From My Window To Yours

Snippets of thought and imagery; reflections from a rippling pond; the on-going turbulence of the road and all the beauty and horror it brings.

Dreaming aint enough

I think back on how many times I said “fuck it” and just dropped everything—jobs, school, family, etc.—and waited until I was three or four states away to let anyone know that I was gone. I remember how scary it was, how desperate I was in making such decisions. I also look back and realize how everything worked out just fine.

Hard to believe its been six months since I left California (though really it’s been almost a year since I had a permanent residence there). I used to be one of those “west coast is the best coast” people but I can say for certain that I dont want to move back there, at least not for a really long time. I may have been in New Orleans for only five months and even though I am enjoying the east coast so far I think it’s safe to say that I consider New Orleans to be home, I miss it very much, and I look forward to going home in the autumn.

X-Files drinking game

X-Files drinking game

They were all too busy asking questions like, “is what I’m doing right?” and “what am I doing wrong?” that they didn’t take the time to pay attention to the outcomes of their actions. They were too dumb, too afraid to realize that action is the way to ask—breath will only be wasted as it blows the treasures over the horizon. The answer, I’m afraid, is the question, but you were too stupid to know either.

I’ve traded with
traitors
dust for diamonds
dirty digital divide
in the crags trapped
between the recollection
and the bet

when it all
froze over
I came burning
alive in the moment
but dead to the past

my background is one
of dealings with
the wrong side
of the mirror—
two-ways to find
a non-truth

staves

permanence
permeates
through the cards laid
outside’a the old cross
from old country
a wise-tale woman
on a wise old wagon
told me when I was
dying from age
growing growing
gone

There came a time when
Eons trapped in
Temporary segues
Began to stall
While the melting
Of the sun
Proceeded through
The pores on
A machine more than
A man
The leaflets left on the steps
Of the burned out firehouse
Were more tales
Than lies
Of which nothing
Was taller
Save the depth of
The water for which we were not yet
Close to exploring
O, fortune, what’s the little
Monument you’ve erected
Behind these stony knuckles
And under the evaporated rug
I have sunk higher than lower
I have begun to understand
What cant be shown
Through particles of paperweights
Weighted with the waiting
For a spring to burn
Through the summer salts

There came a time when
Eons trapped in
Temporary segues
Began to stall
While the melting
Of the sun
Proceeded through
The pores on
A machine more than
A man
The leaflets left on the steps
Of the burned out firehouse
Were more tales
Than lies
Of which nothing
Was taller
Save the depth of
The water for which we were not yet
Close to exploring
O, fortune, what’s the little
Monument you’ve erected
Behind these stony knuckles
And under the evaporated rug
I have sunk higher than lower
I have begun to understand
What cant be shown
Through particles of paperweights
Weighted with the waiting
For a spring to burn
Through the summer salts

the reigns

when it rains
we’re poor
souls in the old
sepia stained seats
projector box
project, a flicker
a wither of the
ancient canvas
upon which is set
a lost scene
of our
final battle
when it rained
through the floor

mugshot

the pages
on that face
spread the lies
saw the sanctuary

donde-esta-mi-mente:

another doodle/poem from my sketchbook
"Sunburn"
SRB July 2012


And it burns,it kind of hurtswhen I look to the sunfor directions,the why and the where and thenthe only answer I getis the pain
the pain we all getfrom askingwith our eyeswhen the eyes are handsare ears are deep breathsof understanding
that pain isthe obviousto which we areobliviousAndthat is whyit hurts, it kind of burnsme to noticeour eyes on the groundand our handsat our sidesfrom where we were bornwe can never returnthe love, we must acceptthe brutal handof guidancewith thanks
Enjoy the burn. 

donde-esta-mi-mente:

another doodle/poem from my sketchbook

"Sunburn"

SRB July 2012

And it burns,
it kind of hurts
when I look to the sun
for directions,
the why and the where and then
the only answer I get
is the pain

the pain we all get
from asking
with our eyes
when the eyes are hands
are ears are deep breaths
of understanding

that pain is
the obvious
to which we are
oblivious

And
that is why
it hurts, it kind of burns
me to notice
our eyes on the ground
and our hands
at our sides

from where we were born
we can never return
the love, we must accept
the brutal hand
of guidance
with thanks

Enjoy the burn. 

falls

break the
ice melting
spring cleansing
soar throats
over the
cascade of diamond
crusted layer
sleepy eye
apple that
took down
the old king
queen of the
pond
still frozen
in time and
time again

Where I live now

Where I live now