writing sessions

1.
she comes into the front counter: “I’m about to kill myself. can you make it so I don’t?!” real pushy woman. she’s got her messed up Microsoft Publisher document, and she’s all frazzled – continues to ask me if I’m going to save her life.

imaginary: woman, get this. are you going to save mine? it’s been a long day, and probably a good one to die. I doubt you wanna place your life in my hands. I’d sooner drop it to the floor to reach for some Kleenex. I don’t understand people like you. you wait last minute and come in all in a panicked and expect us to deal with it. you rich and well off sure like to dump a lot of trash! why are you bringing that to me?

2.
I shift from room to room, wash dishes, pick up a few things. I guess I’m waiting for day to start. lazy sunday is making me lazy and I feel like I don’t have a thing on earth to write – which is killing me. of course this is momentary, and as I watch this paragraph form before my eyes, I start to feel better. ’twas a rough week last week. just stressed out and all kinds of things going wrong. it was good after all of that to sit down in meditation yesterday and let everything just fade away, or for my mind’s grasping to slacken up a bit.

I don’t know, it is boring around here, or I am boring. it could be either one. at least the sun is out. come winter, these are the kinds of days we kill for when we get cabin fever and can only take walks for ten minutes at a time.

dream worlds and memories are vast. some come back to haunt; especially haunt when sense cannot be made and there is information overload. my head is blank this morning, but I feel I’ve pushed something down into my subconscious which I chose not to face and I’m feeling hints of it. ghosts. it could just be that I’ve procrastinated studying all weekend and I have much work ahead of me which I find intimidating.

it is strange in this town living here with virtually no close friends, practically no one to talk to on a serious level. the people I work with are like children and can’t even do their own jobs adequately, what to speak of speak dreams and ghosts and authors and verses.

3.
writers I now feel far away from, Henry Miller, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, James Baldwin, SDG, Thoreau… this woman sat in my office and told me this thing I’m in is fast becoming rote, and I agreed with her. “not satisfying you deep down.” you’re right, you’re right. I guess we all have our highs and lows. these are low times kinds that add lines. these writers I hold so high in my mind to predict weather deep down disappointments with people and this world. if I don’t work it right I may never hold Brothers Karamazov in my hands again, or Crime and Punishment, any of it. how much went over my head in Tropic of Cancer (was he in his when he wrote it?)!

4.
notes to
shake you till
your kafka mirrors
rattle
and we
bring back
halloween
to full esteem
let us get
things
in proper
running
order again

5.
2 cats making me laugh
headache causing lapse
eyes closed inducing naps
soothe saying
tooth and the roof
of your mouth saying crap
and the lies of your eyes say it all
running laps
high blood pressure inviting collapse

6.
blood tides rise high
what does this bring you
“I’m gonna tell on you”
little kids
book wish lists
beat poems
beat street, king of the beat
beat downs
haul off slug fests
summer music fests
midsummer’s dream
letting off steam

7.
come on
sat as a statue man
stomach rumbles
that is stone cracking
the audience laughing
the audience going home
throwing garbage, they
actually brought tomatoes with them
these are people
who love their groceries
but hate those who try
come on one just one of you
try and get up on stage and see
what it’s like, you’d rather die

8.
all saturday requirements
have been met
yours?
I’m writing and
it don’t matter what
he says so much
that he trusts his gut
we see so much
this guy
doesn’t know
what the hell he’s doing
can’t even remember
people’s names right
or anything when these
things are quite important
so this frustrates us but
there is nothing that
can be said but to turn
the blame back around on
him in the end: now is that right?

9.
rumbles, rubbles, barney rubbles, many of them, troubles, so many troubles, doctor said back of my throat looks like a cobble stoned street. you’ve seen old city streets, haven’t you? yes, I’m from Georgetown, and I get sore throats.

10.
back hurts, too. believe it blue. hello on this postcard, you get me standing here in this picture washing windows. it is important not to run out of gas and to see straight. bug guts be gone. rule 2: don’t fight in the car, especially on road trips. do not be one of those bad mood drivers. rule 3: know where you are going so that you don’t have to look down constantly at crumpled directions and wreck your shit up into crumpled tin-foil. rules, so many rules to drive to. better turn on music, too.

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