The "Yes We Can"

It’s tempting to be cynical,

knowing history can make you that way because history focuses mainly on the dramatic, the eventful. Not the positive steady growth but the incident, the assassination, the war, the corruption and oppression –and the downfall (praised by some as the beginning of a new chapter, a light, but for most suffering)

A new light:

Barack Hussein Obama told us not to be afraid, to loom forward with pride –and hope. To be the change you want to see. Are they just words?

A cynic would say “Of course.”

But aren’t they the words you want to hear? Aren’t they the words you want from the leader? Arent they what we all say we have been waiting for?

What more do we ask? (A leader who inspires hope)

Our cynicism, our skeptical brains should keep us challenging, using our anger to ensure the better –in ourselves, our friends and family, our society and our leaders.

IT SHOULD NOT

Keep us from being the change we believe in, or mocking the voice we want to hear, or sitting in doubt on the sidelines while at the very least marginal change occurs.

-Will anything be different?

I worry about climate change. The disruption of food and water, the medicine held back by patent laws and greed (though funded with our tax dollars).

I worry about the year of tax burden every single one of us owes on our deficit. The handouts to the rich who claim a single mother is a burden to our society while they waste a grand on shoes or a purse.

I worry about starvation –the ever present threat of war and the billion who see it in their day to day lives.

-but “Will anything be different?” (It’s about time we find out)

I mean if every cell phone at the mall has a camera and the capability to call that starving child a half a world away, then we should be able to ship him some food, or open our borders.

If every Sarah America can be the next best seller at the book store, then we will soon hear the voices of the disenfranchised, and then, when we recognize them as our neighbors, our family…

We wont fence them off or imprison them… we’ll sing together.

My satellite dish and cable TV sends me information about the customs of a people I never knew existed

-their history is now caught up in mine. How can I resist them?

Now even the poor can be educated – “will anything be different?.... oh man it already is.

Our voices stream together at high speeds on the internet and even though the Big Stone Coal Power Plant provides the energy the plans for 1000 homemade solar panels and wind turbines are its legacy.

Do we throw it all down on technology? NO

We invest in each other. We invest responsibly in ourselves, you and me, not Mr CEO of GM or GE

And then we raise our cyncical voices to oppose the injustice

And when we raise our songs for praise

What a world we’d realize we live in

What a world we’d be able to create.

Open Mics (fall 2008)

I see a gih-tar
A geetar
A guitar

A STARE,

I see people reaching out –asking for someone to care
I CARE!
About you
Waking up each morning wondering
“What’s the point?”

-wonder why the next step is reaching out for that joint
THIS JOINT
Offers inspiration
Colorful paintings
Black curtains
Old brick walls!

And just enough lighting

That you can Share or Stare
Hide or disrobe

Lets just all forget about the ethical codes
Lets embrace
Humanity
sharing a smile and a hug

like the baristas who greet you
tempting you to fall in love.
OH!
Isn’t an open mic at a coffee shop
Such a wonderful drug?

Musica

I absolutely love it when a piece of music moves me. tears at me, makes me shed a few, makes me convulse, makes my heart pulse, makes my knees shake, makes my shoulders ache, urges me to participate, stretched bare to the invisible sky, asking God why, in my mind's eye, I could be so blessed to experience bliss, for just one moment like this, how my blood surges how my spirit urges to connect forever this way, so bound and so free, solitary yet connected to thee, with color and spirit, with energy movement with compassion and passion, unsure what is real, what is dream, and if this is true it would seem that I'm in love again and wishing this song would never end.

Eulogy for Uncle Chris (oct 2008)

Uncle,
At the news of death
women ought to be screaming and crying, rubbing your body for the traces of warmth that slip away... who cares about colors and funeral arrangements... who cares at all? The hero has moved on… Men, tightly holding themselves back, only to embrace in the strongest hugs that whisper "Please don't let go right now! My strength is gone, I have no will and no pride left..."
Words unsaid, the gleam off an eye, the strain of the voice, the voiceless. The senselessness.

As the arrangements are made
Even the timid should want the best. The gold and silver, the flowers and prayers. He shall be wrapped in silks and laid out on a hand carved wooden bed. The flame or dirt will take him as we sing of his glory. Sing how things won't ever be the same again, the clouds seem darker, the trees so rigid, the mountains so much more intimidating.

At the mourning
the dark should infiltrate the eyes and skin of those you leave behind, their sadness so deep and intense that no cheek is un-wet, their hair shed, their heart burst, they should fall all over themselves with despair.

At the celebration
they should speak in weeps loud and unfiltered of your beauty, with smiles that tremble, the emotions so thick with the warmth you have shed that the room of gathered still feel wrapped in your presence, the sheltered, the secured. They beam and sparkle having known you, having experienced your wild, your steadfastness, your strength, your strength, your strength that is now lost to them.
And the many who were touched should tell stories till the morning,
dance and drink like their movement alone, was the radiance of the moon.
They should leave still feeling the loss though with renewed -
with a spirit like yours, heartily joking, greeting the dawn with hope for the better.
Oh uncle,
where is your grand funeral march?

Might As Well Have Been A Dream He Thought (Sept 2008)

I don't even need the answers to the questions I pose
I find them in the prose you wrote in my dreams.

Each message not so clear and concise
but I dream through the night,

and then I think all day
to decode what you have said.

Is it any wonder I wake up depressed,
but in hearing from you, prefer my bed?

My day (RYW creative writing topic) unfinished sept 2008

When I wake up in the morning I am rarely thinking about the adventure and excitement of school, usually it’s more like “oh my god what is that damnable racket” even though it’s just some radio buzz or the beeping of an alarm. I hear demons screeching. Maybe the terrible noise is because just seconds before I was enjoying paradise, a good conversation, an adventure, a life that is not my own but feels so natural. Regardless, I soon come to my senses and wake to check e mails. The cat is impatient for food but I am rarely in line with her wanting. A shower seems to be the most important point on the agenda followed by teeth brushing and a scramble out the door with a handful of books and a mouth full of gum. My room is left in shambles for my return home. My car looks equally distraught with a dozen empty plastic bottles and trash on the floor. I zoom off in search of sustenance though I am not often hungry. Breuggers, Maccies the gas station, provide what my kitchen can’t , something relatively tasty. I am often the first person on the scene at school, so I blast punk, hip hop or bluegrass and rock out in my car. Bypassers must assume madness. Check in’s and greetings, copying packets and readings, cartoons and quotes to tantalize or more often bore the pants off young scholars. I overdo my enthusiasm because most bring none. I clown because school is fun and funny if you allow it to be. Classes are a dance, but a dance with improvised steps, so if your beat or rhythm is off you and the students are left wanting. I am a huge critic but I don’t know what they see and my forgiving nature makes them angels and mistakes and miscalculations my own fault.

"last school year" (RYW creative writing topic) sept 2008

A sudden jump into the professional
I confess
school last year meant hands up
a crowd of students wanting.
Not necessarily knowledge
but something satisfying
entertainment
(am I a comedian?)
reassurance
(a counselor?)
a connection
a conduit
through eyes I see a hundred voices ready to project but without verse
so they shout and curse
cuz the system feels corrupt
and they aint go the power yet,
yet I got ears that listen well,
yet I got hands that can give tools,
yet I got experience that defies years
I got the will to bring people together

"the teacher stands in front of the class with a lesson plan he can't recall"

but he knows not everything learned in youth is presented between school walls
-so he starts a conversation...

avocado/sports (RYW creative writing topic) sept 2008

Sports/Avocados
No one had ever seen anything so ridiculous. The enormous football players armored with shoulder and chest pads. Having trained for 14/15 weeks of summer, doing arm curls, leg curls, side curls, neck curls and that one guy with the long hair doing hair curls, sprints, killers, bow flex, arm wrestling, swimming, cross country, skiing (on feet) hell they were doing bench pressed with old ladies on a park bench- these guys were tough as tough could be and now –so angrily they were charging at each other with the fury, lines of them faced off on either side with a glare in their eyes, with teeth clenched, with muscles flexed, they charged like rams, like bulls, like furry goateed mountain goats, these bison, these elephants, braced to run right through each other. But they didn’t.
They met like the big bang that caused the universe, they met like wrecking balls against a mountain, they met with such explosive force that the avocados taped to their chests smashed together without remorse and when the ridiculous spectacle was done, the behemoths fell to the ground now covered in green delicious goo, and the crowd rushed to the field with bags of chips and each person took a scoop.

Avocado
A voc ado (doo)
I say to you
Stay silly and true
Don’t ask for the face lift.

A vo ca do (dough)
So rare to hear no
When adults are so
Petty and straight laced.

A voca do (dow)
So embraced by the now
That even footballers say wow
As they crush to make chip dip.

Avocados

California is where Avocados come from. But soon it will be desert again. Will the locals plant dates in the oasis and add spices? Will spiritual couch surfers add cayenne to apples grown in Canada? Will young writers question all the youth who have never tasted such fruit? Ambrosia, the food of the Gods will be green and rare and this time it won’t cause hallucinations.

"The Ultimate Showdown/Satan" (RYW creative writing topic) sept 2008

One could argue that Satan would be part of the Ultimate Showdown and perhaps his influence is felt, but I lay out for thee a hypothesis that the Ultimate Showdown would be between God and Itself.
Perhaps they be partners split into halves like some sort of cantaloupe, one gutted then trashed, and she gets no praise anymore, though all adore her. Forgotten is her name thus people call her partner lord. And if they had a son, whether his name was Jesus or not, did his father forsake him and leave him to rot? Did he spend time honoring his duties then suddenly forget the promises he had made to let us come to him?
There’s a battle in my mind between goodness and doubt and somewhere in-between lies humility and beyond that pride and control and I’d like to be absolved of all this commotion, but the argument is the same for Gods with devotion, -Am I honest with myself? Let you come to me, faithful and blessed, through me God’s caress. Or am I faithful to you, proud and true, let you fall and be taken,
Ripped, beaten,
Shred dignity , allow the path to
Be repeated,
You cry and crawl further
Bleed shiver,
Doubt overtaken,
Split back to the beginning still trashed like that half fruit,
Calling him back to you, submerged in humility,
I’d learn realistically that you been tapping
My shoulder
For all of history, trying to remind me that you have been here the whole time.
I’d turned and you’d waited,
Like a mother, watching me learning
A lover, quietly yearning to be,
To be embraced again.

Life Right Now (RYW journal) Sept 2008

Life?
Life is beuno though I,
Spend time tired and still
wanting, and I,
spend days preparing
and visiting, I
wish to connect and see
further with eyes that
can tell tired from bored
hurt from frustration
intentions from what happens
reflections that increase learning.
My love life, now that is the biggest source of disappointment
and that,
says a lot about the blessings.

Paths We've Taken (August 2008)

You spent the night at home sinking deeper into despair,
where soon the hospital would meet you.
While me and Collin strolled in the moonlit night
along the Vistula
I remember admiring the expanse, the far bank
seemed a harbor distant.
And we joked about dogs being carried away in those rushing waters
Never to be heard of
-and silently wondered about our own sad and solitary existence.

In this city (rebuilt to withstand another storming army).
Thousands had perished
And you thought you’d join them
But me and Mr. Sleeper
Sat discussing the definition of cheating and whether or not it included kissing (his own indiscretion)
Polish Girls, Catholic
and beautiful,
He ate baklava and surrendered to its sweetness.
While I tried to imagine a world in which Kissing, came so easily.

It was that night, I
Saw a street performer send forth flames like a dragon,
Admired the spectacle
of glowing faces in the crowd.
Around that time you were probably growing weaker, slowly fading
Puking the color from your skin strength from your bones,
the life from your breath,
-if only we’d known then the importance of fire breaths,
we might have sparked those flames for life.

Not what you think (august 2007)

Not what you think

Its not always the big things:

Impatience and frustration builds as my 8 year old son helps the waitress clean up the mess I spilled when the pain suddenly shot through the numbness –and I sit here helpless, while those seated at near by tables give sympathetic but not understanding looks in our direction.

And when I meet their eyes like a man, they turn away.

Its not always the obvious things:

Its not the lack of ramp that’s the trouble, it’s the sticky uneven floor. Its being confined to one floor of my own house when the master bedroom is upstairs. Its trying to dance at a wedding with my wife who sits there patiently eying the other husbands

-leaves me shaken, wondering why she stayed.

Its not the visible things:

Its hour after hour of rehabilitation never sure if it will amount to anything, trying to keep up hope that one day… waiting for insurance and VA checks to come through while I’m nervous about the house payment, oh hell –the kids fall school clothes. Spending an hour in the shower, only to slip on a steel rail, unable to help myself up again. Sometimes my prescriptions don’t show up on time, sometimes they don’t work anyway.

Its not always the easy sacrifice:

When you can’t stand during the ovation at your kid’s play, or show him how to slide in to home. –model, how patriots stand for the flag, or why he should believe in service to this nation. He sees the sacrifice he already gave, questions why, and fills with rage when he sees his daddy ain’t got legs.

*******I wrote this a long time ago, I'm pretty sure I posted it on the other blog... Here is a picture that goes with it.**********

A Walk to Remember (august 2008)

Remember that time through the rich man’s lands, the fresh grass of night, the birds squawking. We were so sure about that spirit of vengeance. That was ages ago but the moon glow on your face still looks the same. If I reminded you of our shared secrets… would you remind me your name?

ryw freewrite (July 2008)

Sometimes I write out the lyrics to songs, the lines of a poem so that can see their rhythmic structure. That underlying skeleton, and maybe when I read and listen at the same time… I can see what’s in the crawlspace what braces the embraces of the words and their meaning.

I wish I could do that with this heart song, pounding behind my chest plate, whispers in the alleyway of my decaying brain. These are rumors in the hallway,
but what exactly does that song say?

It speaks in poetics for a time about the sense of communion between two lovers turned best friends, shared thoughts unspoken, eased fears with meaningful glances, cut tension in the air with a hug or a handshake.

Sometimes the feelings go unmentioned because the heart aches, but mistakes don’t create earthquakes so fear was not in the driver’s seat, just steady percussive heart beats. Partnership, companions, composed to fill in the gaps when one of us didn’t feel complete, because the other would never abandon.

It’s not just about the words, but the melody and unlike some cheesy pop song that loses its meaning this song, sends me screaming out the choruses.
A hook that you hope repeats again and again.

But there is a B verse, No fuck that a Z verse. Its ride sounds chaotic, lyrics are fast and unintelligible, distorted yelling in curse words, no caring, hoarse voice and screaming and that part leaves you terrified, for lack of something better. Leaves me heartbroken and beaten. Makes me question if God is listening and if so HOW DARE HE….
treat us so.
This is the sound of Battle, No glory.
This is the sound of parents crying for their baby soldiers to come home,
long nights anxiously thinking.
This is the sound of momentary eviction.
This is the sound of not having life saving prescriptions.
This is the sound of one man, too scared to scream, too hurt to hug, too betrayed
to BE anything.
This is NOT the song’s end.

Dissonance gives way to breathing, like a heart monitor beeping, steady beats start repeating.
This is the bottom but wait for the buildup, here comes the rhythm that forces your feet up.
Tapping toes, tired but they know how it goes,
legs start shaking and that’s where the pros hit you hard with a new verse unsaid yet, like maybe the cold rain brought in a new day, like maybe the mushy ripeness is really the sweet part, maybe the rainbow is heightened by gray, and maybe the dry wind prepares you to sing, so maybe it’s time we do up that chorus again.



***********this is the second draft so I would say its possibly unfinished but knowing me I wont return to it*********

RYW writings (july 2008)

*******Several days a week I teach a 30 minute class called "Righting Your Writing" which is bad because I have terrible grammar, but its a wonderful time to connect with the students. Anyway... since I hate grammar exercises as much as the students do, what I am hoping to do is have them just practice writing a lot so that they start to improve on their own without someone picking a part every little sentence. (sort of like how in college your papers naturally improve even if u put less work into them). Anyway... sometimes I join the students in the writing exercises... here are some of them. I will probably update these occasionally under the title RYW*********

1) write about a boat or boat ride.

Boat Ride

The first thought to hit me is always the smell of the sea. Even when its light and breezy out, ocean water smells heavy. Weighted down with millions of tons of salt, and that gentle salt breeze assaults the senses. For someone like me, who grew up in the middle of the continent, the salted sea brings about a feeling of difference. Not good or bad, sometimes it makes me feel adventurous like an early immigrant to this land who waves goodbye to everything they know in search of something better(?)

Adventure. I’ve stood on the beaches of three oceans. Each place with different sand, but the same breaking waves the same smell of sea. Entering onto a boat is the same as playing on a plastic raft in the pool as a child. A game of balance, slight unease, but when you right yourself on something floating –and it doesn’t immediately throw you off or plummet to the ocean floor –THAT is ACCOMPLISHMENT. Ancient people must have felt the God’s blessings when they first stepped onto fishing boats. Must have sent thrills through them, and the courage to go forth and conquer the planet.

Boats always seem more dirty than I expect. Its slow rust decay and grime in the cracks, when panels of metal , plastic or wood meet.. (The salted sea has taken its toll on the science of man.) A reminder that, some storm may tear her frame, with little guilt or pride. Survivors will drift for days on the tides, each tickle at their toes sending shockwaves of dread through their bones for the terrible deep.

Ship people feel secure on boats. Feel in tune with the back and forth rocking like a cradle even when the teeter totter seems like it will break, they keep their balance. Minnesota boys know no such waves, so we stumble back and forth pushing off walls that seem to offer no security… back and forth stumbling and then when you find you sea legs it’s because your destination is approaching and this decaying ship had met no storm or early death… just a day trip and return to a calm and waiting harbor.

2) Write about sleep/dreams

At night my mind is tempted

I lay in bed, thoughts in my head

R E L A X -can’t relax

But I need to practice…. My dreaming

My mind schemes

-leap from your bed and splash crimson and blue across some paper!

-have you spent time in prayer lately?

-have you: responded to letters, for okay or better, read stories, proclaimed the glory,

have you practiced your praise?

So I pray to spirits then recap the day…

Rushed thoughts of mistakes

Misguided attempts at humor…

Mixed feelings of guilt superseded by doubt, but blessed and rehashed as learning…

I learn from my mistakes.

I choose, to learn from my mistakes.

R E L A X

“go to sleep now.” My mind says frimly, “you’ve processed enough and its already 4:30 AM…”

But then slowly

The minutes creep by again and again

My eyes closed but quick thoughts propose

plans for tomorrow.


3) Write about Today

There is this really warm sleep feeling that keeps coming over me, like when your alarm goes off and you hit snooze and just relax back into your blankets. It’s funny how I never want to go to sleep but never want to wake up either.

There is something about living in the present that brings about that warm feeling as well, but I always feel like I’m faking it. Like my head is too filled up with thoughts spilling that I don’t find the present all that fulfilling.

Yesterday in Yoga,

My heart seemed heavy, my breathing was not fluid rhythmic smooth. Not comfortable. It was a zebra chased by a lion. It was two tons of sumo wrestler forcing me from the ring and my muscles collapsed by the impact. It made me feel weak, but that’s the ego speaking. How does one get out of their head and into the present if their lungs are caving and limbs shaking?

Maybe that is the present.

sex senses (june 2008)

I was gonna ask why my heart heartedly pumps..

for smells that turn faces,

sweet scents of shit and sex intertwined to infiltrate me,

honey dripped, sweat and filth,

syrup heavy,

humidity in the air, dirt and sticky

smooth and silky to skin like mud,

trudge so guilt-ed grudgingly through that muck,

stretch to reach those hands that pluck, that fruit so fair, so fresh, so fuck

so fantasies are filled with slurping, slick lick tongue firm guided through flesh,

coated fully,

liquid salted lovely,

embracing humanities touch,

devils or dios excited with raunch.

Explicit remembering, erotic entrenched,

finger tips tracing,

sex fog sniff, lips reach, tongue breach

oil skin gleam, hearts, lungs, diaphragm pulse breath, scream

unable to keep up with the excitement,

muscles contract,

heaven blessed tantric enlightenment.

something angsty (june 2008)

My sugar level is dropping rapidly.
Reminds me of the sky today.
Reminds me of the casual way you spit fire,
half thrust and half shield, as if uncertain of the venom you wield,
as If expecting some reproach of it.

Times like this I see the shakiness of limbs
The droop and stretch,
Feel exhausted from catching it all
Atrophy on a massive scale, somehow allows the fat to succumb so I’m not perceived as frail
But inside this large mammal, a broken creature.

My dreams are escaping
Both in memory and in reach
And it seems sometimes that time is leeching it from me.
The parasite that once promised freedom we’d receive, now demands us to achieve,
With such little time left.

observations at a coffee shop (may 2008)

Impatient would be Buddha seeks wisdom from the sweater-ed elder who goes on with his story despite the eager pushing of his listener. The elder’s white hair tied back, glasses in hand, displays treasured writings as he continues the story at a gentle pace. Crosslegged, Impatient Buddha, thin and swamped in a button down, leans forward, bearded chin in hand and jabs small assurances in youthful vocabulary “sweet, cool, awesome” and thinks up another question to ask the elder. The cranky artist, old, disdainful face seeks new experiences to prattle onto paper, his pen strokes straight, his wrinkles ragged. He contemplates existence, but not the big picture, simply Why is there a chair there? stares intently at each person Are you my creation? Will you be my salvation? Young Buddha gives up the pose attempts to impart gained knowledge to fortify the elders history, See what I know? As he relaxes in his confidence. The artist finally walks out for a smoke after turning the cigarette in his steady hands for an hour, perhaps waiting for a sign that came, just then.

Two cell phones command their owners Play with me! They call on them. One the businessman the worker intrigued by all the knowledge he surfs despite his labor, he turns his back from the window, and from the briefcase to the plugged in laptop that offers him amazement, engagement in online communities, posts to profiles, erases, reposts, he’s in that world, adulterous to his responsibilities, but just then the pulse hits straight into his brain, reminds him of his heart’s home, calls her on the phone, braces her with the news that the storm is on its way. She’s glad to hear from him but sends him on his way with muffled phone kisses. He puts the phone down and surfs away.

((((((Well crap I wasn't prepared for demands... Um I haven't really been writing anything lately.. well not of any substance. And I have tons of crap poetry that is literally labeled "crap-_____" with the title but rather than that... this is just something I was free writing while at a coffee shop yesterday. If I had continued writing, it would have described about 5 more people.... but I was interrupted by a friend. I told her as she sat down that I had decided everyone in the room was the same person at different stages in life. So eventually the 7-10 people I wrote about would start revealing themselves to be the same person in some way. anyway. thats that)))))))))

??? (april 2008)

She reacts to his wasp stings by tightening and turning over, doesn’t say much but projects her desire that he keep his lips where they came from, leaving him agape with three options. He could overpower her, pressure or ponder her motives, and he chooses the latter, contemplating her reactions. This woman who shares a bed with him but never bares any more. And he mimics her turning, facing the other direction, projecting with just enough flare that he might cause her some despair, but she doesn’t come calling. Both silently crying, their bodies on that bed, like two heavy fortresses separated by an empty field. A heart torn at the middle so that the skin peeled back.

(((((I cant think of a title)))))

God wins over the crowd (we like cliches ) April 2008

God was at his drum set again tonight. I was driving when I first heard the soft splat, he never counts with the sticks, he never plays for the crowd, it’s a soft spat on high hats, 1, 2 then combat. Headed in quick with the 16^th time, drivers weren’t ready for it, saw them swerve from line to line. But that’s no crime, and anyway he leveled off. That’s God after-all comes in strong -then he’s gone, just so that the cynics scoff. Let em deal with it, the snare drum softly rattles, calling out the solo’s battle. Just like that it’s a soldier’s stomping, snare drum march with toms a bomping. Funny how one learns to like it, repetitive it sounds so nice, I heard he once played “wipe out” like that for 40 days and 40 nights. I’d imagine even god on a snare solo gets real old though, So though it frightens he sometimes heightens with the set and gets bold. Its that double bass Crash that thunderclap that sets the audience a screaming. I think that’s where people lose themselves and start to wonder what God is meaning. I saw her earlier, lady earth, she was dry mouthed with anticipation, she’d been yearning for that steady beat, spirit refreshed by the creative rhythm. Now she danced intoxicated over run with music he created, and her moistened lips began to spit the choruses but she didn’t know the verses,

so she just whistled -as if cheering him on.

((((((yeah sometimes i talk to myself when im driving))))