100% Organic

I saw a hobo in your shirt
no doubt the one I gave to you
punk band logo caked in dirt
tattered threads a fading blue

Isn't it like you to be so selfless
giving up memories to those in need
dispatching things from when we were us
nipping the bud before hearts bleed

Still I thought of the shop we almost started
Rebel Wool: Clothing For Black Sheep
the idea died when we departed
but the ideals still tease me in my sleep

An organic store stitched together with love
is a dream I still wish to live
So perhaps with help from above
we'll get a second chance; learn to forgive

We could be partners in this vocation
or rebuild ourselves from that foundation.

Status Quo

Wake up, Read RVA,
Sit on the crapper,
Start the day,
Coffee, Tobacco,
Itunes play,
Fold some shirts,
Take a shower,
Off to work,
Track the hours,
Run home,
Race to show,
Drink foam,
Find new low,
Puke, Rinse, Repeat.

Ten Dollars From The Edge

Today starts with an appraisal of my current rations. After a depressingly short head count I find myself with 11 packages of beef Ramen, 1/2 pound of coffee, one loaf of sandwich bread, 3/4 of a jar of JIF extra-crunchy, 1-1/2 boxes of pasta noodles (assorted), 3/4 of a jar of pasta sauce, 1/4 of a tank of 87 octane unleaded petrol (10% ethanol), and ten dollars in the ol' bank account.

You see, most people thrive in financial security. It feels safe and allows the comfort to freely function. I, however, enjoy week 3+. Week 3+ is the period following two weeks notice at a job. How resourceful can you get to stretch the last minimum wage paycheck? It's exciting never knowing where the food and money will come from next. It's exciting to see where you will find joy and comfort when you absolutely cannot use money to find it.

I'm ten dollars from the edge and I've never been happier.

Not Too Helpful

Picture this. You're in a cramped, over-packed car in the middle of the night heading for the beach when your roommate asks you to help him with a writing exercise for class. Something to do with his experiences and beliefs about 19 years of formal education. You're tired and hot and not about to receive any compensation for your contributions. What do you write? Here was my answer.

"What is learning? The accruement of knowledge? The experiences of our pitiful days on this earth? Perhaps, but that is only part of the equation. For one to be a truly enlightened individual, you need to share your experiences with others. Knowledge, self-contained, is selfish, wasted, you must unleash your learning on the world like a rottweiler. Then that rottweiler of knowledge will take on the bear that is this world, and only one will survive the cage match, but if knowledge prevails, it will take a doggy dump that will fertilize the flower of change."

I know I'm not a very useful resource for academic endeavors but you get what you pay for.

P.S. In retrospect I feel that I would not have used the cage match metaphor if i hadn't been living in Richmond, Virginia during the Micheal Vick trial. Sad.

6 word memoirs

I have been asked twice in my life to write a story in six words. This is the one I like for personal reasons, perhaps you have one.

Longing for direction, I sought none.

Missed Connections

On my morning walk I feel lyrical

and I leer at girls, out on the street.

Hoping that our eyes will meet

so that she will chance a glance through these portals,

to see that I am no mere mortal.

I will take her where she’s never been,

to a passion unreached with other men.

That is the truth I hold to be true,

but she will never try something new,

because random looks between strangers

are taught to us to hide dire danger,

and not my brand of sultry reflection

that is meant for more than a “missed connection”.

But, this is how we communicate,

through anonymous dispatches of love and hate

where I must resign myself to this

one pendulous

electronic kiss.

(Yes, I did actually write this and I am aware that it appeared on the Richmond, Va Missed Connections. I did, after all, post it there myself.)

Rough Draft

I wrote this for a poetry slam. Not that I plan on going to one or know of any. So, really, this is just what happens when I'm bored and alone with a pen and some bourbon.

Baby, when we are long gone and nothing is left but roaches.

Will our house’s collapse in the forest make a sound?

I hope not, we’ve disturbed this earth too much!

In fact, I hope a bear shits right where we used to fuck.

You know, in that sunny, southeast corner

only 8 feet and a wall from my truck.

And I hope the pickup is a home for rattlesnakes.

It just seems fitting.

I hope that the oil is gone from the lakes.

I want it to be as beautiful as it was!

Like that view we paid for

before they built that other house in front of the window.

A house that looked just like ours.

And another, and another, each with a street light

to wash out the stars.

Rejoice, as they Crumble!

By wind, lightning, floods.

Goddamnit friends, let’s be more humble!

This is not our land alone.

Respect the streams, the ferns, the stones,

Because no matter how comfy you make your life,

Just know that a bear will shit on your grave,

leaving fertile seeds.

And the roots of weeds will wash away your deeds.

Rejoice and embrace your peril!

I know I will.

Captain's Log: 2!

Back in action and a little more grown up.