My reflection drips from the steel bunk above me.
White brick reflects flourescent light that glows from the corner.
My bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and study are all within reach
Inside this joint on E. Hickory. Once green prairie,
They try to replace Dionysis with roads –
Oak, Sycamore, Pecan – named such to tell us what they took away
In the name of Justice, Law, and Order.
But Apollo cannot survive on her own. Cells must be filled
With those who live organic; those who say,
“this is where I find myself on account of my vice.”
Some lose their liver, some lose metabolism, I missed a party.
Who said freedom is free? I gotta pay 500 dollars to get out
Tomorrow so I can join my family for mother’s day.
Men always write about the ladies they let down,
However, I cannot write, for they kept my pen.
So I lay here and recite aloud to myself in isolation.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
As News Spread
Jack sat alone. Seven o’clock, Saturday morning, within cinder block walls and one door with a single window and a gap like a ticket booth through which food is passed, room service pounded on the other side of the door, shouted, “Breakfast!”
Jack stepped off his cot, across the cold concrete floor, and took the microwaved biscuits.
“You want coffee?”
“Yes, please. Is there any way I could get a pen?”
“A what?”
“A pen, to write.”
“No, we don’t issue those,” and the man walked off.
Jack stepped to his steal stool, sat at the steal table implanted into the wall, and ate slow. He wasn’t hungry. Eating passed the time. First he ate the top half of the biscuit, half the sausage, the bottom half of the biscuit, then finished the second half of the sausage, sipping coffee with each bite. He went to the window and looked out, as if looking across a back porch; across a green field where morning birds come and go, grasshoppers flick dew off blades of grass, caterpillars squinch and stretch across leaves; but Jack saw none of that. He saw cinder block walls, a desk, a finger print machine, yellow tape to direct people where to stand for their photo. To his right, Jack read a sign that hung on the wall: “Guidelines for obtaining classifiable fingerprints.” He discovered his right thumb has an irregular print – his only point of pride during his 17 hours in that room.
A room like that diminishes a person. Cold metal, cold stone, emotionless colors. Nothing to stimulate the mind, but they don’t want that. Nothing to stimulate the soul. The one thing that kept Jack’s spirit alive was the thought of how high Ryan must have been to tell the two arresting officers, so nonshalantly, “We’re writers and this is such griss for the mill.”
Jack waited. Time passed like a locomotive unable to gain pace. The flourescent lights never changed and endlessly buzzed their sterile white light. The sounds were the same over and again – the clasp of a door lock, rollrollrollroll of the telephone rollrollrollrollroll, a flushed toilet several doors down, shouts of frustrated arrestees, shouts of jaunty arresters.
“I suppose I’m to consider my life choices and path?” Jack thought. He paced the floor and grew embittered at such wasted time.
Jack stepped off his cot, across the cold concrete floor, and took the microwaved biscuits.
“You want coffee?”
“Yes, please. Is there any way I could get a pen?”
“A what?”
“A pen, to write.”
“No, we don’t issue those,” and the man walked off.
Jack stepped to his steal stool, sat at the steal table implanted into the wall, and ate slow. He wasn’t hungry. Eating passed the time. First he ate the top half of the biscuit, half the sausage, the bottom half of the biscuit, then finished the second half of the sausage, sipping coffee with each bite. He went to the window and looked out, as if looking across a back porch; across a green field where morning birds come and go, grasshoppers flick dew off blades of grass, caterpillars squinch and stretch across leaves; but Jack saw none of that. He saw cinder block walls, a desk, a finger print machine, yellow tape to direct people where to stand for their photo. To his right, Jack read a sign that hung on the wall: “Guidelines for obtaining classifiable fingerprints.” He discovered his right thumb has an irregular print – his only point of pride during his 17 hours in that room.
A room like that diminishes a person. Cold metal, cold stone, emotionless colors. Nothing to stimulate the mind, but they don’t want that. Nothing to stimulate the soul. The one thing that kept Jack’s spirit alive was the thought of how high Ryan must have been to tell the two arresting officers, so nonshalantly, “We’re writers and this is such griss for the mill.”
Jack waited. Time passed like a locomotive unable to gain pace. The flourescent lights never changed and endlessly buzzed their sterile white light. The sounds were the same over and again – the clasp of a door lock, rollrollrollroll of the telephone rollrollrollrollroll, a flushed toilet several doors down, shouts of frustrated arrestees, shouts of jaunty arresters.
“I suppose I’m to consider my life choices and path?” Jack thought. He paced the floor and grew embittered at such wasted time.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Perch
I sit perched at the junction of a window ledge and a ladder. Two cars are parked on the other side of this tree. One’s silver, the other’s black. The black one’s a Chrysler, I think, but what’s that really matter? One of two A/C units blows beneath me. The one just below me waits until the weather gets warmer. Every window on my floor is open, except for one that’s in a closet. I painted it already. I painted all these windows. It’s taken quite a long time, with all the prep work and rain. But they’re done. So are the eaves, for the most part. But I’ve yet another task tomorrow before it’s completely finished. And, well, I gotta paint what I fix on the eaves again. This job never seems to end! At least with the next job, I imagine, I’ll have some creative liberties. I’m off to write.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Spring's Arrived
This, I say, is Spring's arrival. Early, I am awaken by the first morning storm, rain falling, thunder of the season. Lightning flashes almost constantly to makes up for the hidden sun. Six thirty ante meridian.
The brick outside my window, on the house next door, flickers with the tremors of lightning, flash-bulb lectricity sprawling through clouds. The rain hisses on the pine leaves outside the windows behind me. Larger bulbs patter onto window sills and into small puddles collecting beneath the eaves. Traffic passes outside in a wisp of mist from the wet road. The first sirens of the morning rush off through the barrage of rain, over slick pavement, to whatever trouble there is; cars probably wrecked from the sudden wash of water. The streets must be oily after so many days of dry and dust.
The brick outside my window, on the house next door, flickers with the tremors of lightning, flash-bulb lectricity sprawling through clouds. The rain hisses on the pine leaves outside the windows behind me. Larger bulbs patter onto window sills and into small puddles collecting beneath the eaves. Traffic passes outside in a wisp of mist from the wet road. The first sirens of the morning rush off through the barrage of rain, over slick pavement, to whatever trouble there is; cars probably wrecked from the sudden wash of water. The streets must be oily after so many days of dry and dust.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Old, New
Shannon dreamed, created, inspired, then died.
Her death drew fans who understood.
"I loved you," cries the headstone.
Haiku?
This doodle bug makes
way. Something lay before her.
"Ah," says she. "Soft moss."
The little light spider
scurries down concrete rock cliffs,
drips down its slick web.
Crowded in the car,
1 to 6, five short hours,
I'm gettin' a bed!
Scenes:
Two cats, perched like birds on a wire, watch the rain drip off the eaves and cars pass.
The river rushes down below, melted snow flowing fast over rocks and stone. The water, crisp, slow, erodes as it melts from the peaks of these mountains and trickles. I sit with ease and watch the pines sway. The wind elopes. It passes like a flock of birds, and leaves me at my perch.
Matt and Ryan greet me from the top, specks on a rock the size of a mountain. And a jumbo jet leaves a white streak as it passes discrete behind them. And they, those two, sway like the trees. And rocket strength winds whirl by me, through me.
Her death drew fans who understood.
"I loved you," cries the headstone.
Haiku?
This doodle bug makes
way. Something lay before her.
"Ah," says she. "Soft moss."
The little light spider
scurries down concrete rock cliffs,
drips down its slick web.
Crowded in the car,
1 to 6, five short hours,
I'm gettin' a bed!
Scenes:
Two cats, perched like birds on a wire, watch the rain drip off the eaves and cars pass.
The river rushes down below, melted snow flowing fast over rocks and stone. The water, crisp, slow, erodes as it melts from the peaks of these mountains and trickles. I sit with ease and watch the pines sway. The wind elopes. It passes like a flock of birds, and leaves me at my perch.
Matt and Ryan greet me from the top, specks on a rock the size of a mountain. And a jumbo jet leaves a white streak as it passes discrete behind them. And they, those two, sway like the trees. And rocket strength winds whirl by me, through me.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
12 March, maybe
If today's 12, 11 I got to Amy's after dinner with Dad; after finishing everything at the lake. On 10 I got to the lake after leaving Mom's; after doing some chores for her; after pancakes at Granny's; after waking up there. I slept there to keep her company, comfortable. I slept there on 9 after dinner with Granny, Mom, and Emily; after getting groceries at HEB; after Emily went to practice; after she and I had lunch and hung out; after she and I had breakfast and talked the morning away; after I woke her, calling her from outside the house after the drive from Austin that began that morning around 4; after hanging out with Chris on 8, the same day I packed my car and left after I decided it was time to get going; after I returned from San Antonio after an incredible weekend that started the day before, 7.
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