill cap: "Leave the ants alone!"

You Stay There

Some pencil pusher dashing out the door. Some misery addict dangling the cigerette. Some wisdom patent guarding the master’s wealth. Here I am with my observation hobby. Here I am with my dream straightener. I am by myself. I lean into my project. Here I am ignoring the dog. Bad Dog! “You stay right over there.” I am the canine’s judge. I hand down the sentence. But I am a merciful judge. He’ll be out soon on cute behavior. I can promise you that. I type words, but I’m no forlorn loner hero. I’m no angst pusher. I try my best to just tell it like it is. This wall is gray. That wall is orange. My eyes are tender from too many late nights and unconquered projects. Some pencil pusher is intruding my solitude. SOme misery addict is blowing smoke in my general direction. “You stay right over there!”

It was an Age of Poofy Hats

It was an age of poofy hats and telescopic innovations. Disenchanted priests were pondering the cosmos. Disillusioned missionaries were constructing mechanical workforces. It was an age of wonder and a wonderful age. There were powerful punks who bemoaned the coming change. There were Enlightenment Salesmen who were peach with glee. There were innovators and instigators and exposed magicians looking for a home. There were magic movers and "humanity inflators." We were empowered and moving forward. We crossed the ocean to a promised land. We conquered the natives and comforted the pilgrims. The church was scattered. Authority decomposed. Structures crumbled. And men wore poofy hats and fancy pants.

Upward Notes

Some songs end on upwards notes. Some lives never start on course. Some songs push the envelope. Some lives produce zero quotes. I’ve share some quotes that I never wrote down. I’ve displayed acts of love. I’ve reached my hand out to great antagonists and still stand here in my hole, sore arm and nowhere to go. Love is ethereal. Love is empirical. How do I get on? I don’t write letters I don’t intend to send. No love songs I write. No affectation verse. Crinkled paper lines the varnished hallway. Fractured memories fluttering among the snowflakes. Phantom urges surface in the frittered hours; To fill the void. To fill the hours. I feed the productivity god and bow before my ancient idols. So rake the frightened boyhood fears into the decomposing therapy pile. Light the fire. Light the fire. Heat-less flames protrude the darkness. Combat the legions. Walking and thinking with vapor in the minded regions. Some folks, in the end, break down, while others end on upward notes.

When Should One Define?

With no time on the clock you have to act. You can’t get all caught up in the moment and what it could mean. You have to define it later. Do first, then define. SO many wise-crackers define first, then do. It’s all that “imagination” and “vision-casting” crap that long-term losers use to feel counter intuitive. I don’t know. Maybe that is not true. I like vision-casting, i guess. I’ve been a daydreamer since I was born. But I’ve been a “doer” since I’ve been born-again. Faithlessness fueled my attention-seeking, self-destructive ego forces. Faith has fueled disciplined action and honesty attenuators. Faith is a freethinker’s gutter cushion. Faith is a genius-amplifier. Faith is an irrelevancy identifier, that helps us act even when the clock runs out.

I March to a Different Drummer

I march to a different drummer. An invisible drummer who taunts me and teases me out of my isolation chamber. When the master says “Dance!” I dance. But I march. On and on. I’m surrounded by people with lists and receipts. Each to-do item gets converted into receipts and placed in storage devices for later reference. There is a subtle thumping coming from the street. I rush to the door, shoes on feet. Blasted. Fractured. Smelling stale breezes. Whizzing bumble bees on fragile dandelions. I’m out on the street. Each step is an intentional, measured motion. Whizzing police cars flash past me. They are looking for my drummer. My drummer taunts them and teases them. They shoot their pistol-gadgets and swing bruise-sticks. But my drummer is invisible, and I march right past them all.

The Slanted Tree

When I was a boy I used to stay out late to play. I would be the last boy out. If I were to become sick, I’d still go out to play. I’d throw stones at the sewage pond. I’d gather broken glass into imaginary jewel-treasures. I’d climb the slanted tree and think about elevated things. If I were to become sad, I'd ride my bike in dangerous ways. I’d hang around with oppositional children. I’d climb the slanted tree and hope for brighter days. When I was the last boy outside, I’d reflect on my imaginary episodes from my play-filled day. I’d assess my pretend life and offer intangible judgments. If I were the only boy outside, I’d climb the slanted tree and peer into the neighborhood for other playful boys.

Twitching Thinkers

I need to stop feeling obligated to impress dead philosophers. Like they care that I am defending their silly proposition-things. I need to go outside for a good, long inhale. I want contrary things to be reconciled, to be cohesive on a supper plate. I want my questions to be meaningful and my answers to be simple. I want to juggle profound beliefs in persuasive patterns right in front of your face. You'd come in with your "Peace Police" and I'd come in with my "Resolution Troops." Dead philosophers speak to our mystics through glowing orbs. And the mystics take those comments and place them on scraps of paper to be brought to the most brightest and vocal of our local colleges. The twitching thinkers scour the scraps of paper, decoding cryptic messages, and read: "Go think for yourselves. Leave us alone."

Finney

Finney was a chubby Man-Boy. You might think he was 12, you might think he was 24 - depending on the angle you looked at him. Most of the time you half expected him to pull a lollipop out of his damn trousers. When he walked across the yard he tried to disturb no leaf. He smiled at inanimate objects. He came into the room where you stood and wanted to be the nicest person you'd ever met. The nicest boy in the world. "kill them with kindness," he thought. He was hesitant to shake your hand, but when he did he always wiped his palm before extending. His wife was about as interesting as melting butter. She spent her time staring; thinking, maybe, about the best way to clean an iron.

Citrus

We found citrus in the tap-rooms. We saw spirits in the dark-rooms. Wasbboards and the base-bins rattle in the truck box. The tall, cool cowboy grasped the cold, steel pistol handle. The tall, overtaxed cowboy fondled the fragile trigger sliver. Horses running in the horizon zone. Sunsets capturing all our hero-woes. Metaphors for the closing doors. Flirtatious metaphors too erotic for children. Erroneous wordplays tumbling out our genius flow. Citrus in the thought-sauce. Dark spirits in the back rooms. Disbelievers scoffing at all our profundity prophets. Citrus in the doubt sauce. Spirits behind the error-shields. Skeptics stir the citrus-sauce.

Hero Figure

I’m no haunted hero-figure. I got switchblade visions shimmering in my pictures. Folded blankets bury wicked sisters. I’m your enchanted teacher, with chalk-dust clouding out my abstract lectures. Rolling desk chairs move the thinker. I got wicked sisters asking questions. “I’m no perfect hero figure.” I'm all broken, dreaming, plotless, boring. The cards I hold predict great failures. Limping women approach my counter. Broken dreaming, abstract lectures. I got switchblades poking out my pictures. “I’m no fearless fighter figure.”

Preparation and Perspiration

We are approaching the grand culmination of many things. To be honest, I’m not prepared. But I was born unprepared. I grew up without preparation. I’m always activating my "spontaneous response" protocol as I slowly crouch behind my insecurity shields. I’m always “winging it” in the middle of the ice storm. In the middle of the confetti wars. Here I am sinking in quicksand and not even thinking about getting out until I’m up to my neck. Prudent people meditate and plan their day. Prepared people anticipate and perspire. They write down their strategy 6 days before their event. I’m up to my neck in it and trying to dodge debris. I’m initiating last-minute evasion tactics. I’m scribbling down my last words to loved ones as I bargain feverishly with my creator.

I'm Doing All I Can

I’m starting new programs for the activity-impared. I'm scheduling field trips for the Fellowship of Unsafe Mothers. As of Friday, we will be gathering contact information for the formation of a brand new support group for people who wish they could dream. I’ll provide bagels. Jenny will bring the Ambian. I’m having internal struggles and must call my 12 step sponsor. I’m raising awareness for the victims of unanticipated laughter. I’m redeeming fast walkers. I’m waving to lonely people in the subway terminal. I’m cheering up total strangers. Damn it! I’m doing all I can. I’m standing up for men. I’m confronting oppressive dictators who drive dangerously slow and never share a joke. I'm really doing all I can.

Where Do I Register?

All the courses are filled with students. All the desks are taken. All the seats are held down by ambitious survival-seekers.

Competition victims.

Free-market secondary casualties.

We all passed into this world through a vagina. Now we are learning math and computer programs. Now we are proposing profit systems. Now we are registering for classes, trying to stay alive. Give me coffee. Give me nicotine. Give me GPS systems to get me to my class on time. My hands are busy. My mind is tied up in thoughts. My heart is at the bottom of my junk drawer. I haven’t felt it in years. We all emerged into this world with a tit to suck. Now we register for classes. We all grow to a certain height, as ordained by invisible instruction sets in our internal systems. We all speak with a certain pitch. But our instructions systems need classes. So where do I register?

Most of the time.

Most of the time I am in the gray. I’m jagged on the bound. I'm hitching a ride to the dark side of town. Most of the sunsets make me sleepy and I want to curl up under an oak tree. I’m the gift-giver without a ride. I’m the tail-wagger. The business man kisses the dirty doggy. The Service worker nods to the businessman. The floor driller stops his noise-machine to assess his progress. The security guard looks busier than he is – on purpose. The drink vendor is out of samples. Most of the time I’m in the gray, without one damn clever thing to say. Most of the time I’m doing nothing but dwelling on my activities. Nobody buys a product. Nobody seeks. Everyone dwells in the gray. The euphoric ones are distrusted. The ambitious ones are hated. I’m trying eagerly to hitch a ride. I have a dream and a plan, but I don’t have a coin. Most of the time I find something to laugh about.