Spring is raging full on all of a sudden. I was scraping ice from my windshield earlier this morning, but now the sun’s all shining and everything just stinks of spring. The Great Lakes region is famous for crap like that. Sweat your buttocks off during the day, freeze em at night. I’m half conscious, still trying to shake my nightmares, convince myself they were only dreams. Lack of sleep always screws up my grip on reality. I worked 16 hours last night, hadn’t planned on it, but couldn’t say no to the extra cashish.
The boundary between reality and illusion becomes really blurry for me following a double shift. I had nightmares all morning long and still feel on edge. I ended up getting home and driving the kid to his A.C.T. test and then dinked around with the toilet for awhile after that. I found a small leak where the bolt attaches the tank to the seat, probably not that big of a deal, but once I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours, everything becomes a big deal.
My son took his A.C.T. at the state college with all the high schoolers. I walked him to the testing site, ducking and dodging the proto-adults along the way in the crowded hall. He got a couple of stares—the kid’s short for his age thanks to super doses of steroids, which also managed to jumpstart his kidneys back to life. But he’s still only thirteen, and here were all these sixteen and seventeen-year-olds ponying up to take the biggest test of their lives, so far at least.
There will be bigger tests, but those won’t be scored or graded.
I think we're driving over to London tomorrow, need to go visit Cheyenne. She's been in the hospital pretty much since A2 Pow Wow, except for a few hours last week. That's about two solid weeks. I'm purposely ignorant when it comes to medical terminology--back home the hospital is somewhere they take you when you're already dead or about to die. I just know that whatever's going on with her isn't good. It sounds like her cancer may have spread, despite the chemo, despite the radiation treatment. Not good at all.
7.06.2006
an exercise in futility
An exercise in futility. Just feel like giving up. Gonna put my blinders back on, gonna lose myself in my daydreams. Suffocate my sorrows under the weight of all my illusions. Leaving reality by the wayside, blundering along into oblivion.
Overworking and overusing my metaphorical vehicles. Overtaxing my own mental faculties. No escape route to speak of, no way to go but down. Money woes mounting as the months drag along, no end in sight to the endless spiral. Madness is but a manufactured escape, not wanting to admit, to see, or to believe.
The ugliness within begins to be transferred on those with out. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the decline. It has all been nothing but decline, nothing but entropy for as long as I can remember. I am a collector of trash, a collector of stories no one wants to share.
I am a living monument to mediocrity and unfulfilled promise. I wanted to pave my own path, to follow my bliss, but somehow ended up here. Where did it all go wrong, was it ever right to begin with? It is just a phase I’m going through, so people used to tell me. When is this phase going to end? It has been over twenty-five years, a whole generation’s worth of bitching and moaning, and so very little has changed within.
Numb myself from the pain. Drinking away the remaining years. Descending into madness, death, twelve ounces at a time. Following in the footsteps of my ancestors, turning my back on the world that long ago turned its back on me.
Anger and dejection passed down through countless generations. We were warriors.
Now we cannot even battle our own selves. I remember seeing my grandfather sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee, at the same time nursing his bruised and battered ego from the soulless, brutal march of time. Dreams and hopes long faded, his gaze empty and faraway, longing for the promise of youth.
Grandfather, I have let you down. The future is now in my children’s hands, perhaps they can redeem us all. Perhaps they will succeed where we failed.
Overworking and overusing my metaphorical vehicles. Overtaxing my own mental faculties. No escape route to speak of, no way to go but down. Money woes mounting as the months drag along, no end in sight to the endless spiral. Madness is but a manufactured escape, not wanting to admit, to see, or to believe.
The ugliness within begins to be transferred on those with out. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the decline. It has all been nothing but decline, nothing but entropy for as long as I can remember. I am a collector of trash, a collector of stories no one wants to share.
I am a living monument to mediocrity and unfulfilled promise. I wanted to pave my own path, to follow my bliss, but somehow ended up here. Where did it all go wrong, was it ever right to begin with? It is just a phase I’m going through, so people used to tell me. When is this phase going to end? It has been over twenty-five years, a whole generation’s worth of bitching and moaning, and so very little has changed within.
Numb myself from the pain. Drinking away the remaining years. Descending into madness, death, twelve ounces at a time. Following in the footsteps of my ancestors, turning my back on the world that long ago turned its back on me.
Anger and dejection passed down through countless generations. We were warriors.
Now we cannot even battle our own selves. I remember seeing my grandfather sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee, at the same time nursing his bruised and battered ego from the soulless, brutal march of time. Dreams and hopes long faded, his gaze empty and faraway, longing for the promise of youth.
Grandfather, I have let you down. The future is now in my children’s hands, perhaps they can redeem us all. Perhaps they will succeed where we failed.
beyond the box scores
One foot in front of the other, bounding across the spongy track towards ecstasy. Not really. Not at all, actually. More like trudging along painfully, on the hardened plastic surface, baked solid by the noonday sun. Running used to be so easy, so effortless. That was forty pounds and twenty years ago. I’m struggling to keep with my thirteen-year-old as I run him through his paces. I finally give up and just jog back and forth, telling him his interval splits and
trying to sound knowledgeable in between gasps of air.
The boy’s managed to skip the last two track meets, not sure what’s going on with that. He was sick the first one and apparently forgot to sign up for the second one, or they only had one heat and he wasn’t able to run or something. Sounds like avoidance to me. Just be straight about it, you know? You signed up for it, finish it out. If you absolutely don’t want to do it, tell me. Don’t go about it all half-a**ed, though.
Too many examples of that in our lives--in our histories, personal and familial.Is he thinking he’s not as good as the other kids? Why do they think they have to be an all-star or great to be involved in sports? Especially at that age—why can’t someone play or participate just for the fun of it? There’s way too much emphasis on winning and losing in sports these days, I think the real value is beyond the box scores.
trying to sound knowledgeable in between gasps of air.
The boy’s managed to skip the last two track meets, not sure what’s going on with that. He was sick the first one and apparently forgot to sign up for the second one, or they only had one heat and he wasn’t able to run or something. Sounds like avoidance to me. Just be straight about it, you know? You signed up for it, finish it out. If you absolutely don’t want to do it, tell me. Don’t go about it all half-a**ed, though.
Too many examples of that in our lives--in our histories, personal and familial.Is he thinking he’s not as good as the other kids? Why do they think they have to be an all-star or great to be involved in sports? Especially at that age—why can’t someone play or participate just for the fun of it? There’s way too much emphasis on winning and losing in sports these days, I think the real value is beyond the box scores.
unpublished
So much for the redemptive powers of holy basil. The food tasted good, but I’m in the same situation as before. No use in calling the health center this weekend, they won’t be able to do anything for me until next week. I was in such a hurry to get out of the hospital, but they just had me sitting there doing nothing for four days. That gallbladder’s going to have to come out sometime, wish they had taken care of it while I was already there.
My co-worker Squishy is complaining about her cell provider again--had to call customer service, who we assume was outsourced to India. She’s having language problems and is getting quick frazzled. She knows how I feel about the subject, so she makes her xenophobic comments as far away from me as possible. Something about “those people” needing to learn to speak English blah, blah, blah . . .
The problem may just be that the person on the other line is speaking English—the Queen’s English—and Squishy’s using her biker mama jargon with them. Or maybe Squishy can’t hear a d###ed thing from too many hours on the back of a Harley. Darn Indians. Not speaking English. What the heck?! Just cuz they outnumber us by 3-to-1. This is our world.
I just love my co-workers, I really do.
I think Dell outsourced their help desk—I had to call them not too long ago. Didn’t have any problems communicating at all. My mom’s accent is pretty thick, though, so everyone else is understandable by comparison. Everything’s so over the top at the worksite, though. Everyone’s better than everyone else and so above everything.
What we do? We monitor felons. House arrest—that sort of thing. And we do warrants. Facility escapes. Supervision absconders. It’s not a lot of fun, we make the best of it I suppose. Your skin gets pretty thick after awhile. We crack jokes about stupid stuff. Easier to laugh than to cry.
Like the time I called a home because I showed the subject out-of-bounds. His mom and girlfriend both came to the phone in hysterics. The subject had O.D.’ed and the coroner was carting him off. How was I supposed to know? We’ve had a handful of suicides since I’ve been here. Lots of other drama, though—husbands, wives, significant others busting the equipment, busting up the offender, etc . . .
Lots of ex-guards working here. Lots of attitude, most of it bad. People leave the facilities for lots of reasons, I guess, but some are forced out. Some are attacked, beaten, shanked, jumped. This worksite is the Island or Misfit Toys. I knew that coming here, but I still came.
My compassion level is pretty low these days, but consider the company I keep.
I call felons with issues. I don’t call the ones that come home on time, or whose equipment is working fine. Often their families/roommates have their own issues. And my co-workers and I all have our fair share of issues as well. Issues with each other, issues with ourselves. Chock full of issues. We aren’t law enforcement. We aren’t parole/probation officers. You wouldn’t
know it to hear us talk. Felons bad. Us good. If it were only that easy. Some of us are on this side of the phone by the grace of God alone.
Sometimes I wonder if some of us should be on the other end.
My co-worker Julio got jumped while he was a guard. The dude just exudes nastiness. He talks down to everyone. Cracks jokes about the offenders and their families. I’m about ready to jump Julio myself. The dude’s so messed up, but he can’t see that. It’s everyone else’s problem—everybody else has issues except him. I guess he never got counseling after the attack. Who’s bright idea was that? He’s only back working for us because Workman’s Comp. made him take the interview, take the job.
Another co-worker, Paul, has been trying to get his brother a job here. We used to monitor Paul’s brother. He’s an ex-felon. Paul knows this. Knows the department won’t hire an ex-felon. So why the heck is he trying to get his brother in here? What kind of sense does that make?
Julio’s been hanging out with Paul and his brother at the bar, I guess.
Doesn’t Julio know he’s rubbing elbows with an ex-felon? He treats them like dirt while
he’s at work, but apparently it’s alright if they hang out at the bar. I’m expecting life to make sense. Sometimes that’s asking for too much.
Cheyenne’s not doing so great. Speech was beginning to slur, so they did an MRI, found some growth in her brain. She requested that they shave her hair when it begins coming out. My little Nan (10-year-old daughter) asked if she can cut her hair and donate it to Locks of Love. Man. I keep hoping and wishing things will get better, but I’m just in denial. It’s not good at all.
My co-worker Squishy is complaining about her cell provider again--had to call customer service, who we assume was outsourced to India. She’s having language problems and is getting quick frazzled. She knows how I feel about the subject, so she makes her xenophobic comments as far away from me as possible. Something about “those people” needing to learn to speak English blah, blah, blah . . .
The problem may just be that the person on the other line is speaking English—the Queen’s English—and Squishy’s using her biker mama jargon with them. Or maybe Squishy can’t hear a d###ed thing from too many hours on the back of a Harley. Darn Indians. Not speaking English. What the heck?! Just cuz they outnumber us by 3-to-1. This is our world.
I just love my co-workers, I really do.
I think Dell outsourced their help desk—I had to call them not too long ago. Didn’t have any problems communicating at all. My mom’s accent is pretty thick, though, so everyone else is understandable by comparison. Everything’s so over the top at the worksite, though. Everyone’s better than everyone else and so above everything.
What we do? We monitor felons. House arrest—that sort of thing. And we do warrants. Facility escapes. Supervision absconders. It’s not a lot of fun, we make the best of it I suppose. Your skin gets pretty thick after awhile. We crack jokes about stupid stuff. Easier to laugh than to cry.
Like the time I called a home because I showed the subject out-of-bounds. His mom and girlfriend both came to the phone in hysterics. The subject had O.D.’ed and the coroner was carting him off. How was I supposed to know? We’ve had a handful of suicides since I’ve been here. Lots of other drama, though—husbands, wives, significant others busting the equipment, busting up the offender, etc . . .
Lots of ex-guards working here. Lots of attitude, most of it bad. People leave the facilities for lots of reasons, I guess, but some are forced out. Some are attacked, beaten, shanked, jumped. This worksite is the Island or Misfit Toys. I knew that coming here, but I still came.
My compassion level is pretty low these days, but consider the company I keep.
I call felons with issues. I don’t call the ones that come home on time, or whose equipment is working fine. Often their families/roommates have their own issues. And my co-workers and I all have our fair share of issues as well. Issues with each other, issues with ourselves. Chock full of issues. We aren’t law enforcement. We aren’t parole/probation officers. You wouldn’t
know it to hear us talk. Felons bad. Us good. If it were only that easy. Some of us are on this side of the phone by the grace of God alone.
Sometimes I wonder if some of us should be on the other end.
My co-worker Julio got jumped while he was a guard. The dude just exudes nastiness. He talks down to everyone. Cracks jokes about the offenders and their families. I’m about ready to jump Julio myself. The dude’s so messed up, but he can’t see that. It’s everyone else’s problem—everybody else has issues except him. I guess he never got counseling after the attack. Who’s bright idea was that? He’s only back working for us because Workman’s Comp. made him take the interview, take the job.
Another co-worker, Paul, has been trying to get his brother a job here. We used to monitor Paul’s brother. He’s an ex-felon. Paul knows this. Knows the department won’t hire an ex-felon. So why the heck is he trying to get his brother in here? What kind of sense does that make?
Julio’s been hanging out with Paul and his brother at the bar, I guess.
Doesn’t Julio know he’s rubbing elbows with an ex-felon? He treats them like dirt while
he’s at work, but apparently it’s alright if they hang out at the bar. I’m expecting life to make sense. Sometimes that’s asking for too much.
Cheyenne’s not doing so great. Speech was beginning to slur, so they did an MRI, found some growth in her brain. She requested that they shave her hair when it begins coming out. My little Nan (10-year-old daughter) asked if she can cut her hair and donate it to Locks of Love. Man. I keep hoping and wishing things will get better, but I’m just in denial. It’s not good at all.
on Buddhism
I’m a struggling Buddhist. I enjoy going to the monastery, listening to the abbot lecture on Buddhism, eating Thai/Lao food, and even just going for a walk on the twenty-some acre property. The Dhammasala feels like home to me, but I guess I spent quite a bit of time at the wat in my village when I was growing up. My youngest uncle was a monk during the rainy season and my grandmother would drop me off when she was to busy to drag me along. She was a midwife/herbalist/entrepreneur and didn’t always have the time or energy to take along a potty-mouthed, half-falang (foreigner: i.e., American) brat all over northeastern Thailand.
My understanding of Buddhism has changed over time. My first exposure, of course, was in Thailand—a few miles from the northeastern City of Udon Thani, not far from the Mekong River, which is also the border with Laos. My family is Lao, living in Thailand, or “Isaan”—someone made the journey across the river at some point and took up residence amidst the rice paddies in what used to be a sparsely populated area. Not quite Thai, but not really Lao either.
The form of Buddhism prevalent in Thailand is Theravada—the teachings of the Elders. The monks receive instruction in Pali, the same language that the historical Buddha used nearly 2500 years ago. The lay people, especially in remote parts of Thailand, infuse their Buddhism with animism and other indigenous belief systems. Their understanding of the dhamma is quite different from the monks.
My mother taught me what she knew as I was growing up in Detroit, but she stressed prayers to an omniscient, omnipotent deity. She was also well versed in superstition, astrology, and fortune telling. I didn’t see much difference between the Buddhism of my mother and the Christianity of my neighbors and classmates. There was no mention of meditation, at least none that I can recall.
At university, I studied Buddhism on my own, at the behest of some friends and acquaintances. It started as an outgrowth of some of our experiences with states of consciousness—chemical and otherwise—and took on a life of its own. Many of the books that I read then were on Zen—I really liked the spirit of many of the writings. Although I now admit that I really had no idea what they were talking about.
My understanding of Buddhism has changed over time. My first exposure, of course, was in Thailand—a few miles from the northeastern City of Udon Thani, not far from the Mekong River, which is also the border with Laos. My family is Lao, living in Thailand, or “Isaan”—someone made the journey across the river at some point and took up residence amidst the rice paddies in what used to be a sparsely populated area. Not quite Thai, but not really Lao either.
The form of Buddhism prevalent in Thailand is Theravada—the teachings of the Elders. The monks receive instruction in Pali, the same language that the historical Buddha used nearly 2500 years ago. The lay people, especially in remote parts of Thailand, infuse their Buddhism with animism and other indigenous belief systems. Their understanding of the dhamma is quite different from the monks.
My mother taught me what she knew as I was growing up in Detroit, but she stressed prayers to an omniscient, omnipotent deity. She was also well versed in superstition, astrology, and fortune telling. I didn’t see much difference between the Buddhism of my mother and the Christianity of my neighbors and classmates. There was no mention of meditation, at least none that I can recall.
At university, I studied Buddhism on my own, at the behest of some friends and acquaintances. It started as an outgrowth of some of our experiences with states of consciousness—chemical and otherwise—and took on a life of its own. Many of the books that I read then were on Zen—I really liked the spirit of many of the writings. Although I now admit that I really had no idea what they were talking about.
more than our biology, our history
I think that people are basically good. We become jaded and disillusioned thanks to our families, our cultures, societies, and our own experiences. People don’t normally go around trying to screw with other folks, but we just end up butting heads because of our egos. That’s the theory that I currently hold to, but I’m open to changing my mind.
I keep running into people who make me question my faith in humanity, in everyone’s “Buddha nature”, including my own. Everyone seems to have some hustle, some angle they’re trying to work to get themselves over on everyone else. It is especially hard to be optimistic about my fellow humans when the person in question is someone you trust or should trust, because of their occupation or profession. It makes me question everything and everyone—not a good feeling at all.
I have a lot of anger, a lot of hate—not 100% sure why, but at least I now acknowledge that it is there. That’s a first step, right? The whole trust thing is kinda hard—I have a really hard time trusting anyone. When I do give someone their trust and they screw me over, it’s close to impossible for me to forgive or forget.
The Mohawks’ first contact with the French was roughly four hundred years ago—they encountered Samuel de Champlain when he and some of his soldiers were accompanying a group of Algonkian Indians into battle. The larger force of Mohawks attacked the approaching line of Algonkians and was surprised, to say the least, when Champlain stepped out from behind the formation and fired a musket shot into them. The first shot ending up killing four sachems (elected representatives handpicked by the Clan Mothers). The Mohawks still haven’t forgiven the French—vengeance has been a prominent feature of their culture.
Like my Mohawk ancestors, I don’t want to forgive anyone—I would like to avenge whatever it is that needs avenging. But Buddhism teaches compassion—especially toward your enemies. Some modern Buddhist writers have been quick to point out that this doesn’t simply mean being a doormat to whoever comes along. Engaged Buddhism has you acknowledge and attempt to understand the other person’s side.
So I’ve been told, so I’ve read.
The main point is that we are all capable of change and all capable of living better lives. We are all capable of taping into our Buddha natures and to become more than our biology, our history. It is a horrible feeling when you feel that you can trust no one, when you feel that the worst parts of our nature are the only things we have in common. To have lost all faith in all humanity. But Buddhism teaches, stresses that this is only a feeling, and not the reality.
I just wish I could learn to believe.
I keep running into people who make me question my faith in humanity, in everyone’s “Buddha nature”, including my own. Everyone seems to have some hustle, some angle they’re trying to work to get themselves over on everyone else. It is especially hard to be optimistic about my fellow humans when the person in question is someone you trust or should trust, because of their occupation or profession. It makes me question everything and everyone—not a good feeling at all.
I have a lot of anger, a lot of hate—not 100% sure why, but at least I now acknowledge that it is there. That’s a first step, right? The whole trust thing is kinda hard—I have a really hard time trusting anyone. When I do give someone their trust and they screw me over, it’s close to impossible for me to forgive or forget.
The Mohawks’ first contact with the French was roughly four hundred years ago—they encountered Samuel de Champlain when he and some of his soldiers were accompanying a group of Algonkian Indians into battle. The larger force of Mohawks attacked the approaching line of Algonkians and was surprised, to say the least, when Champlain stepped out from behind the formation and fired a musket shot into them. The first shot ending up killing four sachems (elected representatives handpicked by the Clan Mothers). The Mohawks still haven’t forgiven the French—vengeance has been a prominent feature of their culture.
Like my Mohawk ancestors, I don’t want to forgive anyone—I would like to avenge whatever it is that needs avenging. But Buddhism teaches compassion—especially toward your enemies. Some modern Buddhist writers have been quick to point out that this doesn’t simply mean being a doormat to whoever comes along. Engaged Buddhism has you acknowledge and attempt to understand the other person’s side.
So I’ve been told, so I’ve read.
The main point is that we are all capable of change and all capable of living better lives. We are all capable of taping into our Buddha natures and to become more than our biology, our history. It is a horrible feeling when you feel that you can trust no one, when you feel that the worst parts of our nature are the only things we have in common. To have lost all faith in all humanity. But Buddhism teaches, stresses that this is only a feeling, and not the reality.
I just wish I could learn to believe.
wordiness, unbound
Wordiness, unbound to exorcise my demons for my own sake, for sanity’s sake.
I can feel spring creeping into my bones I see the mud begin to ooze from the ground
And the cardinals and blue jays have returned to take up their posts on my crabapple trees.
Winter is loosening its death grip upon the Midwest
At least for now, at least for the year.
I’m not quite ready for the season to come, I’ve been cocooned away in my glorified shack
feeding on my regrets and my disappointment.
Every winter seems to get worse my resistance is low, my desire is fading fast.
I need to get out and run about, shed some of this padding I keep accumulating.
I know what needs to be done, but the actual doing keeps eluding me.
My thirteen-year-old is running track this year, not quite sure who’s idea that is since he hates running.
Six weeks until his first meet, plenty of time for him to get in shape, plenty of time for me to get in shape.
I’m gonna ride his coattails, gonna draft behind him
And hopefully get myself into shape again. I haven’t run seriously in almost twenty years,
but still brag about the glory days, even if they weren’t all that glorious.
The thing about running, the reason I’ve been skirting,
Is that you can’t lie, can’t fudge the results.
Either you’re in shape or you’re not.
Your time is good, bad, somewhere inbetween.
I can’t face the reality of my own decline,
I talk such a good game, but haven’t played in so long.
My son is apprehensive, doesn’t think he’s fast enough, doesn’t think he can compete.
With running, you realize right where you are, no illusions,
You see what you have to work with and start from there.
You put in the time and the effort and you improve, and in the end you might just surprise yourself.
That’s the way it is with life, when you truly live, with your eyes wide open, living in the real,
instead of believing, wishing for some illusion.
I’ve become a semi-permanent resident of the daydream nation, wacked out on prozac,
wishing I had been bigger, faster, smarter, more, more.
When all I really needed was just to be me.
Whatever that entails, merely to start with where I am, right where I am and nowhere else.
I want me son to learn this lesson right now, not when he’s pushing thirty-seven--
carrying too much credit, too many regrets, living in a haze of desire and disappointment,
all the coulda beens and shoulda beens piled to the ceiling in a five-room shack just north of the state college.
I can feel spring creeping into my bones I see the mud begin to ooze from the ground
And the cardinals and blue jays have returned to take up their posts on my crabapple trees.
Winter is loosening its death grip upon the Midwest
At least for now, at least for the year.
I’m not quite ready for the season to come, I’ve been cocooned away in my glorified shack
feeding on my regrets and my disappointment.
Every winter seems to get worse my resistance is low, my desire is fading fast.
I need to get out and run about, shed some of this padding I keep accumulating.
I know what needs to be done, but the actual doing keeps eluding me.
My thirteen-year-old is running track this year, not quite sure who’s idea that is since he hates running.
Six weeks until his first meet, plenty of time for him to get in shape, plenty of time for me to get in shape.
I’m gonna ride his coattails, gonna draft behind him
And hopefully get myself into shape again. I haven’t run seriously in almost twenty years,
but still brag about the glory days, even if they weren’t all that glorious.
The thing about running, the reason I’ve been skirting,
Is that you can’t lie, can’t fudge the results.
Either you’re in shape or you’re not.
Your time is good, bad, somewhere inbetween.
I can’t face the reality of my own decline,
I talk such a good game, but haven’t played in so long.
My son is apprehensive, doesn’t think he’s fast enough, doesn’t think he can compete.
With running, you realize right where you are, no illusions,
You see what you have to work with and start from there.
You put in the time and the effort and you improve, and in the end you might just surprise yourself.
That’s the way it is with life, when you truly live, with your eyes wide open, living in the real,
instead of believing, wishing for some illusion.
I’ve become a semi-permanent resident of the daydream nation, wacked out on prozac,
wishing I had been bigger, faster, smarter, more, more.
When all I really needed was just to be me.
Whatever that entails, merely to start with where I am, right where I am and nowhere else.
I want me son to learn this lesson right now, not when he’s pushing thirty-seven--
carrying too much credit, too many regrets, living in a haze of desire and disappointment,
all the coulda beens and shoulda beens piled to the ceiling in a five-room shack just north of the state college.
7.04.2006
fragment
Not too much to say,
As I bleed away my days,
Trapped in my cubicle.
Co-workers chatting,
Talking about whatever comes to mind,
Killing their time freely.
So tired of all the bitching,
Just put in your time with your mouths shut.
Only looking forward to death,
Living our lives as ghosts,
The almighty dollar strangles and chokes,
Making us lifeless drones staring into the void.
We did this to ourselves,
Now we do what we must to survive,
Buying in to the illusion.
Break free from the self-inflicted pain,
Detach ourselves from the delusion,
Open ourselves to the universe.
Time and life are sacred
Materialism devalues all,
We must free ourselves.
All moments are fleeting,
Good or bad, it too shall pass,
And we shall all go back to ashes.
As I bleed away my days,
Trapped in my cubicle.
Co-workers chatting,
Talking about whatever comes to mind,
Killing their time freely.
So tired of all the bitching,
Just put in your time with your mouths shut.
Only looking forward to death,
Living our lives as ghosts,
The almighty dollar strangles and chokes,
Making us lifeless drones staring into the void.
We did this to ourselves,
Now we do what we must to survive,
Buying in to the illusion.
Break free from the self-inflicted pain,
Detach ourselves from the delusion,
Open ourselves to the universe.
Time and life are sacred
Materialism devalues all,
We must free ourselves.
All moments are fleeting,
Good or bad, it too shall pass,
And we shall all go back to ashes.
sk8 haiku x 7
Went to the skate park,
Lil’ E sliding on his butt
Giggling, sliding.
Concrete transition,
Metal coping eight feet up
Lil’ E slides on down.
Toddler shows no fear,
Everyday is such a lark,
Laughter fills the air.
Watching bladers trick,
Says, “Cool dude!” as guy flies by,
As sun sets slowly.
“That’s an old school board,”
guy remarks as he skates by,
“Yep, sure is,” says I.
Homegirl does tailkicks,
Halfway up the transition,
I try, almost fall.
Want to ride the edge,
Grinding, sliding on the lip
I can touch the sky.
7.01.2006
these moments
Twelve hours the first day, sixteen the second,
Twelve the third, only eight on the fourth,
Sixteen on the fifth, twelve on the sixth,
And on the seventh day, I rested.
Sixteen hours on the eighth and sixteen more on the ninth.
One hundred and eight hours stuck at work—
It just works out to twelve hours a day, not really that big of a deal, right?
So why do I feel so dead tired?
So sick of seeing these same four walls,
So sick of hearing the same old droning nonsense.
I run outside for a smoke, to skate,
End up skating and smoking at the same time,
Missing ollies, hitting cracks,
saving my face at the last second by putting my hand out.
Blame it on the wind, the pebbles strewn about the lot,
Lowest bidder applied the last coat of asphalt,
Cheap and quick, the way the government likes it.
“what are you doing, learning how to skate?”
no, not really, trying to relearn, I guess.
“so you can skate with your kids?”
yeah, I suppose that’s why.
“I saw these dudes skating once, they were actually good.”
Unlike me, you’re saying . . .
“they were jumping stairs and stuff, like them guys on the movies.”
Yeah, I’m just learning.
“you skate and smoke? Don’t that defeat the purpose?”
Yep, sure does. Gotta quit.
“I’m just glad my kids don’t skate—that looks dangerous.”
I’m trying to get my son to get more comfortable on his board,
He needs to ride it more to make that happen.
Maaaaan. Why do I even bother talking to her?
She’s always got everything all figured out,
Has her own preconceived notion about whatever it is,
Why do I bother trying to answer any of her questions?
I doubt she even listens to anything I ever say,
Might as well be speaking Thai for all she cares.
I am tying to find myself, lady, will you just let it drop?
Just leave it alone—it’s got nothing to do with you o.k.?
I enjoy skating. I enjoy the punk rock muzak.
Sorry if you don’t understand.
It makes me happy, makes me feel alive.
Maybe your old man went through the same, long ago,
Discovered hitting a golf ball gives him that thrill.
Or maybe he rides his Harley on weekends,
Or sneaks off to bang his girlfriend or whatever.
I don’t look forward to coming to work and seeing any of you,
That’s not what gets me out of bed in the morning.
That’s not what lights the fire in my belly,
Not on your life, lady.
I gotta do something, gotta look forward to something,
The nine-to-five can kill you, suck the life right out of you,
Get caught in a rut, waiting for the payday,
Just to get the bloodsuckers off your back.
I gotta look forward to something, right?
The boy, Z-man, is currently at—I’m afraid to say it . . .
Band Camp.
He could’ve gone to Skate Camp, but no,
He’s at Band Camp.
Apparently, it’s a very good Band Camp,
It had better be for what grandma paid for it.
But he went with his best buddy Bart,
Ran into some old friends from his old school.
It’s a learning experience, a growing experience,
It should be alright, ten days without my Z.
Little E has been missing his big bro,
Seems real clingy, told me “I lub you daddy”,
Told me not to go to work, not to leave.
Not sure which one of us is having the hardest time,
It’s probably me, not willing to let my babies grow up.
I want to protect them, to keep an eye on them,
At all times, in all situations,
But at some point I have to let them venture out,
To experience the world and deal with it on their terms.
I still can’t believe he’s starting high school in the fall,
My little Nan is starting middle school as well.
I am getting old, aren’t I?
Where did the time go, how did it slip away so fast?
My twentieth high school reunion is next year,
Wonder if I’ll get an invite, wonder if I’ll even go.
Can’t imagine telling my classmates I have a high schooler,
Not that unusual, what was I, twenty-three when he was born?
Just a kid, the nurses thought my wife and I were teenagers,
I always looked young for my age, but we were just kids,
I thought I knew everything, didn’t know a thing.
My oldest son, on the cusp of adulthood,
Just not ready for it, want to slow it down,
So I can enjoy these moments.
But the fleeting nature of these moments—
is what makes them so special.
Twelve the third, only eight on the fourth,
Sixteen on the fifth, twelve on the sixth,
And on the seventh day, I rested.
Sixteen hours on the eighth and sixteen more on the ninth.
One hundred and eight hours stuck at work—
It just works out to twelve hours a day, not really that big of a deal, right?
So why do I feel so dead tired?
So sick of seeing these same four walls,
So sick of hearing the same old droning nonsense.
I run outside for a smoke, to skate,
End up skating and smoking at the same time,
Missing ollies, hitting cracks,
saving my face at the last second by putting my hand out.
Blame it on the wind, the pebbles strewn about the lot,
Lowest bidder applied the last coat of asphalt,
Cheap and quick, the way the government likes it.
“what are you doing, learning how to skate?”
no, not really, trying to relearn, I guess.
“so you can skate with your kids?”
yeah, I suppose that’s why.
“I saw these dudes skating once, they were actually good.”
Unlike me, you’re saying . . .
“they were jumping stairs and stuff, like them guys on the movies.”
Yeah, I’m just learning.
“you skate and smoke? Don’t that defeat the purpose?”
Yep, sure does. Gotta quit.
“I’m just glad my kids don’t skate—that looks dangerous.”
I’m trying to get my son to get more comfortable on his board,
He needs to ride it more to make that happen.
Maaaaan. Why do I even bother talking to her?
She’s always got everything all figured out,
Has her own preconceived notion about whatever it is,
Why do I bother trying to answer any of her questions?
I doubt she even listens to anything I ever say,
Might as well be speaking Thai for all she cares.
I am tying to find myself, lady, will you just let it drop?
Just leave it alone—it’s got nothing to do with you o.k.?
I enjoy skating. I enjoy the punk rock muzak.
Sorry if you don’t understand.
It makes me happy, makes me feel alive.
Maybe your old man went through the same, long ago,
Discovered hitting a golf ball gives him that thrill.
Or maybe he rides his Harley on weekends,
Or sneaks off to bang his girlfriend or whatever.
I don’t look forward to coming to work and seeing any of you,
That’s not what gets me out of bed in the morning.
That’s not what lights the fire in my belly,
Not on your life, lady.
I gotta do something, gotta look forward to something,
The nine-to-five can kill you, suck the life right out of you,
Get caught in a rut, waiting for the payday,
Just to get the bloodsuckers off your back.
I gotta look forward to something, right?
The boy, Z-man, is currently at—I’m afraid to say it . . .
Band Camp.
He could’ve gone to Skate Camp, but no,
He’s at Band Camp.
Apparently, it’s a very good Band Camp,
It had better be for what grandma paid for it.
But he went with his best buddy Bart,
Ran into some old friends from his old school.
It’s a learning experience, a growing experience,
It should be alright, ten days without my Z.
Little E has been missing his big bro,
Seems real clingy, told me “I lub you daddy”,
Told me not to go to work, not to leave.
Not sure which one of us is having the hardest time,
It’s probably me, not willing to let my babies grow up.
I want to protect them, to keep an eye on them,
At all times, in all situations,
But at some point I have to let them venture out,
To experience the world and deal with it on their terms.
I still can’t believe he’s starting high school in the fall,
My little Nan is starting middle school as well.
I am getting old, aren’t I?
Where did the time go, how did it slip away so fast?
My twentieth high school reunion is next year,
Wonder if I’ll get an invite, wonder if I’ll even go.
Can’t imagine telling my classmates I have a high schooler,
Not that unusual, what was I, twenty-three when he was born?
Just a kid, the nurses thought my wife and I were teenagers,
I always looked young for my age, but we were just kids,
I thought I knew everything, didn’t know a thing.
My oldest son, on the cusp of adulthood,
Just not ready for it, want to slow it down,
So I can enjoy these moments.
But the fleeting nature of these moments—
is what makes them so special.
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