Day eighty-two

My own Eulogy

Save your tears., there will be

none at my grave sight. No talks

of how good of a person I was,

no lies about my character

and how I was the most honest

person you would ever meet.

Just read a poem or two then

break out into laughter as you

retell all the embarrassing

moments I had when I was

alive, like the time that I ran

straight into a parked school

bus. How I had a toilet paper

tail in the porn shop on my

eighteenth birthday. Laugh

and laugh out loud about

the silly stupid things I've

done. Hug each other finally

meet one another. Each of

you has a quality I admire

and respect. Find that feature

in those who sit solemnly

beside you. Death's never

a fun occasion. At my funeral

play one giant game of Catch

Phrase and finally most

important of all, invite a

stranger and in the quietest

moment of the funeral

burst into a flash mob

for ten minutes and resume

the funeral as if nothing

had ever happened.

15:55

Day eighty-one

Letter to God

Show me that you exist and you aren't

fairytale make believe. I've knocked on

your front door. Asked to be invited in

but I still wait outside unattended like a

traveling shoe salesmen. Maybe its

too much to ask for the Holy Spirit

to show itself like a descending dove.

I want a sign, some proof that you are

there and I am not crazy.

The world's full of divisions and every

priest, pastor, and minster has something

different to say about you. You are like

someone describing a taste.

But maybe I ask too much

maybe I'm too young spiritually speaking,

like a child who asks his mother

how electricity works, to which

she replies, it just does.

15:30

Day eighty

Synesthesia

Forget first sight, let's believe

for just a singular moment that

Love has nothing to do with sight.

Eyes closed. Your voice travels

in waves, osculating against the

hard air. Life's just vibrations.

Smell's important too. The odors

lifting from hair and skin are all

too pleasant. Touch and taste

follow only after sight and smell.

There is no outer beauty, only

beauty or no beauty at all. Plastic

Hollywood surgeries mean nothing

The rhythm and melody of your

language, your voice means everything.

Your hair smells blue and your voice

sounds purple. Is this how blind

people love?

15:08

Day seventy-nine

Complaint

You're never here when I want you to be

I wish I had a silver bell to summon

you when the mood strikes. Do I need

to drink more? Will you come out of

your hiding hole? You're cheating on me

You're cheating on me with the guy

next door. You know I need you, so just

relax and help me out. Remember that time

we spent the whole morning together

without a care in the world? Was it

the coffee? No, we didn't have coffee,

I was sitting right in front of you

and you worked your magic and I

stood by and it was all good. I hate

when you go away. Maybe I need to

invoke you like back in the old days

when all those Greeks had the fun.

I need you right now, beside me rub

my shoulders for good luck. You're

always gone when I need you.

7:39

epic failure.

Day seventy-eight

All our knowledge begins with the senses, proceeds then to the understanding, and ends with reason. There is nothing higher than reason. -Immanuel Kant

Higher than reason.

(Architecture of a poem unwritten)

Line one: Something about Kant and how he didn't believe in miracles

Line two: Reiterate line 1 with a substantial metaphor.

Line three: Something about reasoning and the rational mind

Line four: A simile about the mind and the rational mind.

Line five: Nature imagery. juxtaposition of nature and religion. Perhaps a church in a meadow.

Line six: Metaphor about the image above. More nature.

Line seven: Tie in higher than reason with "God" and how He could be higher than reason

Line eight: Question tie in with God and add metaphor, perhaps alliteration

Line nine: More imagery and religious symbolism

Line ten: Final flourish, a question, employ assonance, rhyme, and a strong finishing image. perhaps something disturbing.

This was definitely a cop-out

15:55

Day seventy-seven

Waning Gibbus

There's always a sense of uncertainty

after the full moon's passed, something

about cycles. Lit by the bright moon

the sky and clouds continue to roam

in one direction, oblivious to the dark.

I sit in the driveway and look up wishing

for a star to bloom supernova. A sign

from God perhaps on this lonely night.

I am tense, but your voice calms me.

A possum silently cackles by, grimaced

by my presence. I should not be out

this late. The animals own the dim

and quiet places. The land around

me breathes and I exhale. There's

always a sense of uncertainty after

the full moon's passed, something

about cycles. There's always a sense...

15:18

Day seventy-six

Church

There's a natural radiance in

churches with stained glass.

Today I am at a Baptist Church,

the stereotypical images flash

in my mind, a triple K slideshow.

But there are no men in hoods

nor burning crosses, no condemnation.

She sits with me, a small smirk

lay on her face. She leans back

against the velvet covered

bench, like a bored student.

We are in the balcony overlooking

the congregation. When the choir

sings, She sings and with her

I am in the presence of God.

15:09

Day seventy-five

Barn, Delicate, Food, Gentle, Yellow

Night 10/23/10

A barn owl searches the night

for food. The delicate trees creek

against the wind. Nearby, a deer clops

against asphalt, distracted by its own

gentle footsteps. Insects of the dark

no longer hum in the quiet cold. Winter

stands idly by and watches Autumn

lose her hair strand by strand-- The green

leaves yellowed by lack of light. Nothing

seems more lonely than a lovely

autumn night.

15:24

This exercise is hard.

Day seventy-four

Rebirth

They used cheap wood to seal me.

It smells like pine. I scratch at it

claustrophobic hysteria. They never

tell you how dark and how alone

it is underground. And the silence,

unbearable. I am in a vacuum, somewhere

in space. Pleas for help, useless, I gather

the rest of my strength and push hard

against the planks. three feet of soft

dirt weigh against me. They were too

poor to bury me deeper into the earth.

I am not dead. I am not dead.

I scratch until my fingers nail start

to peel off, like the rind of a citrus fruit.

They cannot hear my angry pounding

I don't waste my breath shouting.

I devour the rest of the air slowly

and write goodbye with my nail-less

index finger. The blood trickles

against my face from the ceiling.

It's too dark to see if my word

is perfect. Then I wait and wait

until my mind and body finally rest.

14:36

Day seventy-three

First Light

The birds always sing loudest right before

the light hits the ground. An early morning

wake up call startles me out of a dream. You

are panic stricken, perhaps rum drunk. You

want to tell me you're sorry, but the words

come out as sobs. The 5 am grog hits me

what were you talking about. Something

about regrets. The words crushed like a muddled

Caipirinha. I don't care what you have to say

anymore. A rooster's crow's more important

than your voice. I like the taste of bitter

words in my mouth. You scream and plead

and I finally turn the phone off. Shut you

out of my world, breathe easy. The next

morning. I get ten messages from you.

I delete them all. Your brother's texted

me. They found you in a ditch, your car

spun out of control and smashed head

on into the ravine. You died on impact. You

said your final farewell and I didn't listen.

15:17

Day seventy-two

Bedraggled

Her picture lay on my desk, coffee

stained, browned by the sun. I can't

throw away the image embedded

in the back of my mind-- water

clouded, her head just above

the line, body fully clothed. She

cleaned her room that night, vacuumed

and laid her pink prom dress on

the bed. Everything had to be perfect.

Email sent, a champaign

bottle sat on her desk with a white

ribbon, bon voyage written neatly

on an index card. Ready to set sail

with a proper christening, she melted

into the tub of lukewarm water.

What were her last thoughts? No

tears fell from her eyes. The knife

lay wrapped, flat under her left leg

a final gift for the man who

lifts her body away.

16:05

Day seventy-one

Forget about today, tomorrow's another day.

I tell you it's not a choice, what

does the bible have to say about that?

You choose not to focus on it like

an animal who refuses to believe

that its territory shrinks day by day.

Do you really believe that God

wanted six suicides? The Bible says

love thy neighbor. There is no love

in suicide.

9:39

Day seventy

Haunt

She walks with anger in her hands
nails dig into palms, she wants to

bleed. I see her slouch towards
the door and I follow her as she
reaches for another bottle. I want
to grab her wrist and say enough
is enough, but my hands pass through
air when I'm close enough to touch
her. She smirks and her dry smile
shows me that she's right. I won't
interfere again. The glass bounces
against the hardwood floor as she
drops the precious liquid. Nothing
shatters nor shakes, nor quiver nor
quakes. Every night she comes and goes
A perpetual moving image in my mind.
Love sometimes survives death,
but survival comes at a price.

11:19

Day sixty-nine

Muse

You deserve better more fertile

minds. But, you are stuck with me.

I don't appreciate you anymore, my

belly swollen, my energy fades and fades.

I want you back, the way an alcoholic longs

for the bottle under his bed. I treat you

like shit, slap you when I don't mean to

kick you when you're on the ground. Each

apology a broken promise. Should I be surprised

you left? You always threatened with bags packed

I'm leaving now, Cris, I'm leaving. I didn't believe

you. Ignored everything you said. Told you I can

do this on my own, I don't need you. But it was

all a lie. I need you more now. And though you've

heard I'll change, I'll change, a thousand times

over. This time I really will, and I will take

the eight steps.

15:21

Day sixty-eight

Wind Makers

For Chris Hester

We're ten years old and have no

money to see movies or to go

to the local pool. I grab a piece of

paper from our dot matrix printer

and fold a paper plane that loops

and loops. When I throw the plane

we become pilots. I'm the pilot he's

the gunner. And we shoot down giant

birds and bugs. The wind blows

too hard and we crash land onto

the roof of my house. The game's

over. But Chris, has an idea, a one

that comes from the brilliance of

the sun. He went to the reservation

last week and saw the Cherokee dance.

They danced for rain spinning and stomping

against drum beats. "Lets do a wind dance"

Chris grins. We don't know what we're

doing. If we were older we would look

like prejudice punks, mocking the power

of native traditions, but we are young.

We dance spinning in confusion and the wind

picks up. We dance fierce against the wind

and the paper plane glides off the roof.

We've pleased the Wind spirit. We are

wind makers.

15:54

Day sixty-seven

Serendipity

I know that you are out there, watching

the same night sky. Perhaps we are in different

hemispheres, but the moon's the same bright

white. Perhaps I've passed by you several

times in my car on my way to work. Heading

in opposite directions, two strangers concentrating

on the road ahead. I want to know your name

so I can find you. Look for you in the Dark

places of the world. Perhaps hidden from view.

One day I will stop looking and by mere happenstance

I will find you or you will find me, slumped

in a chair like a been bag at a used bookstore, reading

a novel by Paulo Coehlo.

15:19

Day sixty-six

"Be still, and know that I am God" - Psalm 46:10

Why I want to be a writer

Because I can't paint or sing.

My hands tremble, my voice trembles.

But at the keyboard there is stillness.

The click click click of keys, rhythmic

like drum beats, flows from my finger tips.

At his date fifty years ago, some poor

fool was typing rhythmic madness on

another machine. One made of metal

that clang at each line break. I am

connected to him and the fools before

him with quill and ink, scratching madly

at parchment paper. We all are chained

to our own minds, watching the Muse

come and go as she pleases, and like

a ghost, we can't catch her.

15:55

I don't know why I'm compelled to write down bible verses.

Inspired by O'hara's "Why I am not a Painter"

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171361

Day sixty-five

Exercise

I found a tire on the road

and tomorrow I will hit with

a sledge hammer. I will infuse

the tire with all the hate and grief

of the world. And smash until

my hands blister and my arms

burn until I can lift no more.

15:58

Day sixty-four

Uncertainty

"Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love" - 1 John 4:8

Show me how to love. Her voice
cuts through crisp autumn air. I
know she's concentrating on my
eyes. It is night. Her pupils twitch back
and forth, refocus like twin
camera lenses as they try to capture
the universe behind my dark orbs.
But there is no such universe, only

tricks, only photo-genesis. Her

reflection resides behind the dark

glass of the soul and if I am lucky

my image hides behind the veil

of hers. I don't need to show her

anything. She already knows without

knowing. The fingernail of the moon

points directly at her. There's no

beauty like a beauty lit by Luna.

Tonight we know God.

19:05

Day sixty-three

To my future love

I am an awkward person, the same
as the feeling you get when you
forget an old friend's name. I
don't snore, but I'm told I talk
in the middle of the night when
things grow quiet, when the crickets
stop singing. I like crude humor
the kind that make little school boys
giggle on the playground-- typical
dick and fart jokes. I have delusions
of grandeur and sometimes think my poems
can move mountains, that poetry will
save the world one day. When I experience
something new, I know if I like it or not
almost immediately. I will like the sound
of your voice, so keep talking. Your parents
will think I'm a nice young man, but you
know the truth. I like astrology and I
want to believe in ghosts. I am perfect
for you, but not perfect at all. I'm clumsy
and will break something of yours, or trip
and fall in front of you. I might make
you cry one day, and I apologize for that
right now, it will probably be an insensitive
remark. I like watching films at the run
down dollar theater, the floor sticky
and the chairs falling apart. I don't
watch sports and I have no interest,
save for some Olympic ones. I love to read
and I love talking to you.

15:17

Day sixty-two

"God sometimes removes a person from your life for your protection. Don't run after them." Rick Warren

And if they listened I
would not be alive. "Dead in
a ditch" as they say. The twelve
small holes still ache on
my wrists. "You did it
wrong", the girl next to me
says in the ward. She smiles
and holds up her arms. On each
wrist a white line starts
from her palm and rivers
downward. "Third time" she
whispers like a child who
shows her mother a finger
painting. Would I be on
the other side if you hadn't
rushed in, dialed those three
digits, raving hysterical manic.
If you did not Speak to me
or cut the threads that tie
us together, would I still
stare at the poor girl next
to me, screaming silently
for help? No, because if you
chose to stay home after
seeing the flare of my Facebook
message, God would have taken
me and you would be protected.

15:37

Day sixty-one

The Other Side

We are perfect for each other
like the way the Moon and Earth
revolve around an endless waltz,
but I don't love you the way
you deserved to be loved. The spark
isn't there. I imagine that love
is just a word of colors. We
aren't on the same spectrum
and the feeling that grows from
the pit of my stomach isn't
there anymore like an empty
cave after a bear has awaken
from its hibernation. I am astronaut
in the coldness of space, waving
his hand trying to touch the rim
of the bright blue atmosphere.
Goodbye, there's nothing more to say.

15:11

Day sixty

Infatuation

There's always the little
things that enter the mind,
like worms burrowing into soft
earth. The nuances that repeat
and repeat-- The way she ties her
hair in a pony tail, the color of
the ribbon. Even the way she walks
as though she always has an important
place to go, fill the mind's projection
screen. I can't stop. I know it is wrong
to want. She's a Capulet, and my family
has neither title nor rank. I wish the mind
could wipe memories like the ocean sometimes
erases land. But I have these thoughts
spread against me like a woolen lover*.
Perhaps this is love? No love
is much stronger I suppose. Never
have I been truly in love. Perhaps
I've found the wrong fragments of
my Soul. The ones that never quite
seem to fit like mysterious jig saw
pieces. I'm waiting for a larger
chunk of my past life to wander
haphazardly into my life like a drunken
stag or turtle. Or maybe, I'm the small
fragment finding another small
piece of a greater whole.

15:00



*Stolen from John Berryman's Dream Song 1 http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15206

Day fifty-nine

And here again I stand

I look too deeply, a fraction
too long than I'm supposed to
and you don't blink, like you're
supposed to. There's no wide chasm
between us and for a fraction
we linger, but we're supposed to
break apart. It's almost like you're
caught in a trance. No wide chasm
to divide us like a fraction
with a zero denominator. Supposed to
such nonsense like you're
a common dishrag. The wide chasm
of breaking hearts a fraction
of things that I'm supposed to
take as "life experience" like you're
Father always said. "Always a wide chasm"

And here I stand again.

15:12

(Yeah don't ask... I'm on cold medication right now)

Day fifty-eight

Introspect

Likes:

I am not a vegetarian, but I like vegetarian
foods. I enjoy staring into women's eyes. Yes,
it's a bit weird. I like watching sunsets
and sunrises, I find it sad that some people
don't take the time and look up and see
the grandeur of the sky-- each individual
scape different from the other. I like
people's laughter. Not toward me of course,
but shared laughter. I like the sound of Kina
Grannis's voice. I like martial arts, both the martial
and arts aspect. They seem opposing, war and art, but
somehow come together beautifully. I like paper
cranes and the taste of blue Gatorade. I like
music of all sorts. I like walking barefoot
at the beach. I like being near water.
I like people who aren't fake. I like people
who are passionate about things. I like
oranges, even though some people may hate
the color and it doesn't rhyme with anything.
I like being not sick. I like sleeping and
dreaming good dreams. I like crystals and
seashells. I like the end of things and
the beginnings of other things.

15:32

Day fifty-seven

Day 2 of the Plague

The Fifteenth Day of October in the Year of Our Lord 2010

I have finally contracted the plague. The apothecary tells me that I may yet live another day. He gave me herbal medicines and salves and tells me that if I have not healed within ten days I am lost. I prayed to the Lord that I will be healed, but so many others have been taken by His grace. In a valiant attempt for the quest of science I will record my symptoms below:

-Soreness in eyes
-Severe cough
-Stuffed nose
-Body aches
-Breathing difficulty

I fear that if these symptoms continue, all will be lost. In the future I hope that one day a scientist or apothecary may devise a cure all for these symptoms, one that does not involve death or blood letting. If I shall pass in the coming days, I wish blessing to all those who have known me.

6:06

I have a cold :/

Day fifty-six

Sick as a dog, I'm fighting to stay awake and write this. I have a cold and I hate colds because there aren't cures for them. Whoever invents that or even a vaccine will be my hero. I haven't had a cold in a long while and I absolutely hate them. Who doesn't? So right now, I have no meds, and am blabbing on and on. I want to chant to my white blood cells "Go, Go, Go" I can see them fighting and epic battle inside my blood stream. The major battles lay at the chest, throat, nose, and eyes. I can't write anymore. Goodnight

9:21

Day fifty-five

Inspired by "Reason's for Attendance" By Philip Larkin

Attendance

The trumpet drew me in, too
and unlike you I walked right into
it. Too much alcohol pours
freely passed from hand to hand
like water from a fire bucket brigade.

And you were right to think
that in here is sex, what you would
see as pure indecency. It doesn't hide in
the dark anymore as Women lick each
other the way dogs lick their master's hand.

The bump and grind replaces
"the maul to and fro" The loud
thump of music drags for hours--
everything's a blur of flashing lights.
And every bar tender knows-- "Satisfied"

is the question asked to the poor
chump hugging the heavenly toilet.
And I have misjudged myself
as the rough tongued-bell rings outside.

18:13

Day fifty-four

Dear Diary,

For the first time in 3 years I got fucked up. One shot of cuervo, two shots of crown, one shot of yager, and two shots of khalua. None of which I paid for, so I got really lucky. I have a headache now. It is very bad. I will probably never get drunk again for another 3 years. I don't like having headaches. Today I saw two girls kissing and three girls giving each other lap dances. It was awesome and awkward at the same time. I probably won't remember what I am writing now. But, I had the sudden urge to keep up with my 15 minute a day project. Thank god for my designated driver Shin, without him I would have had to call a cab, because drunk driving is super stupid. I am at Shin's place and he has a large light fixture that looks like daisies and Eric thinks it's a monstrosity. Shin is going to bed. Chris, the other Chris is passed out in the bathroom, because he got more effed up than myself. I can't believe I am typing, my head feels like a nuclear bomb. But I will write, no matter what. Eric is awesome because he gave me a blanket and pillow to sleep in. These guys are amazing folks and I would not trade them for a million dollars. Maybe 1 billion, but not a million. Tomorrow I go to church to see my friends Leah and Stephen in the praise band. They are going to play their original composition and I'm very excited for them. I might regret everything I said tomorrow. But as of now I haven't done anything bad and I feel content. I didn't even think about my ex-girlfriend one bit. Right now I love my life. Maybe it's the alcohol. I miss you Twan and I miss Lisa a little, but she made her decision and I respect it. I also love my co-workers with the exception of one, which we all know who it is. I put my hands up in the air tonight saying Ayo let's gooo.


15:11

Day fifty-three

My bucket list in 15 minutes:

Bungee Jump

Get a tattoo

Visit Spain

Visit New York City

Visit Washington D.C.

Visit Oregon

Visit The Wizarding World of Harry Potter

Do a back flip

Scuba dive in the Great Barrier Reef

Visit New Zealand

Hug a penguin in Argentina

Visit Philip Larkin's grave

Meet the president, any president

Be in a feature film (as an extra or something)

Read my poems in a packed house

Be on stage with OneRepublic

Eat fish and chips at an English Pub

Visit Tokyo

Visit Interlocken

Find true love?

Have a home near a large body of water

Go shell hunting at a deserted beach

Be in a hot air balloon festival, in a hot air balloon of course

Learn to drive a manual, well

Learn to bake artisan bread

Be a part of a flash mob

Witness a flash mob happening at random

Jump in a pool of green Jello

Meet Natalie Portman

Help a person that actually needs help

Have a fully lucid dream

Have a large entourage of beautiful women walk down the street with me (don't ask)

Photograph a kiss

Spontaneously start dance in a crowded street and have others follow suit

Make music for a video game or film

Make another person smile and have that person make another person smile

Visit a large observatory/planetarium in the middle of nowhere

Sleep under the stars with uncluttered light pollution

Go gem/treasure hunting

Learn to sail

Learn to horseback ride

Hug a llama

Participate in an activist march

Hug a citizen of every country in the world in order to promote world peace

Drive over 120 mph

Win a contest

16:39

Day fifty-two

Bowling

Only a drunkard would have thought
knocking down ten wooden pins
with a resin ball would entertain
so many people through so many
generations. The pins, metaphors
of life, and the ball, swirling
images, smash into each other
to create poetry. How easily things
glide on wax oiled floors! The slow
hum of the ball against wood grain
then the sudden smash of pins
startles the senses. Perhaps
the anticipation, the ball
released from hand, forms
a spiritual bond of letting go.
That life courses the route
unpredictably as we attempt
to guide ourselves to perfect
strikes. Forget gutter balls
as the next frame enters
the lengthy hallway to the reset
pins.

15:01