Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Wreck-collect


Kenneth sat quietly on his hardwood deck and took in the beautiful,
crisp spring smells. Dusk was his favorite time of day, and he
performed his typical daily ritual of enjoying the nearly disappeared
sun by doing some reading and sipping a homemade smoothie.
But it wasn't the taste of kelp and apples that lingered on his lips.


A passage in his book had triggered something far sweeter, that he
had not thought on for many years. Touching on it had brought the
reading to a pause, lifted him erect in the chair, and now he sat gazing
doe-eyed and transfixed out onto the horizon.


Kenneth had never told anyone about the experience that filled him
with such warmth. To do so would have seemed trite, forced. It
wasn't that he felt ashamed, necessarily. It's just that the privacy
of such a thing was part of the wonderment, and to share it would
expose it to the mundaneness of this bleak world.


Besides, all memory is best savored from a distance. Rewatching
old favorite movies and attending high school reunions had been the
death of more than a few sacredly held beliefs. He didn't want a
revisiting to destroy this precious memory.


He found himself in a very contemplative mood as a result of his
memory stroll, which was a rather unorthodox mindset for this
accomplished and driven man. At 45, he had done pretty much
everything imaginable, but you wouldn't know it to look at him.
Average looks, unassuming, not significant according to the social
registry or the financial big whigs, he still was able to carry his own.


Although a loner in the truest sense of the word, he was affable
with all he met, bringing a smile and a flutter to the most stone-faced
of women and even a few men. He was not a party person, but he had
no judgment of others' vices. He had never been heard to utter a
single political or religious view in anyone's company. He was pretty
much a ghost of a man, never needing attention or causing controversy.
There had been enough of that as a kid.


And contentment had been his. Just as he had no real need for people--he
was alone but not lonely--he had no real need for any thing, either. He
was well off from decades of frugal spending and good investments,
and was comfortable in his modest surroundings. But tonight, for the
first time in so long, something was triggered in him that was a foreign
concept; longing.


He could remember vividly what it had felt like to be the object of
someone's desire; to know that their deeds and wishes were
centered around you. The power that it had given him, and the
utterly delicious awakening of enticing someone who was 'above'
you in every other way. It had been a drug that nearly devoured
him, but ultimately, it was precious experience.


That first night, all those years ago, staying in the hotel room...

(to be continued..)



Saturday, June 23, 2012

Unmade




Sometimes I just want to leave that bed unmade all the time.

When I get up from a wondrously restful sleep,

ever-and-ever more rare, I think

"Don't change a thing! Don't get up...don't move...

don't move a sheet."

As if leaving things untouched

will preserve the greatness of the occurrence.



I walk through the house,

walk through the store,

walk through my mind

reflecting on what was.

More and more perfect it becomes,

 like spun gold from hay,

or the wonders of a night of drinking

 that becomes more impressive and fascinating

with every retelling,

ever-more regardless of the thing's true nature.


It can't be prepared for; there was no special planning

that went into the night when the bed was most

accommodating. Nothing extra done for the providing

of such nourishing nocturnal healthfulness. Probably

nothing extraordinary about the bed, the night,

my ass laid out there, the weather, or any other factor.

 It just happened. And upon happening,

my mind created a magical quality to it, and the

moment was preserved in

amber for eternity.



What is the point of a made bed, anyway?

To promote an idea of...what exactly?

Orderliness? Tidiness? Sophistication?

Blow chunks, Zelda; my give a rat's busted.

Preservation is a young man's game.

***



Friday, June 22, 2012

Let Them Eat Designer--and Naughty--Cake!


My Most-Excellent Partner in Crime,
cake decorator extraordinaire,
Miss Lynn Johnson!

She can make any idea you can conceive
(trust me--no matter HOW crazy!)
materialize in front of you!

Here are a few of our collaborations
through the years!

***
First up it's the "Two Fey Cowboys" with matching
outfits for my gay friends (who are a couple)
who also happened to have back-to-back birthdays!

The writing?
"Happy Birthday to Two Fine Cow-Pokes!"

***


Next up, an unfortunately less-than-ideal
faraway shot of the cake made for my
comic shop (The Legion Outpost) having
a Halloween Party.

The theme; Death of Barney.

Pictured:
Barney the Dinosaur's torso sticking out of
a grave (crushed Oreo cookies) with his
eyes 'X-ed' out, gummy worms crawling
out of his grave, and assorted other
ghouls haunting the graveyard.

Written:
"Die, Barney, Die!"

(Don't worry; it wasn't a comic book shop
for children!)

Lots of fun memories, and it's always
great to have an artist who can help you
manifest your expressiveness and vision!

(If you live in the Tampa/Brandon area
and need a specialty cake done,
for contact info on Lynn.
And yes, gents, she's single, too!)

***


Friday, June 15, 2012

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Husk

(Art by Bodstart3 from www.deviantart.com )



Columbus was fraud;
this world's sure enough flat
Every day'll put you
down on the mat...
It ain't even tit-for-tat.

Ain't nothing new to see
or anywhere left to be,
everything's been discovered
(and done at least thrice)
don't waste time with envy.

I'm not seeking sympathy,
sure as hell don't want advice...
 the one who pretends to assist
is the one whose knife will twist.

It's a ruptured life support hose,
no one cares for your woes,
do your best to make do
they're always gunning for you.

Devoid of expectation
the blinders removed
we stumble the darkness
no more spark in our groove.

This is it.
Embrace the insanity.

***

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

hurt



Cling to the illusion of control
when you know that chaos reigns


Darkness is in our DNA;
humanity is only a shell
for the beast


Man can no more stop warring,
hunting,
hating,
devouring
than a lion can cease feeding
on warm, bloody carcass


It is in us;


Cellular
Consumptive
Predetermined
Deep-seated
Intrinsic
All-consuming

We are by nature

Damaged
Animalistic
Raging 
Warring
Insatiable
Negative


We are filled with horrors, not hopefulness

Conflicted
Tortured
Empty
Driven

Yet we pray to a fiction
envision a mirage
and stand on wishes...
avoiding the newspapers
or a mirror


The notion of chaos rules us,
like lunar pull
or roadside carnageChange or enlightenment?
It's cruelty, denial, a joke


To be lulled into a sickness of passivity
or benevolence
or complacency
is to fall prey to the predators--
their trap so insidiously based on
convincing the world that there is no trap


(Convince us there is goodness
wait to see how things play out
trust in the ether
don't lower yourself by fighting back;)
and from the shadows they pounce and destroy


The most beguiling and convincing of smiles
hide the sharpest claws and deadliest fangs


Woundedness is not
necessary to habituate.

Stop expecting
Stop needing
Stop believing
Stop wanting
Stop trusting

and hurt will quickly vanish.

*****************************