I gave you sweet still water

You craved sparkling fake fruity plastic

I gave you a cool mountain stream

You wanted the violent rush of a dam release

I gave you the fine linen sheets

You wanted satin and lace

I showed you the aching blue sky

You preferred neon lights that beckoned to your adrenalin fueled laughter

I gave you back to your subway life

But you came back again and again for respite and healing.

The night breeze stirs

Curtains move with a purpose off the ocean’s breath

Your fingers hover with the assertive purpose of hummingbirds

The hum vibrates on my skin. And god what a worship at the altar of sensation

I’ve known you

felt your mouth in a thousand restless dreams on my chest

As the hummingbirds search with their determined hum

I got on that bus that goes a thousand miles

with a pure heart and the best of motives that ride was a mix of toilet disinfectant smells and quiet the first two hundred miles

at midnight or better, at a small depot in Alabama a whole bunch of recruits got on with their stiff uniforms and fresh haircuts and politeness

we motored on, the kids getting more restless and a poor guy that fell asleep on my shoulder and the hum of the diesel engine became an annoying roar

2 am. There’s a bus stop with vending machines and more payphones than I ever saw in one place. A few of the recruits were using them.

Chapter two tomorrow.

Pluff mud poetry

You wanna know what’s sad?  I’ll tell you what’s sad.

It’s sad knowing that your cosmic twin, thirty years younger and fifty pounds lighter, is

sitting in an apartment in a giant, never sleeping city

feeling just as alone and isolated as you are, but she

still has hope.  She thinks she’s jaded, but she’s not.  She thinks she’s weary, but

she doesn’t know yet of the soul-crushing exhaustion of chronic empty bank accounts and crummy lovers and shitty food

She has no idea what despair is, and that’s a good thing because her still pure soul would disappear with the realization that nobody cares. Not really.

Imma tell that girl, my cosmic twin, to make friends with her isolation because it’s gonna be there for good.  Imma tell her that despair isn’t so bad when it’s a catalyst.  Broken dreams pave the way to reality. Imma tell her to…

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Shame. The running narrative has always begun with white-hot embarrassments of random memories.

The ice pick of shame starts tapping into hidden corners, chipping away at the carefully constructed brick walls around those things I cannot forget, nor reconcile.

It drives me to write, to rage, to sit inside the storm until it passes. My instinct no longer compels me to flight but to let it flow until the inevitable occurs – a blessed numbness of sleep.

By the light, I can see how to put up the walls again. All day, silent activity consumes my emotional energy.

Ah, but sunset comes slinking back and brings a terrible sadness with it. The horrible, weeping, random grief is not as often as in my younger days, but when it comes, it comes with layered complexity.

What I had thought was wisdom has turned out to be merely decades of experience in dodging that dreaded ice pick.

Well, shit.

Family speaks with a grief-stricken eternal voice. It never ends. It ends when I end.

The bright smile slides down, the stare of mortal tears fall from a hidden window.

I want to connect. I want the immediacy of being here now.

I want the pain of missing someone long before the pain of loss.

Remove the veil of propriety. We’re not saving for progeny.

Be present now, dammit. Feel the pain and joy, now.

  1. Plan to add at least 1.5 hours to prep, startup, and cook times.
  2. Invest in meat probes with a wireless system.
  3. Prepared rubs are good, but homemade rubs have more meaning.
  4. Charcoal burns differently from brand to brand. High end charcoal lumps burn hotter and longer. Don’t use lighter fluid. Get a chimney starter and use paper.
  5. Don’t be tempted to peek at the meat! If you must peek, be prepared to lose temp, especially in smaller grills. Also, don’t be tempted to fiddle with the coals or the air vents. Cheap grills are like cheap cars: quirky, need TLC, and prone to unusual swings in temp. If you know your cheap grill well, and like it, use it. I have a cheap grill and a competition grill. I use them both, sometimes at the same time.
  6. Wood smoke is flavorful. Cut your pieces ahead of time, so all you have to do is feed the fire. Cut more than you think you need. You’ll likely use all of it.
  7. Patience is a virtue, especially when smoking meat. Low and slow is the key to tender, juicy pork that tastes like heaven. Don’t pull the meat just because it’s close to the right temp. It will not be nearly as tender.
  8. Trim the butts. YouTube has tons of videos on how to do it.
  9. Good tools are a must. High temp gloves work well, but keep them dry. Wet gloves conduct heat.
  10. I use a good grill tool with the slinky end. I heat up the grill, scrub it down and then rub half an onion on the grates.
  11. Last, but not least, nothing will go according to plan. Make a backup plan.

I don’t know about this low grade depression anymore. It’s more like physical suppression of all creativity and energy.

Brain: check the mail

me: screw the mail

Brain: OK

Body: but I want to go outside and at least sit for a while

Me: are you high? It’s hotter than the devil’s crotch crickets out there, and my skin itches all the time, anyway

Body: OK

I’ve more or less stopped watching TV except for baseball. Social media is my go-to for mindless entertainment. I think so little of myself anymore that even when friends engage, I feel unworthy of their attention and hurry to brush them off. Writing even this much feels more intrusive than a pap smear and just as uncomfortable.

So, procrastination is a symptom. I have endless creative tools at my disposal, and I sit. Or sleep. I did start working on my retirement goals, and one of them is to have an extra hundred dollars a month. I started two small investment accounts that in five years, will yield about two hundred dollars a month if I continue to set aside money now. Passive income has become the mantra of the retirement world. I’ve come to embrace it myself, even though my funds are extremely limited. Anything I do creatively is just gravy-or casino- money. My soap is still here, my body butters are waiting to be made, and it comes down to willingness. Writing this down serves myself notice that I literally have my dreams at my fingertips and to just do it.

Chandler Ranch Stock Pond, Blue Ridge, TX

“You can’t stop a bird from landing on your head, but you can stop it from making a nest in your hair”

A week before payday calls for imagination in the eats department. This recipe is quick, filling, and cheap AF. AND it can be stretched further by judicious use of canned corn, green beans, and onions.

A can of Spam or Treet or store brand canned meat hunks

2 cups cooked rice or 2 cups instant mashed potatoes or cooked fideo or ramen noodles. It doesn’t really matter what the starch is as long as there’s a whole mess of it.

1/2 cup barbecue sauce

1/4 cup chopped onion

1/4 cup chopped bell pepper

pinch of brown sugar

1 tbs vinegar

OK, really, the only necessary ingredients are meat, starch and sauce. Everything else is belly filler.

Dice the canned meat into small cubes. Saute in a pan over a pretty hot fire, stirring all the time. You want the sides to get crunchy but not burned. Add the onions and peppers if desired and stir like crazy. Turn down the fire when they get soft, and add the barbecue sauce. Turn off the fire and add the starch. I add the brown sugar and vinegar at the very last, right before I dip it into a bowl. Piece of bread and butter will set it right off.

I add corn and green beans when I want leftovers for lunch. They add bulk to everything without dirtying up another pan or dish.

Bonus recipe! Grate spam into a bowl, add mayo, sweet relish, tons of black pepper and a pinch of sugar. Makes a great sandwich spread.

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Look Back in Anger 2010

Look forever into the western sky.

Horizon of emptiness, hollowed out soul

Nothing but a dream of getting out to the place where horizons are buildings, people, noise, hurry, excitement, HAPPINESS

Leave behind silence. Leave behind ceaseless wind. Leave behind a curve of unspoken secrets of those back there in the quiet terror

Keep close. And late at night, take out in a spasm of regret the splashes of ugly memories on those who would rather forget. In the silent aftermath of desperate longing for absolution, the spill of harsh kitchen light and tickticktick of the stupid clock that sees all and knows nothing.

It never goes away, those dark grindings of heat and cold that pass through landscapes alive with voices crying

A passing train offers golden squares of light where people are laughing and talking and pretending to be normal but nobody is really normal

Another generation of lust and dust yearns to find the horizon of freedom in the western sky