tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43049387792491791882024-03-08T13:18:10.367-08:00...Jim Clark...This is my southjim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-44904594914188899292016-06-11T14:57:00.005-07:002016-06-11T14:57:58.503-07:00Honesuckle<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">W</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">h</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">ile on my second or is it fourth glass of wine, I acknowledge the vessel.</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">A mus</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">tardy</span></span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">colored</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span>cardboard box with thin
rusty band denoting the contents of </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">a delineated
plastic liver of 2015 </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Pino Grigio with a
black plastic petal shaped spigot wherein rests a sexy red nipple calling to be
caressed hard by thumb in order to release its honey toned nectar.</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The colors are a faux natural as if to refer
to nature and along with suggestive stylized decals such as the sun, trees and
a couple enjoying such contents in stylized wine glasses to resonate that this
wine is not only from the earth but that the makers of this fine affordable
beverage are concerned about the well being of the planet and for the imbiber.</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">However as recyclable as the box may be and
even still the inner most contents are a remarkable expectorant of natural
filtration to be liberated back into the earth, the plastic of the black spigot
and liver are troubling.</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">For it can only
be down-cycled into a puddle pit of non-biodegradable particles eventually
molding the earth and encapsulating all the oxygen until it resembles the
inflatable globe that my three year old son thoughtless and perhaps lazily left
there in the yard, </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">resting on a throne
of lush plantains </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">delicately rocking
with each breath of wind.</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">We are all
children of the earth no matter our age or background.</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Compared to how long this molten rock clad in
extraordinary beauty and filth has been floating around we are fetuses born
generational any and every time we chuck our toys down after we are done and
let the ants get at them. We are unnaturally natural; we exist merely to
consume oxygen to keep the flame going on until the end- Ours and the
worlds.</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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I drink this
brand of wine because of its economical and ecological impact. And because and most importantly it relaxes
and replaces such thoughts of world obliteration with desire determined intent
to drunk myself in order to forget and forgive our collective daily damage.</div>
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Truth be told, I don’t particularly
like nor enjoy thinking or entertaining such things and who really does? Why toil
on self destruction and other people’s problems. I cannot change the world. The whole of it is
immense and I am mere fledgling barely off the ground shaking loose my fur and
in full wonder of how I got here and from what branch; tremendously
apprehensive of my ability to fly. I
will stand my own ground on the only ground I know and not worry about flying
but nesting. This is where I will
caretake and pick up the countless carelessly discarded McDonald's polystyrene
time capsules from the crooks of the road that separate the harmless and
healing Jewel-weed from the taunting Poison Ivy, for which I have become
personally acquainted to the point of respect and near complete aversion. Shouldn’t it be the goal of every soul to
commit to the environment that he or she situates and inhabits and to foster
the kind of change they desire? I
believe it is that way for everyone from the doll collecting ninny in her
eclectic menagerie of diluted loneliness to the train hopping gutter punk in
their box car of the same name. I am
blissfully aware and bewildered of what happens in my yard. At night I can take in as much breath as I can
see the stars yet in the day as the sun beats down on patches of milk weed and
wolf’s bane I am nearly strangled by humidity.
I am not in control nor have I ever been no matter what I root down or
set on foundation, the honeysuckle and bellflower vines will force even one of
the strongest poplars to starvation if I am not there to stop or alter their trajectory
towards the sun. And. Who is to say that
it my place? Except of course if it <i>is</i>
my place, my shelter, and my home that this weakened silvery saluteur to the
sky intends to fall. For trees never
intend to fall unless they do and that doing is completely questionable and nor
do we intend to fall unless we do and so doing is also completely questionable.</div>
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I never much questioned falling. It was a natural act of gravity and the lack
of ground nearby. I simply went with it and
fell the best I could. Not even after
when I was about ten when I was playing with a my twin brother, Steve and a blond neighborhood
girl that I have forgotten the name of and fell quickly and absentmindedly eight
feet backwards while attempting to sit down on a brick wall. I landed near a would-have-been death spike
the color of a school bus meant to delineate and delegate parking spots. The breath was knocked out of me and I was
checked for a concussion. Told not to fall
asleep. I did not think of falling but
of where I landed-In close proximity to something that if I had landed would
have definitely kept me kababobed for all to see but also would have allowed me
to fall much deeper than I was ready to go-not ready but willing. The act of falling and the will to fall are
not completely different but are disparate.
One is intentional and yet a result of inertia. I am not sure if Steve at the time had any
idea that I had fallen until he and the blonde nymph dressed in a red cape, I think
we were playing He Man and She Ra, noticed me near breathless lying there. I however, many years later knew of my
brother’s falling; was inherently aware of his symbiosis with honeysuckle and
yet like he when I found him I was with a friend yet she wasn’t blonde nor
wearing a red cape and not even a she but I would assume Kyle while dialing 911
was just as shocked at the fact that despite efforts to be in control and
somewhat superhuman we all will fall…</div>
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<i> ‘All of this had always been and
he had never seen it; he was never present.
Now he was present and belonged to it.
Through his eyes he saw light and shadow; through his mind he was aware
of moon and stars.’ </i> Herman Hesse from
Siddhartha</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>ildly hung over on a lazy Sunday
on Februrary 9<sup>th</sup> 2013 I spent the whole day planning digging and
setting posts that were to be the foundation and frame ends of my neighbor
Carry’s hoop houses for her vegetation to seed with my friend Kyle, who was
residing with me and my wife at the time at our modest but secure abode in
Cosby, Tn. I could go into details of my
Floridian neighbor, Carry, her mild tomboyish abrasive manner, her quirky sense
of humor and even theorize why she says “Hell’s
Yeah” in that long drawn out smiley way but this isn’t the time or the space or
the point. I could also tell you about
Kyle, the lonesome libertarian drifter who longs for his own space in the world
but is constantly lost in the Puppetry of unseen controllers of the universe,
which would be more pertinent to where I am going but for now it’s a misfire
target into unnecessary character development.
Instead I will focus on the feeling of the day which is on par with my
intent not to go into lengthy description with whom I spent company on that fateful
February afternoon. My sensors were
blocked by drink and indifference. I
drank for the same reasons as I mentioned above: to forget and forgive<i> My</i> daily destruction and
trespasses. Steve has been M.I. A. for
about three days. I have felt and even
discussed his intentions to most likely end his life. I have been preparing for
it ever since he was called out a week before by our Dad for skipping school,
at age 37 he was taking welding classes and doing well, therefore signaling to me that he kicked the
wheels off the wagon of sobriety. I didn’t
take it too well. His drinking got in
the way of us being buds and him being the kind of uncle that my wife wanted
him to be. Not that he was abusive or
even irresponsible when he was drinking but he was unpredictable and
unreliable. At least that was the fear. I asked him to stop on behalf of our
friendship and his relation to his nephew. And. He did. For a while. Then I left to visit my wife’s
family in England. When I returned I had
a feeling that he was drinking again which concurred by his actions and made
evident by my friend Kyle’s observations while I was away. For two weeks after my return we barely spoke
to each other and I never saw him alive again. I knew he was going to fall
because I am his twin and yet I didn’t want to think about it. After going around to visit him on Saturday
and he never showing up…well, I guess I decided to get shitty drunk. And the
next day he came back to his house and must have set up a plan for it to be his
last.</div>
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The Monday succeeding I decided
that it was enough and I was sober on that gloomy morning, well sober enough to
know that something wasn’t right. So I dressed
for a funeral although in winter I usually dress for funeral, come to think of
it I am dressed in all black now and it is the beginning of June. Anywho. I put my black beanie that conforms to my
head, a near tight black sweater and black jacket, black Levi’s and black
rubber boots, it had rained the night prior and it looked as if it was going to
be buckets. And buckets it was but the
rain did not fall from the sky. </div>
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<br /></div>
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As we pulled into the alley where
the house my wife and I restored and lived in for two years, a tiny 1940’s
cottage perched on a small patch of yard, not even an acre with a massively gorgeous
hackberry tree behind it, whose leaves had all fallen revealing a fractal world
of stark lightning branches webbed in the doom lit sky, I was half relieved to
see Steve’s 90’s model blue grey salt stained Crown Vic in the driveway. Half relieved because it was a sign that he
was there. I went up to the door and
peered into the glass that happened to be covered by a curtain so there was not
much to see, knocked and yelled for him to get his lazy butt up. No answer and the door locked. I kept calling his name and was beginning to
think that he wasn’t there after all.
There is a carport that I built along with Steve and Kyle’s help attached
to left of the house where I then walked and started to peer in windows. The one to his bedroom gave me no detail
except for the mystery of a grey curtain.
The next window however had no curtain and I could see a light through
the room coming from the bathroom. He’s
taking a shower, I surmised. So I made
my way to the back door that was unsurprisingly not locked because I had failed
to fix it so it could. Then I noticed
that the sink was running and there were dishes piled and I became more curious
and as if slow motion kicked in as I exited the tiny kitchen that led directly
to hallway made by the refrigerator and the transverse living room whereupon
directly to my left was the bathroom. Where the light was coming from. Where my brother was. Steve. In
the tub.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The Bathroom was the first room
to be fixed when my wife and I moved into the house. The space of the room was very small but
could neatly fit a porcelain art nouveau style bath that stopped at the floor
and spanned wall to wall, a toilet and a wall mounted sink. There was a window that we were talked into
taking out by my Dad because neglect and perhaps bad planning had lead it to
rot most of the structure around it so it had to go along with some of its
supports, which were eventually replaced. I would have liked to have had replaced the
window but was again advised not to because of its proximity to the shower
head. Once we had the window out and the walls
redone my wife decided that she would like the room to be painted school bus
yellow and I accented it all with cedar trim. It pretty much was the coolest and warmest
room in the house. Yet on the tenth day
of February 2013 it was a garish portrait of wonder loss and intentional
decent.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My first reaction never strayed from
the purpose of my initial visit which was to see if he was there and in both
cases I knew that he wasn’t but I had to be sure that I was going to do all
that I could so I ran out to Kyle who was still outside the front of the house
and told him to call 911. When I ran
back in all I could think was that he didn’t have to and this became my audible
chant for nearly the whole span of what seemed both infinitesimal and a blink
before the ambulance and police arrived.
In that time of existence I scanned the area looking for clues as to why
and what and how. There were knives of
all sorts neatly lying next to and about him by the wall. Two with delicate
handles of ivory inlaid with gold, appearing to be very small steak knives,
perhaps for cutting fish for they seemed to be oriental for whatever that means…Even
his multi tool as if none of the blades would do…Did he make this decision
while doing the dishes?…Fuck knows I’ve thought about it there overwhelmed by
all the dirtiness and obligation…One time out of nowhere I crashed a plate down
out of derelict frustration and broke one my favorite mugs, yet now I cannot
remember what it looked like. His body
lay there motionless, of course, naked except for his black underpants, the
kind that are not boxers and are not briefs, form fitting and wet. The mote of water surrounding him was the
color of rust. His wrists were slit cross ways and not horizontal like most say
to do instead, at least, if you are serious.
But then I noticed too up where his arms bent that those veins were
punctured as well and tiny streams gave their trickling deluge to let me know
that he was tapped out. Mostly what I remember
are his eyes. Blue grey like mine
looking past everything and anything and his tongue half poised as if to
speak. There were cigarette butts in the
toilet that sat directly by the tub that were smoked right down to the butt. And
a blood stain smear that resembled a hand-print on the wall, toilet paper on the
floor as if he may have tried to stop the bleeding at one point. Long ago during a painting critique of one of
my friends work about the subject of suicide I remember the professor-Longish
grey hair pulled tight in a pony tail stating that suicide was an
accident. Yes and no. An intentional accident in this case as
everything seemed to have a place and made sense like a piece of art or a still
life arranged with precision so as when I found him, for I Was meant to find
him, it would appear like an achievement of glory which I suppose it was rather
than a fall from a brick wall onto a parking pole. Although in both instances the color yellow
was involved.</div>
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The Police were the ones that
found the note on the refrigerator. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>“Hey Bro,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Sorry about the mess I’ve left
behind.</i></div>
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<i>Live your life. I’ve lived mine”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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So I do and I drink wine out of a
box and contemplate its return for it will always be a thing terrestrial as my
brother’s ashes will be-combined with the earth and I try not to give a good
God damn about any troubles of the world, for the one thing that is not of this
earth but aerial eternal is the energy that is a mystery to all and who knows
where it will rest or where and when we will fall.</div>
jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-36270130776667301012016-01-02T17:52:00.000-08:002016-01-02T17:52:21.654-08:00This day never beginsThe rollicking hemorrhage in my brain scans a place and settles. The drifting thoughts wave by and offer their condolences to whom ever they forgot. Once drunk and stoned I was told to go look at snake resting on a piece of santaric wood. Being colorblind, I couldn't see the damn thing amidst the pail sun and water-bleached bed for where-on it was resting, until it slipped it's scaly body into the pocket of un moving water. There upon I notice it's mate, perhaps, fleeing from me and then it returned and headed towards me in a motive of protection. I was in awe for a moment as I stood and greeted this small scale dragon...I say dragon because of it's head. Blockily built and brave and timelessly mythic.jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-72124021219533947072016-01-02T17:51:00.000-08:002016-01-02T17:51:01.642-08:00gutters and day off shoppingMeanwhile back in the not-so-distant day. ....the day began clear. Go to Newport. Get Gutters from ex-neighbor Adam the ex-army Pasture and then what ever...go shoppin. Too early in Newport. around 9 am so i didnt want to wake the priest. any who went to get groceries. WHY in THE HolY FUCK doesnt someone stop the production of High Fructose SOda monstersjim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-8262180875418633052016-01-02T17:48:00.003-08:002016-01-02T17:48:38.653-08:00Alone tonight con KestrelDecided to parol myself. The evening is mine to drink away and bite words into the sky? No more lovely banter will suffer from rent but each invading loop or lull will be given a mule. An echo to grind your teeth by. This will be called the wind as if for the first time. It blew your hair in the wrong direction. Steaming over a drain pipe but loving the revelation. In words do define many things other than actuality. And I think a !Hu! Is necessary only is given cue by radio violins ripping the steam dry off the stove. <br />
Hemingway or Anna Paquin? Choose and make it an obvious myth. I ve got pancakes in mind for morning. Coffee. That's all. And oatmilk for the little bird. If I could ode to my son it would sound like blank pages in a heavy well read book. I love him. I said I wouldn't get black out drunk. What if? I drink until I am sleepy.jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-44240716198143136502012-03-28T08:46:00.001-07:002012-03-28T08:46:51.132-07:00The light leading into the marsh was darkened by the green monstrous
bodies breaking the waves of the night. Horror mounted the disembodied fear of travel with the hormonal imbalance due to religious fervor beckoning horizontal dismay. The moon cracked a smile cutting through the outline of massacred stars and their astrological meaning. And all the while I wished to dream of a moment where I could write this all down and to sleep. The later won the bet as I was covered in minutes of minute solitude beside a warm body of reason.
What brings us to this heightened awareness when yet we are snared incapacitated by the very means we seek to calm the craziness of the day's madness? It is therein the answer is coiled like a lazy dragon sleeping with eyes open yet doomed by the smokey fire from within. I hazard to give it all up. The opiate of friendship either of the earth and its terrestrial molesters. But how? Upon denial of the collection of eternal consciousness do I damn myself into the marsh leaving nothing but semen and ashes behind? Beauty is the correction of essential and superficial flaws and the realization of what is cute may be covered in ugly. So where do I find solace? A bright tin roof blinding me of detail or the shade casting me camouflage so I may be horrified by everything? But I am not terror and certainly not monstrous. I am man. A measured moment after nothing.jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-41264678521129690932012-03-16T13:59:00.001-07:002012-03-16T13:59:34.338-07:00nothing truly eventfulthe gutters are drinking heavily tonight. The soil eats while the sky purges.
growling stomach full of anger and loss. Only after a slice of white pain shoots throughout. opening up details forbidden by darkness.
i often think of the end. what it would it be like. quick? unmomentous? or a disaster? But how can you get the end wrong? maybe if you take others with you? hurt someone in the process? Or do nothing to make the end worth getting to?
so say goodnight black cat to where ever you have gone
let the rain boil down the dust of the earthen clay
and i sleep so silent
so silent i sleep
And I did sleep silent..until I woke up to t he sound of my wife cussing and banging and creating miserable sounds of anguish and disappointment over the Devil knows what....the devil, I found out, was the bread pan for which ruined the bread...this bread pan was purchased at one of our favourite hangouts: Habitat for Humanity or the Restore. This store gives one the opportunity to purchase anything from plumbing needs to stuff you don't need at all. The bread pan being in the latter category. We already had one that worked perfectly but the trusted ladies at work suggested to my trusting wife
to buy this overpriced used object. So I stood there, in the kitchen, and watched as Primrose viscously carved out what would have been a delicious loaf of whole wheat with a bread knife, (probably dulling the fuck out of the blade).
Now it is midday and I am sitting in the cool of the only coffee shop in town waking up with a poor mixture of amaretto and Ethiopian Yerga-whatever, trying to shake off the curse of spring, i.e. Allergies. Never had to deal with them, really, until I turned 30. But now, 6 almost 7 years later we are on associate terms of acquaintance. I shouldn't put all the blame on those unnoticeable bastards, I did work out in the sun all week; I could be suffering from exhaustion but I doubt it. My eye feels funky. Any who that is this part of the world for you: you can get anything at anytime cause any and everything can grow here.jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-7693517325206031762012-03-06T08:57:00.000-08:002012-03-06T08:57:43.561-08:003 days more linesdrove through imminent storm to sell wares for first friday in knoxville where the sky parted and people partied in and out until i passed out ...hung over me, my brother, and primrose went to prep my brother's house to paint...all the fuck of it..only i was to be paid for this (400) which was not bad and ...none of this really noteworthy is it...<br />
Friday night needs a recap....of what really happened....and what did really happen? There was a whirlwind when the whiskey was drunk....Everybody was happy or so it seemed....the lovers loved and the dreamers dreamed, (cliche...i know but this is how i see it: a poet from time to time to allow his observation to be relative must use a cliche a time or two to give the viewer(s) a sense of the irony and the feel of a typical knoxville night....By 12 midnight everyone was either drunk or getting there or past there...i really need to watch my alcohol intake....It really does affect your memory....For some reason after having such a good time my whiskey mind went mad and i apparently became irritated at everything and everyone.............anywho.....last night got drunk again and high and had a great time getting there....wrote this poem inspired by the thought of reading it an open mic at Braken's Bar in Maryville, but i didn't cause i can't play guitar:<br />
Cauterized by your lips<br />
and still<br />
this wound wont heal<br />
like a dog you sing to me<br />
like the wolf that<br />
i will always be<br />
hunted through<br />
this diseased world<br />
only to single out<br />
anotherjim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-54223718074974536532012-03-01T13:21:00.001-08:002012-03-01T13:21:29.391-08:00How many fingers
Am I holding up? The day is much too bright when looking
through the windows of "God's Storehouse." That's the name of a place
for the children of the creator to buy second hand things. Like Goodwill albeit with christian music pumping to convert the mindless poor shopper...I bought some used EMS boots for 6 bucks...at least my feet will be saved.
Earlier primrose and i drove around to find a solar charger for Bonanza jellybean...our mobile art gallery....When in O'reilly's auto parts i had to translate my wife's questions to the salesman...people down here find her accent beautiful and charming yet they have no idea what she is saying. The other day we were in the video shop and some other customers thought she was Asian! If you have never seen or met my wife she looks more irish than anything...But she is from England: petite, fair skinned, almond shaped blue eyes and coppery blond hair. Definitely not Asian. Anywho we found something that might work in Oreillys...
The night before this glorious day the south had become under attack from above by means of thunderstorms and tornadoes.....i couldn't sleep really..As far as climate that is about all we have to fear down here, but for some reason it, along with the climate of the south (racial, etc), inspired this poem:
president resident
how is your mind today?
are you abe lincoln or harry truman?
is the tormented flesh that you see
yellow or black?
Is the skin peeling off of your Back yet?
OR are there scars orbiting your neck?
how are your decaying limbs resting in
your decaying cot?
are they like mine, dancing with rot
like fleas on cold toast?
how is your wet nurse holding your wetness?
Are you sick of this?
where do they burn the sheets of piss
stained contempt of God's cruel
joke? Do you or i hold the yoke to
The maddening devils poised to run?
Can you see them silhouetted in morning sun
through your caged window hanging or are they
detailed in full blossom melting skin like dew?
Or is it night where you are always?
Is it night where you are always?
is it night where you are always?jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-90357952979951128772012-02-29T06:26:00.001-08:002012-02-29T06:26:21.596-08:00Cup a coffee with ur peeThe grey day window blows.."do they have walmarts in Mexico" I just got wind of. And yes. They do.
The cup is almost empty and my bladder full..so here comes the passing storm...to only do what men do before returning home....get milk.jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4304938779249179188.post-60571198900751049522012-02-29T04:46:00.001-08:002012-02-29T04:58:45.988-08:00Like many beforelike many before
Building pressure of barometric mischievousness
i couldn't sleep thinking of what to put in this
this septic tank that i will share with all of you
should i rattle this fairly imbalanced and poorly
designed canister by emptying wasted thoughts
of my co-existing cohorts that i love but not always
respect
the answer came in a flash that awoke me finally and then
rain
the constant drip of unfixed gutters told me that it was
best to put my minor to major exertions into prose or poetry
to fictionalize my life truthfully and not to mention any names or change them
when i felt it impossible to leave an interaction out
for all those who missed my earlier rantings
well that is what they were and nothing more
what will follow will hopefully not be hollow
most of it will be of my unpublished work
which is all of it
some of it will be of long ago like photos in a closet i will
pull them out and expose them to you like a madman in an overcoat
in a parking lot except for i will be the parking lot
just don't run over my face
Day 1:
Return
Smoking against the cold wind that battered
the cancerous curls amongst the thick grey
Of the day when a car passed splashing slush
Upon my boots melting the ankle deep snow
Northern gravy on southern biscuits
Thoughts of home and my imminent return
To a place that seemed as foreign as Pluto
Yet much warmer in climate not in memory
crossed my mind as I crossed the street
Readied my wife and began again to begin again
Upon arriving I couldn't wait to see my youthful haunts:
Brock's where my brother stole a porn mag,
But was distraught to find out they no longer
Carried such male distractions from the obedience of
God and marriage, such I guess was my twins legacy;
White Stores where I took target practice on their sign
Stole many a worthless toy and ate endless potato wedges
Only to find out now they are gone due to the long over due
Effects of racial equality; Newport Dry Goods whereupon I
Got a nice brown jacket only to be stolen later as an emblem
To my problematic adolescents provoking the burden
Of years searching every corner of countless northern
Thrift shops only to discover what I always knew but did not
Accept until now, as being the consilient albeit conspectus truth
If you cant find what you are looking for, then stop looking...jim clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124405982031851434noreply@blogger.com0