Snow has hit our little town in the middle of the night. First time in a while we’ve been kept indoors all day like this. Reading. Sleeping. Dinner. TV.


Reading, Writing

These days I’m reading The Wisdom of No Escape by Pema Chodron, and Alan Moore’s Watchmen. Perhaps it’s a strange combination, but for some reason it feels perfectly natural to me. I have started to write a little booklet for Matthew’s collective, but somewhere along the line have become stumped. Much of what I’m writing these days, I reread a few days later and want to throw out. I suppose I haven’t been all that well on several levels and my writing has suffered from it; I feel disconnected. The words don’t come easy. Yet I’ve overcome this before. A big part of me expects it to repair, as if a sort of writer’s immune system at work here, fighting away.


Just got a letter today from the state saying the unemployment has come to an end and that I can reapply. I’m sitting here freaking out, worried that they might not give me anything else. What worries me is my situation, this small town with very little opportunity, and being that my wife graduates soon andwe’ll be moving anyway, that makes it extra difficult. Looks like I’ll soon be jumping back into some grueling work just to survive week to week. Pretty terrifying.

Cats of all sizes

My friends across the hall have this cat, Foss, who is black and big and fluffy, the fluffiest you have ever seen. Next to our cats, he is incredibly quiet and well behaved. We can barely hear him over there. Some days when we can hear our friends rustling around in the kitchen, we will mimic Foss’s meowing, and they go: “Is that Foss?” This, of course, makes us to laugh like hyenas. Finally they realize it’s us over here being silly. Our kitten swipes a small paw through the underside at the little enemy (who is just a big baby when you think about it). Hurray for the little heads! The meek shall purr and purr and inherit the earth.


Curious thoughts about all kinds of things this evening. What can be grabbed out of the air? For example, when a person recalls an event out of their past they often look up as if into the sky, towards their left. Recently I read in order to more easily access intuitive knowing, you should focus your thoughts/attention at the top of your head. I wonder just how these are connected. Days after a friend and I discuss various concepts of collective consciousness, a radio show hits me with the akashic records, reminding me, redirecting my attention on them.

I can lie sick in bed and be transported to strange realms. Is any of it akashic? Are UFOs involved at all? Who are you to say what is deserving of investigation? I say the connections are astounding if you contemplate that. Contemplate something and see how light falls on it and you’re pulled closer.

When I try to sit and write poetry only garbage comes out. Someone says, “You should write a poem about that.” I realize I don’t write poetry but merely write something and see that it might have some potential. 45 minutes later I’ve got something, I’ve stamped the official seal on its delicate little head.

My spell checker wants to switch akashic to aquatic. Should I let it? Then the whole meaning changes—aquatic records. It is not possible after a long day of being sick, to wake up under water. What kind of nonsense is that? More clearly, I wake up and flip through TV channels. Dr. Phil wants the couples to rediscover each other, especially since this is Valentines Day, and Oprah goes on about weight loss. Drink water instead. Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying.

31 becomes 32. “Do you feel 32?” someone might ask (if anyone were around). I don’t know what I feel like. I haven’t been writing very much and things are all just turned upside down. I think I woke up underwater and I’ve been drowning ever since. Instead of reading the newspaper I’m reading the aquatic records. The racism and intolerance is just as bad down here as it is up there. We are nearly clearing humanity, wiping the slate clean with talks of nuclear war and threats of nuclear war, rumors and wrist rockets, and domestic disputes that dominate higher potentials, and so on. Someone please hook me up with these records, the akashic ones, give me a fake I.D. or something. Tell me just what I need to hear at just the right time.

faux tributes

This Sunday we visited the family, somewhat smoothly, but we had a laugh at the new decorations–which are ridiculous and have become increasingly offensive. Now it’s an American Indian tribute, Freed Spirit, internet inspired, a mural on the wall facing the dining room: “because we think it’s cute.” The place has turned into a serious yard sale from my mom’s continuous accumulation of junk by the truckloads. Shame, shame on the family name. Nothing else to do now but put the headdress on.

they say a lot of things

our small
paper lamp
is on and
dimly lighting
the room
nearing 2am
me being
the only one
awake enough
to write
a few
words down
about this
in the darkness
travel journals
the quiet
peeping the
cats as they’re
curled up
rehashing a
strange day
in memory

sometimes it’s
like the plane
is gonna
it doesn’t

you spend that
time preparing
for your death
but then
have to go
on almost
as if you’re

now they declare
the next dud apocalypse
in the year 2012
time will
collapse in
on itself
they say
they say
a lot
of things

sometimes anger is
like being
trapped on
a sun planet
you’re on fire
and surrounded
by fire and all you
wanna do is run
from it but the
is on fire

then it
goes away

you bring
the coziness
into the mouth of the room
the subtlety of
the blobs waiting
to become

in discomfort
try to
police everything
absolutism in
devouring gusts
collapsing houses
via mud slides