SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

By the time I’m done tongue wagging you son,

You’re gonna wish you hung up by a tree in full sun,

One day at least maybe more, some say that we keesed,

And a baby was born. But it wasn’t was it? It seems

That these dreams are being held off a bit for greater

Ones in the not too distant future. And, I don’t know if

When this hits if its gonna hurt her or hurt him, but on

A whim I wrote it, and I hope that it comes across

As a bit of a toss and a plan.

Some may not see the planning in the initial stages,

Some may see the planning at the beginning but not the end,

Some may befriend at the beginning and act seven ages,

Neither winning or losing but simply being as a friend.

Mend this time to see the plan,

Whether you live in New York or Afghanistan,

You are a woman or a man, child or aged.

This mild and meek tempest will not be caged,

But can perhaps at least not get enraged,

With the simple idea that I stood,

Though I could have ran.

I chose not to.

This high and tight is low and loose,

And I don’t want to have a plan.

Though I climb up in my tree house,

And stand on my tip-toes to see the stars,

Sadly, choices can change, plans can get loused,

And even dreams can have their bars.

But I don’t need the time at the very start,

I will keep to myself and be the only one to hear my own words,

They twist, they turn, they tease in part,

And fly across the page like almost, but not quite, angry birds.

None of the cafes with computers are open yet.  As such, I must first write this by hand, and this brings me comfort like no other rest can, save one.  Nestled into a corner alcove, on the rooftop terrace restaurant, at the Sun and Moon Restaurant (not open yet), I see the sunrise.  My new friend Muna has brought me some fresh brewed chai tea, just sweet and hot enough to take the chill from the morning air, as I watch the sunrise.  Up whilst it was still dark, here at the Hotel Udai Niwas, near the beautiful Jagdish Temple, I can watch the artificial lights of the Lake Palace be replaced, slowly but surely, by the natural sunshine.

I can see at least eight Rajasthani Monkeys already playing in the giant banyan tree that is only a stone’s throw.  I can see protected cows of all shades roaming the streets.  I can see dogs without homes flicker their ears at various sounds, wishing simply to be.  I can see the City Palace safely keeping watch over a nearby hill.  I can see the shimmer across the lake from all the ambient light.

The overnight train ride to Jaipur that is scheduled for late this evening is blissfully far away, and the anger I have harbored for so long now seems to be magically melting away.  I hear the footsteps of your whispers approaching.  I close my eyes for an instant, and you are here with me.  God has given me this view, on this day, at this time, in this place, and I am forever grateful.  I hear them whispering to me as well that all will be unfolding as it should; in due course.

So many bright colors; such a richness in the, albeit, hazy air.  By whatever name this presence be called, I am thankful and in awe.  I can feel my skin start to absorb the boyhood dreams I once had, that I thought were lost.  I am reminded of quotes on walls, and murals across buildings depicting various facets and slices of inspiration.  Soaking through my skin is that presence, that warmth, which starts to knead the layers beneath like a deep tissue healing massage.  And, with the slow but steady course of an ancient river, it works its way into my heart.

Green, orange, red, and blue bulbous glass adornments cover the ceiling lights, though the walls are open air.   Marble staircases lead, floor by floor, to the streets below where winding streets can lead to conversations and further inspiration.  Humility bares a smile like no other.  Awe is unmistakable in the eyes of its bearer.  The horizon is ours.  I love you.

Verbal equivalent of oat meal, making it hard for your throat to seal, and your outermost coat to reveal anything daring beneath.  Jaw is agape at first, with the base of your skull, at the nape of your neck ready to burst, steady to curse, longsuffering or worse.  Lumpy in the morning, grumpy without warning, not adhering to it being the thought that counts.  Gift giving has lost the lift that its given to the living we do behind closed doors anyway.  Sticks, stones, the Ramones, and future cloans can break my bones, but words are worse, they can dissert you.  Spin your head right around on its neck, twisting up your conscience, until you’ve gotten what you want and its not what you wanted or thought it would be.  Its a good thing that things can be returned promptly with a proof of purchase.

Sitting on the floor with more layers on than before when I ran outside and played football at a middle school.  Not against the students.  That might be rude and lets remember that a group of seven means a permanent Q, and you get tired faster when it is colder out.  Its harder to breathe.  Sometimes in those ‘thin places’ where the distance between somehow feels closer or more prevalent than it ever has before.  The connection is greater, and deeper somehow.  I become NOW for the sake of not dwelling on the past or becoming unbecomingly stressed about the future.  This day is enough to suit your needs and wants.  Even if you are wearing muddy sweats while you type like I am.  Dried out.  The mud that is.  Really more like dust at this point, that is fadedly embedded into the cotton fibers.  I am a wanton cypress tree that bends to accomodate the light it receives through the window of begin though in mind and finish with physical.  Say this in a certain way and the curtain may draw to reveal this as lyrical.  Its not a big deal dot com, that my team may or not be the bomb or repeal the title of the last years’ champions as if it hadn’t happened in the first place.  I’m kicking the can and rappin about damp means to ends that both satisfy and gratify those means and make them nices.  Nieces at least that remember releases from swings to jump into leaves that have come to rest at the foot of the school yard.  Though the fool falls hard, the true renaissance man finds a way to win.  The war if not the battle, only war is bad, so you pick the word you like and put it in, in its place. 

Fingers hit the pulse of the rhythm and follow it to the source at its core even if you can’t know what’s in store in this rant.  Arcs, peaks, and troughs with occasional time in the land of milk and honey.  Only the milk is the cream of this crop, and the honey is as sweet as a honey badger’s drip drop.  You’ve had your chance to take the stage, so sit back and listen, gleaming from the gloaming, while I might cut fast or relax and glisten as I’m teaming up with whoever’s roaming. Knowing is such a bold word when you think of coming to knowing, but growing up and going through pain is one of the main shows that is worth showing.   

Search the screen for what it all means and be disappointed, disjointed perhaps, but at least flustered.  You’ve mustered up enough courage to trust your instinct even if it has brought you to the brink of disaster.  When you’ve out lasted your friends and strangers become enemies, the memories when we freeze them and bury them in the back don’t lack their potency when thawed out.  I got out of my own way and now its hot out in opposite world.  Boys and girls rise up and dream of a land in which there was no stress, no traffic, no war, and virtually no mess.  After you think of it smile and sit back and hold on to nothing less than striving for perfection.  I seem to favor the mess a fair bit, unknowing if its this or their hit to release into the air in the hopes that someone hears it.  Not just hears it but feels it.  Not just feels it but understands to it.  Not just understands it but can relate to it.  Not just relate to it but appreciate it.  Not just appreciate it, but just plain love it.  Cause above it is nothing and below it isn’t enough yet.  Which riddle do you want to unravel as the gavel comes down on if and when you travel?  How did I get here now?  My claim isn’t unique.  My talent is not extraordinary.  I just need to rant a little and lay down text to store in many places and times, with many faces on many climbs.  My body aches, but my eyes feel free, and I have past mistakes that I can still see. 

However, that isn’t the summation of me or you, or anybody for that matter.  The chatter can be overcome within those thin places that beckon to us, and that we desperately need.  Had her and him or she and he done differently then they might be doing a different thing, but is ever so important to hear your heart sing.  Cling to that now on the rooftops, wherever your hoof stops, or pauses in awe.  Remember the applause that you saw behind the sparkles across the horizon, knowing in your heart in the dark they will wisen.  Three tries then you are locked out.  Knocked out, reviewing what just happened.  The math didn’t add up and it seemed that the chap would end, something came in and said hold on.  It won’t be cold long, and the seasons will change.  This too shall pass seemed altogether strange when it was said, but it was meant in love, from heart and head to toe.  Going with the flow has just blown up the low, but I keep not knowing when I will be grown up enough to know.  Maybe never, maybe ever so soon.  Sitting back keeping pacts with a rhythm that swoons.

Waiting in line for a plane ride.  Careful not to make direct eye contact with a single individual, as this alone time is more crucial than convo at the mo. No stores or stands are open as I do not know what I would buy anyway.  Jelly Bellies for my girl? My socks smell badly enough that I am aware of their presence from the mere exposure between the cuff of my pants and the tongue of my shoe.  Vacant wheel chairs say to me that they want to be taken for a ride down the vegasesque carpet to gate A2.  However, my legs are still sore from ice skating at the Galleria, and the quiet that comes from NOT being chased by forlorn security is nice at 11:18.  Is that palm tree even real?  How many gallons of water are used daily by that drinking fountain on the left? Why is there an oscillating fan near the preboard counter in the middle of winter? Will my socks be worth a salvaging wash or the dumpster at work?  These questions and more plague my mind.  Too many questions lead down holes, through tunnels, and out to unfamiliar grounds.  My new carhartt vest comforts me even if it is more of a charcoal than a bluish gray.  Perhaps my breakfast in Houston will make up for the enema that will soon pour through the entire city.  Did I pack my insulated rubber boots?  Are they tall enough to keep me dry amidst the high water mark?  If the flight doesn’t make it I hope for three things. A) I am listening to a good song when it happens. B) I get a chance to see what all the answers are, and C) that children, if not women and friends, were better off because I lived once before boarding at gate A14. 

Sitting here.  Right here amidst the aura of a tattered self who still dares to love.  Laying here playing dear notes above a whisper and below a hum that resonate with one but touch upon many.  Simply and not so purely enduring.  Fan is silent and motionless with a devotionless forecast for the evening.  How many trances are warded off by music and red wine. These things I dream of feel ever so far removed, but aren’t.  Creating inspiration and inspiring creativity with a proclivity for madness and a taste for anything that cures the hiccups.  Curtains and blinds folded back reveal the temptations to be hollow and the lies to be transparent.  Am I?  Can the driver be reached before it is too late?  These things and more construct the ramblings of a bearded man who longs to make a mark without maker’s mark, or at least not because of it.  My surprise is that there aren’t more people talking to themselves in parks, and swooning by darkened windows. Its a life, and it happens to be beautiful whether I choose to accept it or not.

Thankful for crisp autumn leaves collected into piles for landing a jump, uplifting conversations with loved ones, changes in airline itineraries for the better, dancing with a niece, wrestling with a nephew, hugging a mom, visiting an air force base with a dad, staying up late with a brother and sister, Niners playing, drinks pouring, missing my candle, and late night writing. Thankful for benevolent actions, kind words, good poems, great songs by fireside at the beach, the yuba river, and mornings in the mountains.  Thankful for a minute of rest. Thankful for perusing attics, ice skating, cuddling up with my Baby for a good program, creative inspiration, and no need for an alarm clock.  Thankful. 

Penning fresh ink, suggesting that I care what friends think, or what they would have thought if they would have lived long enough to have thought it.  It keeps returning like a gift I bought for myself, and yet somehow I forgot that I got it.  It seems these dreams I had for myself fifteen years ago or more, I would recommend against somehow having by a different one now.  But I’m mixing metaphors even though I can’t seem to remember how.  Pushing against my temples, locking my lids, being a matter of courage to focus on intent and outcome both with some of the least among us:  kids.  How can the eventual become the present without the passage of time?  Did I forget my place, or bring disgrace to the idea of creating more?  Ferlinghetti’s poet climbing on rhyme may be risking absurdity, while I am searching for the door.  To leave.  To stay.  I could shoot you once in each knee cap with a pistol in Bristol, and shatter your nose with the blunt end of the axe.  To bring you to your knees as you brought me to mine, and laugh amidst the attacks.  I could stain your forehead with scalding coffee, just to watch the expression change on your face.  But then I would be you, and you would be too, and I don’t want to be a waste of space.  The art that is hung may not be the most valuable.  The journals that are saved may not endure.  I’m clutching at sand sifting through my hand kissing the value that will be remembered as pure.  Forgotten hymns with monotonous  tunes play in the background of a dreamscape.  My saddle blanket gathers dust in the corner.  When the hand tool punctures the slender nape, it will be too late to warn her.  Accidental misfortune.  Drunken inuendo.  Brain boiling as criticism goes in one ear and out the window.  I smile to deflect the onslaught.  I laugh to misdirect.  I stare blankly when I know that I’m caught, and I pretend to care but can’t collect.

Forts can be constructed by walls from wounds.  Windows that are opaque can conceal more than they reveal.  The stained glass landscape cannot cover over the innocence that we steal.  I want to see your eyes through the water as I drown you.  Just to see the expression change on your face.  But, I will plot and plod, knowing I am not God, unsure if my heart even has its grace.  Help me to forget the tragedy and remember the triumph.  Help me to be thankful and grateful but not dead inside.  Help me find the places in this world to flourish and be inspired, without having to go in my own head to hide.  Help me to see the light behind the clouds, to hear children’s laughter rather than cries.  Help my takeaway message not to be that my message is taken, foresaken, and denied.  The lotus is lit from behind.  The cross is lit from in front.  the moon is lit on both sides.  Years ago I called a homer.  Days ago, I waited to bunt. 

Fresh ink embodies the wet inspiration.  It conveys the message that we are here now and may not leave.  It is the embedded nature of the targets we strive for, and perhaps the reason we grieve.

Too many fragmented edges to hold, of shards kept hidden in phases of old.  Tiny cuts across palms, giving alms, holding resentment and my breath.  I sit and stare and glare outside, wondering how many moments until death.  This? That?  41 years from now with nothing left?  Visas to plan.  Cars not functioning.   Debit cards reported as stolen that I’m still holding.  What the fuck happened to this world that it became so complicated and layered?  I want simple and peace and quiet, and I am willing to leave the continent or the decade if someone is able to build me a time machine.  Too many balls in the air, whitening the few strands that I have left.  Mistrust of all authority, with meaning bereft, purposeful theft.  Weather patterns seeming extreme with videos to prove.  Replicas with Ikea frames hanging in the Lou’vre.  Begin with me to breath deeply.  Begin to give thanks amidst stress.  Help me fight on all night long when I felt at day break I had nothing left.    Too many things to try to remember.  To many appointments, to do lists, and things that break down.  It is a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and I am donning my best cardigan in brown.  Magazines display people I don’t know.  Movies in theatres I blissfully have no clue.  The yard got mowed, but heavy is the load, and sometimes I just want to be through.  Everyone has their things.  I probably have simplicity compared to most or at least some.  Dreams eventually come true or are given up and I don’t know what to say when asked where I am from.  Sitting beside water without an agenda, with only the still to greet my forehead, I might better grasp what was intended.  Rather than the frantic rush in which everything feels upended.  Befriended by a few, known by many, there is a red headed lady who dresses in green.  She talks with me and helps me see the calm when I think that it cannot in fact be seen.  I love the inspirational second, the creative minute, and the expressive hour that both save us and enslave us to the system that also gives us the written release.  The writing sometimes with rhymes feels the most alive, when the heart feels the most deceased.  Stand up.  Push on.  Sally forth, and carry on.  The show must run its course, and we might have all summer long.  A key can lock the psyche from further damage.  A joke can add an extra wall.  Something said can erase a previous advantage, and some keys break off then fall.  While the little hands reach for bread in the courtyard, and the birds wait for the scraps in the trees, I think about things like parking in driveways and how disease is quite simply dis ease.  This please and thank you might be enough to get someone excited, but the fact of the matter remains.  Pleasures flow swiftly, and water tends to settle in the basins of pains.  But the surface from the sky can still reflect an image, that is held only for a moment before it floats.  And that image might imprint itself in the mind surrounded by moats.  The draw bridge might be fortified, and the walls guarded by marksman, with the treasure hidden deep beneath.  The eyes might be wide from being denied, and from a match to firmly clenched teeth.  The fists may shake at the horizon.  Frustrated screams may echo across the hills to a paradise that cannot be reached.  Under it all, I hear a faint call, though I miss the lesson, by now, I should teach.  Let my hands come to rest on the fountain.  Let my eyes close with no need to open again.  Let my heart beat with the steady rhythm of a leaky pen that pours out the dreams of all men.  Finding the pull in the push, and finding the draw in the day.  The docket feels full, the mind is mush, with a blinding rate of decay.  This world or the next bills will be paid.  Debts will be gathered and a little credit given.  It is all a part of the mixed up thwarted attempt we each make at living.  Links in the chains may be rusty, but they hold, in the tow, up the hill.  I think when it rains and washes stains down drains, I will remain sitting still at the window sill still.  Be one of the few who actually makes a difference and laughs unlike me as I argue with my split functions.  Know that dreams make a difference to children and a different kind of a difference to adults.