26 December

Do you ever wake up, gung-ho for the day, but you have to spend it doing something other than what you’re so excited for? Well, I feel this today, but I’m not bothered by it. I don’t think it will leave. Maybe temporarily, but not for good. I’m ready to explode.
Life, for me, now, as in, currently and recently, is about finding a free place to crash temporarily and work before moving on. I don’t know how long this will go on, but I love it right now.
Christmas is over, Papa is buried, New Year’s is in five days or so, which lends me the days between yesterday and next year to make money, money I desperately need, so that I can keep going, doing what is right. Right for me.
My life is: chaotic, random, planned, normal, exotic, exciting, uncertain, dangerous, safe (I’m in the US, things aren’t so bad here), finite, going to end, my own, what I make of it, my experiences translated for my own understanding based on my past experiences that have made who I am, dirty, beautiful, true, a search for purity, outside of resumes, bound within a sinking monetary system yet minimally participating, changing, developing, growing in experience, wonderful, pleasant, unpleasant, mixed-media artwork, continuing…
From life I want purity, honesty, truth, peace of mind and heart and soul, certainty in myself without the assurance of others…
BREATHE – Friday Saturday Sunday Monday Tuesday New Year’s Eve 1January
Work earn money work work drive-party rest -> then, find work, write book, live.
Looks like I’ve only got a few things I gotta do!
I get nervous of telling people what I’m going to do because then they expect me to do that. NONSENSE! on my part. Let them define. It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m going to create. So, I can say, “I’m gonna write a book.” And then get bored with that idea and build a shopping cart out of branches. And they’ll say, “What about the book?” and I’ll say, “I’m building a shopping cart now.” And they may be confused, but that’s not my problem. If they’re confused, they can ask if they truly care. And if they don’t truly care, why should I about their response to me? I want them to care? I shouldn’t care about that. All I want to do is create. Express. I’m going to. And it will be difficult, but that’s exciting. I’m gung-ho, afterall. I’m looking forward to this. I’ve always liked a challenge. Dad’s always called me “extreme.” Whatever that means, I’m looking forward to everything.
Everyone’s caught up in the diminishing economy! The tumultuous political and economic situation we find ourselves. THEY NEED SOMETHING NEW! I’m something new. No I’m not. But I’m pure to myself. People need to be pure to themselves. The world needs purity and honesty. I need purity and honesty. I want to find those others who are seeking purity and honesty and together, we’ll thrive and others can either join us or deny our mission, but it’s not a mission! It’s just living. It’s a decision regarding how we want to live! My friends who are my inspiration. We will do what we want to do and we will make it work for us and disregard what others say we should do because that wouldn’t be our own truth, it’d be someone else's view toward the world and all anyone can have is their own view regarding life and it’s good they have theirs and it’s good for you to have your own but it’s good for us to have ours and you should be excited that we do and I’m excited for you, as long as you come to your mindset by your own avenue. Find truth! Live for truth! Demand truth, but don’t wait for someone else to hand it to you. Demand it from yourself and find it in your own way. I’ll do the same. And I’m excited about it. Let’s do. Let’s grow. Like the seedling buried beneath concrete, let’s press through and thrive despite the heaviness of construction, “progress,” industry. I am a seedling, and I got a root going deep and it’s going to support me as I press through the middle of the street and all those god-forsaking automobiles WILL go around me. I will be watered by torrents of creativity, rainstorms of experience outside society’s normalcy. Watch me grow or don’t, but prepare to swerve.

Growing Tired, Growing Anxious

... and this ain't the half of it......

Driving through the city last night I realized the dull dust of Dallas is so much sadder than the brown and white sands of the desert, NM. Smoke rises from office thermostats and the roads sway back and forth and grab car-tires. At 5 a.m. a wreck headed westbound was being picked up before the heavy flow of rush-hour traffic. The wind was heavy on and the trailer rocked between the narrow lanes, guided by white lines, but I made it through the sad purgatory of highway between city and suburbs, made it home and went to sleep.

I drove, December 3, to the airport in El Paso and flew to NYC. I arrived, walked across the city to Amanda’s, stayed the week exploring, went back to the airport in Long Island, flew back to El Paso, drove to Cruces w/ Chad and stayed the night. Bed by 2, awake by 7:45, we drove to Alamogordo, packed the car, drove to Denton, arrived. We spent the week in Denton and, on the last day, I drove to Waxahachie to see Papa. He was dieing. I left there, swapped car for truck with Dad, drove back to Denton, gathered Chad, Ryan, Chris, and all our things, and hit the road that night for Alamogordo. We arrived at 7:30 in the morning, slept, woke, coffee, went back and packed, packed the next day, and packed, loaded, and left the last day, last night. Ryan, Chris, and I got back on the road at 4:30 in the early evening and drove all night back to Denton, arrived at 5:00 a.m. I dropped Chris off in Denton, Ryan in Corinth, and drove the last hour and a half to Gun Barrel City, Dad’s place. I napped, then got ready at Dad’s, helped him unload the trailer of Grandma’s things, then drove to Waxahachie for Papa’s viewing. After, we went to Granny’s, then home and bed. The next morning we woke, got ready, and left for the funeral by 7:15, went to the burial, then memorial, lunch, Granny’s, and back to Mom’s.

Papa has died, but Papa has not passed. We can mourn that his life now continues without us, but he’s never gone.
Papa has always been more than his breaths. He is the grandfather who taught me how to use a bow-saw, slow pulling back, quick and heavy pushing through the wood. Have you ever wondered how a horse eats versus how a cow eats? Well, neither have I, but Papa told me one day at the kitchen table while visiting the lake-house. He said a horse bites grass with its top teeth, a cow pulls up with his bottom. In this short lesson I learned where Papa came from. A boy who swam in the swimming-hole when he wasn’t working the farm. He told me his family killed their own meat. He taught me how to tie a square-knot. He showed me how to play Gin Rummy. He taught us all what it means to be loved.
Old Brownie, the truck, 1980 Chevy Silverado. It played eight track tapes and towed the camper if it wasn’t towing the boat. I fished from the boat. We stored our catch in the water-well. Did you catch the first, the biggest, or the most? Who saw the lake first when we went over the last hill, sunup? I learned how to ski behind the boat. Remember the old, dirty-orange life-vests?
Papa was with us with his bright-white hair, his true eyes behind broad-rimmed glasses, his southern-boy ears pointing out, attentively awaiting our next concern, and he’s with us still in his lessons, his love, and the memories we share. What do you remember?

My family’s eyes look so tired, sad, yet warm and inviting.


Soon.

NYC

My God, why are they drilling at night?! It pierces my ears with the squeeky wheels of the constant passing buses, squeeling trash trucks. Honks. Honks! Beeps. Pwap. Twap. Mrr of the radiator, drip drip of its leaks, tap – dop – bat of it’s straining parts, but at least it’s steady fan softens the occasional calm outside, but then the fridge resides inside the bedroom and snores like my dad from his congested nostrils of allergies to dust and dogs and here, the fridge deals with street-grime and roars on to interrupt the city that never sleeps.

Amanda laid asleep, as much as she could sleep, which isn’t a habit she really has anyway, across the desk from me in bed. I sat near the window and looked outside across the cold-steel fire escape that led five floors down – we’d be the last to go in the event we needed to, which would make jumping the next-best option, or trudging through the flames, which may offer more hope because sitting there seems inactive, although, such calm. To find yourself trapped, or, to see yourself set-free, but that’s not to say enjoy death, but accept it. Let the warm arms of mother wrap you in her breast forever. Go there sobbing away Life, but never bitter. Father’s gruff streets and 5-oclock shadow, whether we accept it or not, is become us, but only so much as we let him. Someone power-washes the sidewalks outside as passers-by talk loud and traffic pulls up and something else whines.

I don’t want to see the landfills out here. The difference between Portland and NYC, which, I believe is a key characteristic that drapes - like soft Portland clouds or the City’s fog - both cities remarkably well, is recycling bins. The streets aren’t gritty, they’re blue with reducing; instead of harsh walls dense with smog and hefty black trashbags collected along the curb in lines like people waiting for the bus, except there’s more bags than people, not the only difference, obviously, waiting for 24-hour trash pickup. Happy colonial Atlantic seas or brooding and pleasant Pacific. New York commerce or West-coast cliff-sides. Either way, I’m in New York.
But I don’t want to see the Statue of Liberty either. “When will you take off you’re clothes?” Allen Ginsberg rings through my brain like the liberty bell - broken, understood, profound. Vespas resound between the city’s brick walls, reach high notes in the hollow-steel fire escapes. I think the wind howls, but it could be the radiator; no, it’s outside noise seeping through the window-frame seams. Truly.

It’s miserably romantic with all the noise, New York’s first snow last night, Rockefeller plaza and its Christmas tree, the windows dressed for Berghdorf Goodman’s holidays, white and crystal blue, pearls, dresses with lace and snow-white animals, the walk to Second on Second for karaoke, too crowded, leave soon after arriving, head for the next bar, decide to head back to the apartment and seek refuge from the cold. On the walk, the cigarette between my lips, the snow on Amanda’s cheeks, the smoke I breathe out and the breath that follows and there is no segue between where the smoke ends and my breath begins, it all looks the same in New York’s frigid cold. Damp, soggy, noisy, smeared street-lights and echoing horns, drunk karaoke, careless stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, frustrated nudges with elbows, Brooklyn accents, Italians, lovers under umbrellas in sheik, black pea-coats, earmuffs, scarves, leather gloves, women in fur, pimps in fur, hookers in heels and hose and miniskirts and big, open coats and cigarettes between their long-red-fingernails fingers.

Haunted Mountain Road

The sounds at night aren't as haunting as the thoughts that ask where you're headed. Home or alone or without a job?

When you get to the top of the hill, throw it in neutral and drift.

Then, follow the engine or the bumps in the road,

Either way, the engine breaks down and the bumps become craters.

Go blind and lose the distractions; lose sight and you won't know your way.

Arrive when you're time comes, but watch your own watch.

People I've Met (1)

Amber I met in Portland. She was Madonna. Our first time to hang out we walked for miles through the streets of the SouthEast district. She told me she really wanted kids and she tried to adopt when she was 18. She never finished high school. It wasn't for her. She never enjoyed it. She comes and goes to places but never stays too long a time. She had a smile to warm God to tears. It was pure. It was beautiful. It was holy. She was quiet, shy, intelligent. We cooked together. We made some sort of spaghetti then watched a movie. I don't remember what. I wanted to hold her but didn't want to at the same time. And I didn't. Neither of us "made a move." We were content in the company of something special. Holy. She is holy. She was small. Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and dark. She was Mexican. She had no accent. She had thin yet full lips that spread to dimples when she smiled. Her eyes were always honest and pure in light brown holiness. One day, while walking down Hawthorne, we stopped in Pastaworks, the Italian market, and bought cheese and bread and sat against the side wall of the supermarket up the road. We ate as if in holy communion. It was. We smiled holy. We laughed holy. We shared holy. We sat in holy silence. She was beautiful in looks, life, and spirit. I left her without saying goodbye. I believe she understands because every word we shared was honest.

Learn

High nose, furrowed brow passed a man crouched on the corner - clothes-drive rags - he shivers, change clanks the sides of his can, not for attention, but a jittery cold hand and the self-proclaimed Christian in pea-coat over Versaci suit continues.

Not all Christians are this way, but too many. And they faction themselves apart as Catholic, Protestant, and so on, over a thousand times, and don't see love for love and think martyrdom is ultimate love, but you can't do much when dead; Jesus' deeds are his greatest lesson.

Hightened and Enlightened

Check the news like it's a Muslim prayer schedule only to find your heart starts racing, your hopes rise, frustration abounds, and you're no nearer the headlines tomorrow that read:

None of This Matters - God Beyond Politics

"This is uh huh-storic day."

Events of the day are recorded, the day is ignored.

The headlines roar through rollers spinning the pages quicker to create demand for faster news, not better:

Truth Beyond What We Print

Weathermen watch numbers. The wind brings cold air south, but the seeds she carries are said:

Winds of CHANGE with Obama

The seasons are forgotten unless it's baseball, football, or political and Christmas is become the elections, that begin earlier each year, grow brighter each year, increase grander each year and people cheer:

Red! White! Blue!

And the papers keep rolling black ink over tree pulp pages, and people pick up the one that fits their views, like doctrine, and all any of it reads:

These Are Untruths

But it must come to some that news is not so blatant. Hands pass cash under fine table tops proudly hoisting brandy and cigars. Hark! The herald papers roll:

Red, Blue - Each Fade to White

And the bus disappears around a crumbling office, the sidewalks crack by the mighty, rumbling seedling, the papers compost for tree roots, binary evaporates, and words claim:

Of Many Gods, One Truth

My greatest flaw - discontent - My greatest value

A Few Days of Thought

It took him forty days, forty nights. In hot desert sin, his heart was warm, his body cold - his feet were bare. Dust storms came and midnight freezes and the serpent found many shapes of sinful comforts, but the vagrant's heart kept warm.

Artists try to allude to something with metaphors and analogies that have become so abstract that the point becomes elusive; like trying to pick up oil with bare hands. The greatest writers had the right words to put to life rather than illusions evading understanding. It's as if artists anymore haven't the words to explain a situation in its purist whole, so they create concepts upon concepts that miss the idea and lead to utter confusion.

Last night the Muse beckoned. Reluctant at first, I heeded her call. It came in a dream I decided to write down. As always I missed the details and could only recall generally what happened. Is there a way to recognize a dream, wake to write it, and, while writing, fall back into the dream? (I think they simply call this Creativity.)

I've found, the safest refuge is closed eyes,

next, a beard,

or placing chin in palm and biting the pinky nail.

You can hide behind drama or comedy

or face it all sans facade;

or bury yourself in a veil,

try not to reveal your fears... (so on...) (working on it)

I've come to realize, noone slithers in the desert.

Cars pass, crackling rocks,

elbows knock door jams,

fists pound coffee,

chirps cackle through cellphones,

heels clack pavement;

but the spider trickles,

subtle,

onto your neck,

through your collar,

down your back,

like fingernails.

God

A saved heart is one that goes from dark to dawn, but in what mathematics? Christian, Muslim, Judaism will all be dead. They'll have killed each other, and those who knew God will have survived. No victim of orthodox will perish, but shower in autumn leaves, surf along the mossy floor of forests, count the pebbles stuck in the sand, ignore the footsteps ahead or behind. They will be in what happens to them, and each individual will be the network of strings connecting to capture God, who wants to be captured, but not in doctrine, but a connectedness that supercedes words, physicality, and the material.

This is whateva

Whateva! I'm Brian and I do whateva. I sing and dance and fly on occasion, but mostly, I don't. But I can and you, be jealous. When I dance I sing, but I don't always dance when I sing. Sometimes I like to spread peanut butter on a bagel and put it in a toaster oven, or, put a bagel in a toaster, pop it up, then put peanut butter on it. I don't eat it, just throw it outside. I love wine, and, by love, I mean I adore it. I drink it often and much at a time. I get drunk a lot because of this give and take love-fest. Wine gives me flavor and I take the drunk. I give wine a home and it takes no time at all to get me drunk. I think we should launch hugs across borders. I believe in God. Maybe I believe in your God, but, I don't think God is yours. You are God's. So I should say, instead, I may believe in the God in which you believe. I don't like religion. I enjoy spirituality. I enjoy thought. I write often though this may be no good testament to the frequency I put down words. Whateva. I have an affinity for the road. I have a passion for Portland. I find what so many claim to be "reality" cumbersome. I strive for an existence not as mundane as those in the "real world." You may know what I'm talking about. If not, whateva. (to be continued)

21 September (midnight)

The moon has come up and been risen for roughly 40 minutes. I have tea Amanda left me steeping to my right. My eyes are heavy and drooping like tired breasts. But I don't want to fall asleep. As though awake I have company, asleep I can only dream of it, and my actual guests leave in the morning. The only thing pressing my mind is desire - my heart, desire.

It is, oft times, easiest to laugh.

The coyotes have started howling, yelping, crying - banshees coming with the heavier winds, they roll in like the grim reaper. And vanish. But not gone, they'll wait, they'll gather, they'll weep in my driveway and jerk me from dreams and I'll roll and listen and howl my own heart. They must be cold, lonely, and I, in my cold room, grow lonely.

12 September

My cigarettes; your diet - my meditation; your Sunday worship - my lustful eyes; your national pride - my philanthropy; your tithes - my God; Your God - my God is your God - my dark habits and your sin are equally wrong - my hope is your hope and we both send our wishes to God - and God says thanks to you as God says thanks to me for the thanks we show, the help we give, the sin we reject, the secular we neglect, the hurt into which we interject to calm and comfort and glorify God in. There is but one nation in the sky, accepting of all passports.

Currently Reading (in order of most recent)

* Numeric English New Testament

* Life of Pi

* Ezra Pound - Collected Poems

* Martyrdom and Artifice, Allen Ginsberg's collected journals

31 August

Where are our standards? Yours? Mine? Theirs? Now, then? We could focus on who is magnificent now, but this must be based on our own. We can compare to then, but we'd have to compare to all history. Bob Dylan, Mozart, Beethoven as far as impact on their society and future artists. But what does this matter? Standards, no, are our own. Set by our selves. Based on that which we find important. Could our biggest downfall be thinking we're becoming more like our heroes?

As we recognize this idea, we see a likeness, as if to be becoming her. Or him. Kerouac, Lohan, O'steen, Oprah, Jesus. He who wrote the best "Self-help" book never wrote. He who inspired me most only shared what he did. The best words I can think of are, "... as taught by ..." Rather, in trying to be, we practice. In becoming, we recognize ourselves.

My Dream

27 August

Last night was my first night here to dream. And of course now I can't remember the details, but they were something like this:

In the Highlands, on the columns of the house at the end of Kelly, just before Marsh hung four pictures: The three Neyman boys and myself. They each had an upturned lip like Elvis, but more "punk"-like. I had similar, but not as bold. Mine was more a smile than a scowl. I don't know why they were hanging there, but I came across old videos of me as a kid playing guitar. I was spectacular. I had one song that I can't remember the words to now, but it was fun, brilliant, and had one part that I made a hiccup kind of laughing sound going "hiugh, hiugh, hiugh." There were some girls around that I was flirting with, laughing embarrassed at myself as a young, cute kid. They thought I was cute, but I wanted to say, "Man, I used to be cute!"

I was going home after seeing this and saw a black lady painting in her yard. (Zelda from Jerry's.) I decided to stop and talk to her; I'd seen her there before. She mixed her paint with a large flat piece of wood from a tree - yellow and blue I think. I said, "I've seen you out here more lately. You been painting a lot?" She replied with something I remember being nearly incoherent. I think I could make out the words, but they didn't make much sense. (Much like asking Grandma if she was painting much and she said something about the lady in the frying pan.) I continued home and she followed. We talked a bit at the house, nothing that I can remember now, and then she began to act really strange, the details I can't recall. I told her I was going to go in and I'd see her later. I walked around the corner and back and she had a hand on the steering wheel of my car, the other beneath it, and she was squatting to hot-wire it. "What are you doing?!" I ran out and stopped her and she responded with strong apologies and that she didn't know what she was doing and she began to cry. She told me to forgive her and I said she should just go home. She gave me a hug, which I accepted, and as she pulled me close, my brain thought bad, my crotch thought good, and I pushed my penis up against her leg so she could feel it, saying, "It's alright, just go home. It's alright," becoming more aroused, wanting her more.

A while later in my dream I was on a go-cart driving through Dallas. Everyone was against me for some reason. Everything that happened they blamed on me. I was served last if at all. I was hassled. And the whole time I tried to get along with everyone and be polite. Many details of this dream are missing. I remember I sat my things on a table to sit there and a guy sat down as I was in line, pissed off that somebody else's things were there. I got my belongings and apologized and he just scowled at me. On into the dream I was scooting around in my go-cart (which I felt nerdy having after the ordeal over the table) and there was more trouble, to which the details have escaped. Eventually, I was out walking through a big field where many people were hanging out, picnics and a little-league baseball game, and a big group of kids was walking toward me. "Brian Gore!" yelled one of them, jumping with excitement toward me. I thought it was Matt Tomich but looked at the group and saw Matt Tomich noticing me at the same time. I looked back and it was Brent, whome I used to play soccer with. We hugged and said hello and then Matt came up to me and he and I hugged and he kept pushing his crotch into my leg. We caught up a bit.

(gap)

We were throwing javelins and a girl threw hers which went the wrong way and I went to get it. A group of people picnicking said something about me and I threw a large wet sock at them, missing right on purpose, saying, "I missed right on purpose because I remembered I put that there. I'm sorry." I picked up the sock and started trotting back to the group and one of the guys with a German accent said, "That's just like an American." To which I replied, "Yeah, that's why we're terrible at International affairs." (Or something along those lines.) I went back and one of my new friends who had arrived with Brent and Matt was about to throw the javelin. He looked like he knew what he was doing, but he twisted his third and fourth steps, threw it, and it went far up the hill to the baseball game. "You almost hit one of those kids!" I cackled laughing hysterically, ducking around to laugh to myself, looking back up the hill where the javelin landed - saw a kid turned a bit with the javelin through his torso - "You did" - and he fell backward.

I woke up.

25 August

I spent today pruning grapes in a vineyard. At 5:40 I woke up. It was still dark and as I got ready the sun shined its first beams over the mountain peaks in the east. It was cold outside, enough for a long-sleeve shirt and shivers. I drove to work, arrived at 6:30, and from then on until 2 I spent in the rows of grapes, picking to make wine. It made me think of Italy - of Rome - of Romans picking their own grapes long ago to make their own wine to enjoy. From what I hear, they did enjoy it, quite much.

I haven't felt creative lately. I blame it on routine. Wake, go to work, work, break for lunch, work, come home, fix a crummy meal, go into town for the night. There seems to be no spontaneity in my life anymore. I hope I don't fall into the trench I'm told is the "real world." I have so much more I want to do. Or, I don't want to do routine. Not yet. Maybe sometime, but still, I hope not. 

I'm not around creative people. That could be the problem also. Even writing this, I don't necessarily want to be, but the more I write, the more I'm glad that I am. I need to write more letters to interact with my creative friends. I need to meet more creative people. I need time. I've had no time since being here. I've had one day off work but I move so much slower than so many others that I need several days to myself. I want to go into work when I feel it's time to. I want to take days off when I don't feel like working. I want. I want. Yes, I do want, and, in wanting, I expect. There's no point in wanting something if I don't expect to get it. Empty wishes are foolish. I'm not tossing my pennies in a well. I'm going to figure out how to get things my way, at least for me.

Faces

The Old Guitarist, by Picasso

In the blue and grey Picasso,

dirty yellow music played.

By long emaciated fingers,

frail and callaced, strings shimmered.

Fingered strings in blue,

in the mood of life ending, poor and sad,

alone, ten fingers played somber tones

by the heart of an old, bearded man.

And his head bowed for his notes,

for his sadness, for a pence.

A loaf of bread would sustain him.

For water, he drank the rain that poured nightly

                             near the somber blue-grey ocean port.

And it's by being on those streets

that these blue strokes noticed him.

Six Hour Difference

As she nears another night

and I watch spread the yellow light

of dawn in the sun's rise

I helplessly recognize

the relentless beckoning

and banshee shrieking

of Creativity's

call:

         "Bring thee to the page!

                                  Script on scroll.

           Paint the canvas

                                   in strolling strides.

           Straddle reality,

                                    it's a horse to ride.

            Dance with struggle and

                                    flirt with the tide."

Sestina: Sanctuary (in progress)

May my crimson heart bleed sanctuary

and the soul of another find peace

in my solitary war. We each fight

with mighty trials alone.

And our dark hearts bleed black tears

until we find our own purest truth.

But tears pour truth for our heart's fight

and we struggle for peace alone.

And in dark crimson twilight, tears

fall. In dark hours of regimen truth

fails. When we seek truest sanctuary

do we struggle yet find peace.

But peaceful sanctuary is not free of tears.

And celebrate we shall when we know truth.

Far from dark dour is holy sanctuary

and here we know Truth's peace.

Deep in the dark-hearted fight

we must battle the war-storm alone.

Alone, fight to know truest sanctuary,

for security in solitary self is peace.

But how long must we endure the fight

for security in ourselves alone?

By struggle and hurt and tears

will ever we know purest truth?

Yea! Truth cries tears as we fight

against our dark hearts alone

and challenge our own tears

or say they are without truth.

Cry, weep, and struggle for sanctuary.

Our undeniable cry is for peace.

Peace be sanctuary with or no tears.

Find ye sanctity in thine own truth.

The battle for self's sanctuary

is won in the crimson heart's own peace.

Go and battle your fight.

Find truest being alone.

Alone cry truth.

Fight for your own peace.

Tear at your heart; weep tears for sanctuary.

Black Widow

I've never liked spiders but in the last couple of years have really come over my fears. However, my hand was digging in a box to rewire some things and I was only an inch from this girl and her babies.

20 6-word short stories

Eight days wandering - so I wrote.

Wandering means experience - Experience creates art.

Art is my eye, not talent.

Unsteady hands - wrong words - Oh well.

My brain is the empty ink well.

Sunup. Sunset. What about the moon?!

Birthed, I've wandered, created my own.

Factories fabricate fallacies - Artists attract eyeballs.

Eye beheld light beneath stars suspended.

Moonlight lit pages 'nough to read.

Registered Trademark, Copywrited Words, Dictionaries, Logos.

Poetry is silly like walking tightropes.

Look down. But then, look up.

Drowning in sorrow? Don't forget tomorrow.

Jump. Jump. Chris-cross'll make ya jump.

I played with my food = Art.

Hot dogs?! More like gross nonsense.

This is fun! Like surprising someone!

Regret begets pity. Pity you regret.

"Life's a chore, i'n't it?" "Can-be."

6 words - one story - twice.

A story in six words but 3 parts.

"Part Birth"

"Part Sin"

"Part Brimstone"

Story - 3 parts - 6 words each

"Part one"

Shannon dreamed, created, inspired, then died.

"the Sequel"

Her death proved woes draw popularity.

"part The Third"

'I died before I loved you.'

Anemo- (prefix) wind

Anemo - acid

   Breath

 beyond

                 boundaries

                 Breadth

                 bound by

                 salaries

                 Depth

                 of the gully

                 swept by anemo.

Anemo - Erodes

   Escarpments

 Deepens the gulf

                 Carries

                 Waters to

                 Waters deep

                 Whips dust

                 To blind or'nge

                 Wipes clouds from the sun's eyes

Anem - Ologist

   Studies

 currents

 and events

 Reads

                 studies of

                 experiments

                 Writes

                 papers on

                 scientists

                 And tries

                 to answer

                 his own arguments

Anemo - phobe

                  Dread

 -fully afraid

 of Wind

 Death

 -ly scared

 of gusts

 Ironic

 fans

 of Air Conditions,

 see anemologist

Anemologist

   Noun

 Person

 of science

 adVerb

 He wind-studies

 frantically

 Subject

 Wind Studies

 4050

Anemo - holic

   Wind

 Tastes

 Great

 Says

 Your skin

 Therein is

 Addicted

 To wind

 see anemohol

Anemohol -

   Bottled wind

 in glass

 or plastic

 Sold

 to consume

 consumers

 through

 ads in

 media

 which

 should not

 exist,

 like anemohol.

Anemics -

   Need

 Anemohol

 Badly

 For

 Their

 Vitally

 Vacant

 Nerves.

Untitled

Gluttonous Homophobes

Idolatrous Patriots

Impure Judges

Swallow your food whole

And shovel your pride.

Point your finger.

How many songs do we need to convince

God to Bless this country?

Why burn these reminders of those we sent to die?

          The bombs bursting in air

Glow brilliant red, white, and blue tragedy.

Please

Brush - torso - face

Tip to tongue

Drip - taste - take in

Wrap lips

Bring to come

Enjoy the pleasure of pleasing.

Pastor of North Church, Carrollton, TX/ Prayer

    You are the silicon of leaking breast implants. True faith offers no reward like the cash you earn through false hope. Harangue falsity. Create Babel. Your office has space enough for two - for high-value wooden floors draped with a Bear Rug, leather couches and 50 starving orphans. However, the orphans are nowhere around. Your sermons are Your sermons. And You spoke to a million people. And Your church needed 130 thousand more square feet. God must be Huge! Although I didn't find God there in Your church. I didn't see God in the felt of Your pool tables - nor the two dead turkeys in Your office. I couldn't see God on the banner behind Your stage nor in the prayer You said. My eye must be blind because I didn't see God in Your gold-framed diploma or the Ivory dagger or jeweled Indian sandals. My soul is so dark because I cried to see God in Your gold jewelry and gloating, but only saw excess and a heavy belly. Gluttony. Lust. And Pride.

God I plead mercy! I see you not in echoing walls - 50 thousand dollar prayers - blank stares - overflowing offering plates - or dry-creek bed souls. I will search on in hope the stars - trees - troubles - victories I find in my day-to-day. I will reflect on myself and my sorrow and joy and success - how nothing good is by me and nothing bad is by You, but that balance maintains itself. For You are balance - You are nature - You are truth - You are words - You are joy - You are sorrow - You are earth, air, water - everything and nothingness. I will find You God in loneliness - fulfillment - poverty - & motion. Amen.

Am I At All Lasting?

Cup and cup more of coffee

A third

Could not have been more

Than three hours of sleep.

Tired and half-conscious.

Crazy feeling

Confidence for an unknown reason

But there.

Been in Shop for

Three cups of coffee

And in

Three and a half hours

Numerous people passed through

and

Several new neighbors.

Every time I sat down I plopped

Little cushion each time

Met a stern surface

Sturdy chair's own confidence.

I need to go elsewhere

at least.

Line & Rhyme

"Girl" on The Beatles' Rubber Soul inspires me to write. Listen. Read as I divulge my own truths and weaknesses. Let me first find my font. Ah, yes. This is it.

I'm looking through you. Your lips perched on your faceless countenance, you explain to me everything you want me to take seriously. The wind rushes through again and again, or constantly - What have you noticed today? Then again, ask me my accomplishments. But allow me to explain to you, now, what success is.

Look at that tree over there. The one I see is next to a power pole, which goes up - progress - but leans - flaw. The tree beside comes from an angle and smoothly bends its textured bark to make way around the oak who claimed his spot long ago. About ten feet after a three degree angle the Pine shifts to straighten. Only one side has limbs, yet short ones - to make way again for the oak's high branches - or cut off for the power lines that need through. If the oak was left alone, I wouldn't see the knots on his trunk that ache from chain-saws that made way for more grass. They wanted a lawn.

And behind the taller, older pine to my 10:52 is the baby pine, only thirteen now but still six of me tall, that my family planted. Makes me think of Mom's request to be subtle when she goes. A headstone-to-know her in Pyle Prairie and ashes scattered in Cedar Creek where we spent vacations.

Someone may ask, "What does this have to do with success?"

I'll continue.

The GPS is in my car, which is at the airport from where Dad left. We swapped car & truck when I went out to New Mexico to move my grandmother's things to Dallas. After getting back I went to see Mom in the GPS-less truck. The drive out was fairly easy because it was day, but still guess work at times. The drive back had a wrong exit, missed exit, and Dad's Satellite Radio that listened me Kids in the Hall. The missed and wrong turns forced me to consider how to find the right way, which doesn't usually happen thanks to the ill-purchased GPS. An appreciated gift most definitely. But we're dwindling our critical thinking with these things - and cellphones. It's like match class! "We don't need to know this. We have calculators."

Children have instinct, except they get chastised for their realness. Shh. I'm telling you the truth. You have nothing to be worried about. Don't do that. Learn to ask questions, but not those questions. Follow my lead - forever. And as for success, forget about it. What the hell is that anyway? I spend my days contemplating trees. That's not possibly what you meant?

This spider is eyeing me. She tries to figure me out, comes up like a curious pup, scurries around the corner of the step, then comes back out to look again. It's a game of Peak-a-Boo. With a spider! I must be insane. The spider's gone. Aha! I see it. She just, well, I don't know what she wants, but her white fingers keep brushing her fangs and she can jump! And does! And she's nearing m...

Oh, She was just coming to see my bright-purple lighter. It sits on natural wood so must stand out to critters' eyes. She left.

Anyway. How do I spend my days? I laze. I gaze. I pray. I sip a joint and work my own. I duck away from the winds and scurry from their waves. I cleaned a garage and now have waste and more waste to take to the dump a ways up the way. But I write a time - line & rhyme - my mind marks the page through the feral pen in my helpless hand. But it all makes sense to me. That stands to say something.

Maybe instead I should worry myself with whether or not you get me.

The sun is setting but I only know that because the trees are hued amber and the shadows have all come together to form super-shadows and in the time it took to explain that everything turned tender violet. The colors don't change that fast during the day. It must be sundown.

Skeletons of fragile flies fall on my shoulders, neck, and typer but I think they're only shedding. That's all we do when we die! We shed our skin. We become new again! Is it odd to consider maybe death brings life? Is the only Phoenix a bird? Aha! I say, "Nay."

Did You See That Episode?

Did you see that episode of Venture Bros? Sunday night, when a new Dark Character entered the compound. Episode: The Doctor Is Sin. June 6th 2003. As if to sucker us into the next. Will You watch? Will I?

Then Metal. Then Vonage. Fuckin' stupid contrast. Now I'm so suckered into a whole new commercial, now that old Vonage Theme song. I hate T.V. Jesus things are too quiet. Too many Commercials! I have to buy everything, hear it all, watch the next movie whether it's good or not! and something greets me. Ideas! Reverse Your thinking. Then, the video game. Hulk Smash! I liked the prior. If you follow the commercials on your own, you become silent. Then get to fall . . . into . . . METALOCALYPSE

Incredulous Me!

I want to sit and write - sit and read - sit! I want to meet people - meet words - meet ideas. I want to think - ponder - question - be questioned. I want to hope. I want to doubt evil and pray. I want to believe in people - believe I'm God. [I am God! And that's not arrogance. I wouldn't say that out of arrogance.] I want to believe Jesus died just for me [but I'm a philosopher, not a believer.] I want time to stand still, but for that, the Earth must float still. Well, that or I move out of your way. I want you to stand still.  Figure out the roses! How do they grow?! My goodness it's incredible! I'll even say roses are more incredible than paper work. Outrageous. 

Only 48 Seasons?!

Obama just won the Democratic nomination today. Well, it's 10 o'clock Tuesday, 3 June, 2008. Now it's logged. Like the cabin Lincoln read in before freeing slaves. Whatever. Black man President? Unheard of. Obama wins! Clinton gets dropped behind despite her speech. Her stagelight was dimmed as the hook peaked from the side. And I had the rest of my bottle while he gave his. Now the pundits try to make heads or tails of this two-sided coin. When all is known, what need for discussion? Time. Does it all return to that? Well, the TV does. But who watches that?...

Will our darkest hour be a black man? I think it was the white of Your religions. The clear glass to your mirror; there was no black on the other side.

Clarity days are often found few and far between. Blue skies mean nothing! How was it spent? A jug of concentrated fruit juice exploded into my crotch and clear across the seats of Dad's truck as it fell outside. I only laughed. It smelled like it had fermented. Gross.

Now I listen to the Beatles. Obama wins, Clinton sins according to Pundits. Although the Ragin' Cajun (Chris Swearengin) has been laughing all night at the others. The wind is blowing. It must be freedom running! A black man President? Gig 'em.

Light the fuse on queue. Back to the front of the line? I don't know. The others have had a good amount of time to take their place. Of course, the Queen is surveying harsher than WE. Nobody likes the French. Putin sure can't be trusted!

777 - is that ever the lucky number? Reagan's three names have six letters in them. Tell me Obama's the anti-Christ!. Jesus. An attractive, charismatic, young guy? Jesus was the anti-Christ under that description.

Klev, Clever. Beverly. Clarely? Clearly.

Surly Murly got a swirly but never sought revenge. Until early one morning he shot barly and juniper from a flask he held hushed to the sun. Gin once again in the hot desert sin, he slugged from his jug of tin. Morein, his kettle unsettled, he heated his metal, and boiled his dagger once more. It laid through the skin of his rivalous friend and he walked with him dead on the floor.

by Brian Gore & Ryan Hochstatter

No Sir

I want what I want because it's what I want

but you just want me to say what you want me to say.

Watch the wheels peel along the road as I go way

of the South, the North, soar, fail, or grow stale.

Figure if I dropped the ball to watch it chased across the street,

what would you think?

Say I said what you expected. Suppose I sung the dirge you need.

Beneath the boxes where we explored constellations we'd never seen was incredible.

What I'd like now is a margarita in a soft glass.

Take me second class, she can have my seat.

What if I got hot feet or a too-hot-to-trot beat

or we all recognized or acknowledged the heart's weak,

and we slugged the sleak slushy drink in the soft glass of concrete.

Staple the sun to the moon. Slow her pace with the weight of his moan.

On bricks, I sat under a jet-setter's home

as he soard through the sward at the back of the swarm.

It was fun-tastic freedom at the nickle arcade.

It was persons, places, things, and cupcakes.

It was chocolate on one side, mesquite on the other.

It was teal and off-color.

It was dirty water and delicate caffeine.

Her is no more than less than There

and in every wash of wester blue

it grew more than more than what i feared

and only I was truth.

A R T

i am art. football is art. planets, art. life is art. ants are art. trees, art. cars, art. bicycles, art. guitars, art. dance is art. dancers, art. pastels, art. watercolors, art. ink wells fallen, art. 

disease, majestic. phenomena, fantastic. speed limits limit. wind, blow! tree, weep! willow, bow! man, cower! 

musicians win, nintendos challenge. television, stumble! 

onward, woe, onward!

cockle, crow. whistle, sparrow, whistle! rooster, crow in distant streets in rows of affordable homes. 

go, students, toward spectacular. bus, flow in routine's current. students, flow, yourselves, as well.

enter presence of mind, self's time. 

among stop signs and street lights, rumble of trucks' might, everything is just right if the sun would just set in the East tonight.

Jibberish on the Radio

All I can right now suggest you do is Google Image "wooden bike" and peruse the Results.

Jesus is who?

what do you say when someone is concerned for your soul? this is what i'll say:

my morals are christian. i will never deny that because that's how i was raised. i will also say that my morals are the same morals as so many hindi, jewish, muslim, buddhist, pagan, atheist, agnostic, taoist, and so on people. this is why i don't consider myself anything more than a human being. i am one in over six billion others, most of whom share the common moral structure that allows our civilization to survive. if people went around killing all the time, our species would end. of course, we do. we will. we fight war, we struggle, we spar, we compare, contrast, catapult our manure of ideological superiority over others as they send their own. but all anybody throws is their prophet. in all the bickering, fighting, waring, dying jesus, buddha, muhammad, the prophets so many hold high up over everyone's heads are thrown around, ragdolled about, used to divide against their teachings. THEIR TEACHINGS. that's what is so often lost when people say you need to BE a [enter religious designation here]. it's foolish in my opinion, so i choose not to take part. i believe, not think, believe that these moral philosophers would agree with my approach to their teachings. despite what the bible, koran (which both stem from the old testament), et cetera SAY in their WORDS, the IDEAS behind the scriptures are what i see, seek, find, and am satisfied only to a point with. but it's the following of WORDS that make, in my opinion, so many christians, muslims, jews, buddhists, and so on fall short of who they claim to follow. as Gandhi said, "i like your christ. i do not like your christians. your christians are nothing like your christ." it's because he understood the sermon on the mount. he understood the philosophy that was taught. he recognized the ideas beyond mere words. i don't consider myself anything. i don't need to try and reassure myself with a title. i will say i am like jesus. i will say i live close to the teachings of these prophets, philosophers, thinkers, challengers of their modern standard. i will not say i am any better or worse than anyone else, and, no one else is any better or worse than me. 

33 & Belmont

The skulls on double-weighted POG slammers is as hardcore as I ever was.

New for You to View

Hello from Portland. This is my b-log. Check here for projects, shows, showings, and photos of my projects, shows, and showings. Soon.

.brian