Year of Writing 31 Clay & Tinfoil

1/31/12

Earthen clay, when handled too often,
when pushed and prodded into different shapes
over and again,
dries and becomes less pliable.
this medium does not tolerate
trial and error;
the idea must be solid,
the form sound.
Some envy clay,
wish to be molded into shapes
predetermined by something shapeless.
Dust to dust.
I'd rather be tinfoil,
old and used
in the grasp of a child.
The outcome unimportant,
the shape dictated by whim
or fancy
or nothing at all.
useful and discarded,
a wand, a hat, a ball.
I'd rather be used to the point of deterioration;
loved until ruin.

Year of Writing 30 - the games Isla plays

1/30/12
I figure I will title these posts now, to give anyone reading them, including myself, something to search easily through.

My daughter's favorite song of the moment is "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots," by The Flaming Lips.

When I ask her what she wants to be when she gets older, she says "a robot fighter." Now, I know that three year olds like simple songs that tell stories, but this is a complex song that is completely out there. She choreographs entire dance segments incorporating what she thinks karate is with copious spinning and jumping onto chairs, simulating the battle with the robots. It's awesome in ways that I can't even understand yet. This is my favorite game right now.

Top ten games for Isla (as dictated to me)

10) You're (from now on this is whoever she is playing with) Darth Vader, and I'm Isla, but Darth Vader thinks Isla is Princess Leia, but she's really Isla.

9) You're Harry Potter and I'm Isla, but Harry thinks Isla is Hermione, but she's really Isla.

8) You're the king of the emperors and I'm the queen of the emperors and we're both evil but we are not evil to each other.

7) Party rock is in the house tonight dance party.

6) Easter egg hunt with play food.

5) You're the prince, and I'm Cinderella and you want to Marry the stepsister, but then you see me and I tell you that the stepsisters make me clean and then you make them clean and then you want to marry me and then you do.

4) You're the coach and I'm Cinderella and you have to be a pumpkin first but then the fairy godmother. But wait you're the fairy godmother and I'm Cinderella in the coach and then you can be the coach and the fairy godmother tells you (-wait, I tell myself?) NO! Nevermind, I don't like that game.

3) Candy making. But it's not real candy, it's clay.

2) Candy store. You make a list of all the candy that you want to buy and I'll make shelves with the blocks and put all the candy on them and then you read the list and I put the candy in the shopping cart.

1) Michael Jackson. (that's your favorite game?) No. I just like to dance to Michael Jackson. (ok, so what's your very favorite game?) Just play Michael Jackson, Daddy.

Year of Writing 29

1/29/12

At the suggestion of a few - inspired by Twilight Zone episode: "little girl lost," and my daughter, who went to the cake dimension.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8W7vi5Ep-o

Children's book.

Isla is a girl with big ideas.

Sometimes the ideas in her head are so big, they barely fit inside anymore.

One day, one of her ideas escaped. It ran as fast as it could toward the door, only it missed, and made a huge hole in the wall.

Isla was nervous because she had never seen one of her ideas outside of her head before, but she was a little curious too. She decided to explore the hole in the wall that her idea made.

At first it was very dark in that hole.

Then it got a little bit lighter,
and a little bit pinker.

Soon it was very light,
and very pink.

Isla looked around herself in disbelief. She was surrounded by pastries! There were huge pink wedding cakes, tiny pink cupcakes, brownies, muffins, cookies and frosting as far as she could see.

"I must be in the cake dimension," she said to herself. Then she heard a noise at her feet. She looked down and saw her little dog Charlie.

"Charlie, what are you doing here?" She asked.

"I'm about to eat some cake, of course." He replied, and trotted off toward the largest cake he could see.

Isla was astonished. Charlie didn't usually talk, unless she was having one of her big ideas.
But it sounded like a great idea to her, so she followed the little black dog.

They ate wedding cake and birthday cake, chocolate cake, vanilla cake and strawberry cake. They even tried a coconut cake, but Charlie and Isla both spit it discreetly into a bright pink napkin, because they didn't like it, but knew their manners.

Soon Isla and Charlie were stuffed. Isla looked around for the hole to get back to her room, but all she could see was cake. "Charlie," Isla said, "How do we get back home?"

But Charlie was fast asleep, snoring on a huge upside-down cake. "Oh great," Isla thought, "now I'm stuck in this cake dimension. I need an idea."

Isla sat near Charlie on a pound cake that looked remarkably like a chair and tapped her head.

Almost as soon as she did, an idea leapt out and started running. Isla grabbed the sleeping Charlie without thinking. "We can't let it get away!" she said.

They followed the idea past pink pies and tarts, past princess cookies and gingerbread men, until things got a little darker and a little less pink.

In the darkness, Isla could hear her daddy calling her. "Isla!" he said, "Isla, where are you?"

Isla followed her Daddy's voice until she could see the light from her room. She crawled out of the hole, ran into her Daddy's room and said, "here I am Daddy! I followed my idea into the wall and went into the cake dimension! It was really nice there, but I was scared I'd never get home, but then I heard your voice! I'm so glad I'm back."

Isla's daddy gave her a big hug. "You have such a big imagination," he said.


That was before he saw the hole in her wall.

Year of Writing 28

1/28/12

To the Banjo Player at the Farmers Market in El Cerrito, California

I couldn't see your face
or the banjo -
the shade curtain protecting the tomatoes
dropped almost to the ground
almost,
but I saw your left foot
tapping 4/4 blues.
I stopped,
forgot about the leeks,
the swiss chard.
There was no crowd
no pushy Vietnamese woman
no squalling child.
Just a foot tapping,
a shoe, worn to the point of discomfort
and the homesick twang
of an instrument
too far from its occasion
a man too far from his hearth.

Year of Writing 27

1/27/12

Today Isla got in trouble. It was nothing big, she just stopped listening to mommy and daddy. Normally, if something like this happens, she just goes to her room for two minutes, explains what she did or didn't do, then it's all good. This time was different. We were at a restaurant (the worst possible place you can be with two children under the age of 18), trying to wolf down some asada picada and enchiladas before Miles lost his shit, when Isla decided that she didn't like her chair anymore, or her shoes. Tegan reminded her gently, "we wear shoes in a restaurant because the floor is really dirty," then "please get back in your chair, the waiter is carrying something really hot."

Response: "no."

Counter: "I'm not asking you, Isla, Mommy told you to get into your chair while your eating."

Response: "I don't like chairs."

Counter: "I am going to count to three. You need to be in that chair or else we will leave now, and you will have time out at home for THREE MINUTES" (at this point it is important to note how previously I said at home her time out is two minutes). "one, two, three."

Response: going prone across all chairs so that Tegan can't sit down. (note to future Isla: if Mom is already pissed off, DON'T PUSH HARDER! )

At this point Tegan marches Isla out to the car with Miles, leaving me with three quarters of a plate of food, some random stuffed animals that had accompanied Isla to this restaurant, and a diaper bag. "Uh, could I get this stuff boxed up and the check please?"

When I got to the car, all hell had broken loose. Isla was sobbing inconsolably, and looking for commiseration, howled: "My mommy said I h h have to b b be in t t time out for three m m minutes when we get hoooooooome! Waaaaaaaaaaaa!" Dang! Talk about your rough punishments. I responded like any good hard ass father would: "Isla, your Mommy and I love you very much, and we always will, no matter what. Sometimes the things that you do are not safe or not very nice, and that's when you have to go to time out." Reasonable, right?

No.

Now she really starts wailing - which continues the rest of the way home. However, now somehow the 3 minute time out has morphed into "I don't get any dessert or treats for two weeks," What? "I don't get dinner for 30 weeks." What?! "I don't get any love for any weeks at aaaaalllllllll!" Ok, hold on drama queen. All you have to do is go upstairs and sit on your bed for 180 seconds while you read a book or some crap, seriously. No love for any weeks? What the hell?

Then we got home, and she screamed herself all the way upstairs and yelled INTO the baby monitor so we would understand just how completely unfair the situation was. Tegan and I now had exactly 3 minutes to eat the dinner we had abandoned at the restaurant - it tasted like defeat. Down comes Isla Hannah Gardner, puffy eyes, looking like she just watched an Old Yeller marathon. She says: "I'm calm now. Who wants to read me Supermarket Mystery?"

I do, Isla. Come on.

Year of Writing 26

1/26/12

Another addition to the postapocalyptic story:


We wait. The roads have cracked and sprouted green and still we wait. The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges and still we wait. Some say he will come on a winged beast, large enough to block out the whiteyellow glare of the sun. Some say he will tunnel through the earth and burst through our bunker walls. Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers, with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted, the chemical fog will dissipate, and we will stumble into the world once more.

I was born here in this steel and rivet cistern, like so many others around me I have known nothing but its cool grey embrace. It was built in the before times, the green times, when people used words like "precaution" and "perhaps." Now everything is in past tense, unless we speak of the deliverer. It is not small, as cisterns go, once, I walked the entire oval of its perimeter - starting at the solid metal plate locking the ladder and got back in about 25 minutes. I got a lot of strange looks that day - we generally stay to our areas of the cistern unless there's an all-call, and that means something serious has happened, which is not very often. Nobody talks about who built our prison, our home - but most of the manuals and literature in here is marked with military insignia; the U and S intertwining around an angry looking bird of some kind. One of the men who controls the ladder told me that birds like that used to be all over the sky. It seems impossible. But then again, so does the sky itself.

Nobody younger than 16 has ever been up the ladder, and even when you reach the age of adulthood, only the rovers go up and out. They rarely come back.

Year of Writing 25

1/25/12

So six years ago now, I created a school. It was a lot of work: the 2 other founding teachers, the principal and I would meet twice a week for an entire year until 8 or 10 PM while we were still teaching, completely unpaid, in order to realize our dream of a project-based learning school that was solidly rooted in the Fruitvale community of Oakland. After the year of planning, and an intense summer session, we opened our doors: United for Success Academy was born. That first year was completely insane. I remember meeting every day after school for procedural things, then every Sunday I would meet with the other Humanities teachers to plan our units. Every Sunday. All day. We were wildly successful in some areas - we had 100% of our families attend student-led conferences, when the school before us had less than 15% attendance, we were featured twice in the Oakland Tribune, once on the front page for our Student Expo, where 7th graders attempted to apply lessons from World History to solve the problem of violence today on the streets. It was also really difficult in some areas, we had the same population with the same problems as before. But, we were moving in a positive direction, and it felt good.

Then, after that first year, everything started to unravel. We were given notice late in the summer that we would be enfolding the students from a failing school at our site, giving us a little more than 2 weeks to find teachers for 100 extra kids. Teachers that may or may not have bought into the grueling system we had created, and would need to run for the next two years to create a cohesive 6th-8th grade curriculum that was sustainable in the long term. Then, we decided to un-core the classes, to separate the Humanities. Next, we had a teacher negate our scores for testing, making it possible for our school to be taken over. Our principal quit, we received an inexperienced new principal, and so on and so forth.

I have been spending this last year working half time as a creative writing / art teacher. I love it, it's exactly what I want to do, but I also realize that I am slowly saying goodbye to this school. I am taking steps back, quietly, from the hallways I've walked for the last ten years. I am carefully untangling my emotions, my care, my soul from this Fruitvale neighborhood, from these kids who I have laughed with, yelled at, teared up while listening to their poetry, comforted their parents at funerals, and loved with all my heart. It is a delicate process, and it's imperfect, there are strands of me here that can't be unwrapped from their embraces, and that's OK with me too.

Year of Writing 24

1/24/12

She's not like other three year olds. I mean, she has her fair share of Barbies (princess Barbies no less), but she spends hours introducing those Barbies to her Star Wars action figures, in some strange matchmaking ceremony that I really don't understand, although I do have to make most of the sound effects. The new thing is Zombies. We tell zombie stories , she asks Zombie questions (Daddy, if I have no blood in my leg, will it turn into a zombie leg?), and most recently - we have zombie picnics. A zombie picnic is pretty freakin' awesome. What you do is lay out a blanket on your living room carpet, set up a bunch of stuffed animals, like all of them - then commence to eat their brains. The best is the flavor comparisons; how the pink bear's brains taste like strawberry pie, the alien's brains taste like lime jello, etc... She does draw the line, however. When I tried to sample our little dog Charlie's brains, she put her foot down. "No Daddy!" She said, "that's too real. He's a real dog." These are the heartwarming moments when you realize that you are not raising a sociopath, just a great kid with a penchant for the macabre.

bukowski

1/23/12
The pantoum is an ancient form poem from Indonesia. 1-2-3-4, 2-5-4-6, 5-7-6-8, 7-3-8-1

Pantoum for Isla

All hair tangles, scabs and sticky fingers
she twirls in the center of the room
daring the earth to match her spin,
she stops and giggles into gravity's embrace

She twirls in the center of the room
unencumbered by the eyes of men
she stops and giggles into gravity's embrace
spreads her fingers against the floor and grins

Unencumbered by the eyes of men,
her collapse orchestrated by strings of joy
she spreads her fingers against the floor and grins
the bliss of youth is static on her skin

Her collapse orchestrated by strings of joy
daring the earth to match her spin
the bliss of youth is static on her skin
all hair tangles, scabs and sticky fingers

Year of Writing 22

1/22/12

My son is four months old today. He is a beautiful boy, although a month or so ago, he looked a little more like a grub than a human being. His eyes now shine luminously, and even though that is redundant, it somehow isn't when you are speaking about those eyes. They are a light blue, like the sky in San Francisco right after the fog burns off - and he already knows exactly how to use them. He catches your gaze with his own, and in doing so, snatches the breath right from your chest. As you fumble for words of greeting, he holds that gaze, searching both your eyes for all the beauty that lies there, and then explains in the simplest terms how perfect the world is. This dude is going to break hearts, without even understanding how.

I can't wait to be there to see it.

Year of Writing 21

1/21/12

Thom Gunn was my mentor at Berkeley from 1999-2000. He was in his 70's when I was in his workshops, and would walk in with a leather jacket, scuffed black leather boots, and an air of intense cool. He died in 2004, after living very hard. He was a member of "the movement" in the UK, then moved to San Francisco in 1960, where he met up with the beat poets, and never looked back. His poetry is spare and usually rhyming - he is one of the few poets whom makes serious use of Heroic Couplets*, which I never attempt in my written poems. So, here goes.

* a heroic couplet is a rhyming couplet written in iambic pentameter - started by Chaucer in the 1300's

Thom Gunn

Now San Francisco's lost another queen
cocaine, black tar and methamphetamine
his head bent back, it rests against the couch
eyes closed, eyes closed, to Bethlehem we slouch.

a class across the bay sits empty now
a table strewn with books that breathe somehow
his boots still stomp the halls in search of those
whose fancies push the boundaries of prose.

and when the classroom fills with hopeful souls
fresh pencils in their hands, they shall extol
the one whose shadow shapes each written word
the one who still believes this is absurd.

Year of Writing 20

Today I took my daughter to go see "Beauty and the Beast" in 3D at the theater. Besides the fact that I already knew she hated 3D glasses, and would watch the entire thing in all of its blurry glory, I gave in to her desire - even though I made a pretty strong case for Tintin. I actually really like "Beauty and the Beast," it has a super comedic villain, a smart bookish heroine, hella gothic architecture, and a motherflippin' BEAST. Anyway, at the movies my child is not one to hide her emotions: when she's excited, she claps. When she's sad, she sobs. When she's confused, she asks. AND, when she's scared, she shrieks. So, when the wolves begin to attack Belle, naturally Isla shouts and covers her eyes. Immediately the SINGLE MAN AT "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST" behind me groans. Then, as Beast gets mauled by the savage creatures, Isla protests loudly "No! Not the Beast!" At which point said SINGLE MAN AT "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST" taps me on the shoulder to say: "hey, do you think you could get her to keep it down." I turn, remove my 3D specs and say "are you fucking serious? She's 3." Not much of a response, so back to the movie. Now - fast forward to the climax. Gaston is hunting the Beast through the castle. He sits, forlorn and heartbroken staring at his withered rose. Gaston raises his bow to shoot, Isla WAILS. It wasn't a long wail, just a pained "Oh!" and jumps in my lap, hands covering her eyes. Now, Mr. SINGLE MAN AT "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST" raises his hands in disgust and shouts to the movie theater - "This is ridiculous! How am I supposed to watch a movie like this?" Now, my fist was actually balled up. I've never hit a man in anger, but this could have been the time. Luckily, the large German woman sitting to his left grabbed him by the collar and said "You. Shut. The. Hell. Up." very, very slowly and with great enunciation. That killed that. She's totally my hero. As for Isla, I hope she guffaws at every lame joke, jumps at every creak of a door, and sobs for every heartbreak on screen for the rest of her beautiful life.

Year of Writing 19

1/20/12 2:20 PM

Yeah - now the dates are all screwy. Doesn't matter. Today is my first complete day taking care of both kids together. It has not been a complete failure. I can totally do this. (picture stewart smalley chanting into a mirror, if you're old enough). Seriously though, it has taken a complete shift of focus. This is work - and as such, I needed a plan. Hour by hour - no messing around. Check it (tegan leaves at 6:45AM)
7-8AM: Breakfast (waffles, strawberries, blueberries)
8-9AM:Miles nap - Isla Star Wars death star block buildng adventure
9-10AM try to feed miles (mildly successful) - Isla art time clay candy making factory
10-11AM library (closed) - bookstore (open) to get "zombie in love, a picture book"
11-12 miles nap 2 Isla - lunch (quesadilla, strawberries, jello).
12-1PM try to feed miles 2 (meh) Daddy School (line shapes - vertical, horizontal, diagonal, curved -writing the number and word 1 one, recognizing numbers to 20 - cutting & pasting - dictating a story
1-2PM Zombie picnic extravaganza "braaaaaaaaaaains"
2-3PM miles nap 3 (10 minutes. ugh.) music time - dancing to the decemberists on acoustic guitar
3-4PM screen time, walking around endlessly with miles.
4-430PM - get ready to go.
5 - 8 MOVIES!!!!!


wait - it's only 3? oh good lord.
1-2PM

Year of Writing 18

1/18/12

Continued from 1/13 - maybe the editing and revising and adding process will be entertaining (for myself)

We wait. The roads have cracked and sprouted green and still we wait. The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges and still we wait. Some say he will come on a winged beast, large enough to block out the whiteyellow glare of the sun. Some say he will tunnel through the earth and burst through our bunker walls. Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers, with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted, the chemical fog will dissipate, and we will stumble into the world once more.

I was born here in this steel and rivet cistern, like so many others around me I have known nothing but its cool grey embrace. It was built in the before times, the green times, when people used words like "precaution" and "perhaps." Now everything is in past tense, unless we speak of the deliverer. It is not small, as cisterns go, once, I walked the entire oval of its perimeter - starting at the solid metal plate locking the ladder and got back in about 25 minutes. I got a lot of strange looks that day - we generally stay to our areas of the cistern unless there's an all-call, and that means something serious has happened, which is not very often.

Year of writing 17

1/17/12

Ok, so I totally lied about that last date on that last post. Whatever. I did spend ten minutes writing, and that's all that counts.

I'm a little worried about my wife. Today she came to me with a Carrows ad for a "Bananas Foster Multi-Grain & Nut Pancakes Combo," saying "this sounds so good!" or something of the sort. Now, I'm not a food snob or anything, but I do know that anything from Carrows is far from good. I also know that anything from Carrows starting with the phrase "bananas foster" is far from far from good. What worries me most is that Tegan ISN'T EVEN PREGNANT! She legitimately wants to eat this crap. I might have to have a food intervention, or at least take her to someplace that doesn't serve breakfast all day long in order to save our marriage. I mean, my sanity. Oh, wow. I just turned the ad over to find "Creamy Chicken Pot Pie Bread Bowl," with its cousins "Savory Beef Stew" and "Spicy Steak Chili Bread Bowl." I better hide this now before we actually have to go to a diner. Ugh.

***Disclaimer: I will eat the shit out of the Carrows Appetizer Sampler Platter. I don't even care.

Year of writing 16

1/16/12

I missed a day because of my liquified insides - so here's a makeup.

At three, she's a maelstrom
hair defying logic
dance moves that dare you to keep a straight face
her questions are burningly relevant
"Daddy, if my leg ran out of blood and turned into a zombie, would the rest of me turn into a zombie too?"
"Daddy, why is it called a kleenex and not a tissue?"
"Daddy, is Michael Jackson real?"

Year of writing 15

1/15/12

I hate when the things you love turn against you. We drove back from Ojai today with hopeful hearts and such. Along the 101 in Atascadero, there is a in n out burger, the one fast food place I can eat without feeling like I want to punch my stomach in the neck. We ordered # 2s, mine with the hot peppers inside, and commenced with devouring. Even Isla getting in on the action, wolfing down fistfuls of fries (daddy, do wolves wolf down things?). About an hour later, I started getting a mite queasy, but chalked it up to carsickness. We had two and a half hours to go, so I was pretty miserable. When we finally made it in the door in Richmond, I hightailed it upstairs to sleep off the effects of the car. Not so much. In 5 minutes I was on the toilet barraging the porcelain with a torrent of diarrhea. Then things started to get strange. I was feeling really off, and getting nervous, so I enlisted the help of my wife, who has the misfortune of being a nurse as well as a beautiful human being. I think the conversation went something like this: "tegan!"

" yes, Aaron"

"I think spmething's really wrong with me."

"Why? what are you feeling?"

"i just had bad diarrhea and now it feels like my arms and legs aren't part of my body any more."

To her credit at this point she didn't even smirk. Instead, I felt a rumbling in my gut and ran back upstairs. This time I misinterpreted the orifice which was attempting to expel its contents and had to reverse position on the toilet just in time for the first outrageous heaves that would leave the hamburger in the toilet, if not a little more blended. I can think of few things less pleasant than heaving into a receptacle which had just prior contained extremely messy diarrhea. To top it all off, our toilet is one of the water saving models, and takes what seems like several eternities to refill and this be able to flush once more. The highlight of the next five or ten visits to the bathroom was sitting on the toilet mid expulsion, while attempting to vomit into the bathtub AT THE SAME TIME! If I didn't feel like death being slapped by a poisoned hamburger, I would probably be proud of myself.

Lesson learned. You can't trust anyone, not even in n out burgers.

Year of writing 14

1/14/12


The street cries quietly.
a girl in pinstriped shorts
slides her feet through oak leaves -
she bathes in the crumple and tear

a white truck sits on block,
its engine rusting, partially covered
by a tattered tarp. Its windows
all corner cobwebs and grime.

Cactus thrives, the thick prickly pear
trunks tower over foxtail and cigarette butts,
its wide paddles pockmarked and scarred;
each one a face, each one a name.

Year of writing 13

1/13/12

We wait. The roads have cracked and sprouted green and still we wait. The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges and still we wait. Some say he will come on a winged beast, large enough to block out the whiteyellow glare of the sun. Some say he will tunnel through the earth and burst through our bunker walls. Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers, with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted, the chemical fog will dissipate, and we will stumble into the world once more.


We'll call this start #257 for a young adult apocalyptic fiction novel. I don't know what it is about the end of the world that fascinates me so. Actually, I think it's more what is left afterward that is so intriguing. I also wonder if in places like Afghanistan or Iraq, after a war, this isn't a reality for people who survive. That is in itself a story, albeit one which I am far from qualified to write.

Year of writing 11 & 12

1/11/12

There's a new morning ritual at my house. It goes a little something like this -
Isla: Dad (her serious tone), are werewolves real?
Me: No sweetie.
Isla: Dad, do werewolves come out in the daytime, the nighttime, or some other time.
Me: Well, they're not real - but the ones in the stories come out at night on a full moon.
Isla: Oh.... Dad, are wolves real?
Me: Yes
Isla: What do wolves do?
Me: They do wolfy type things, like howl or hunt for food or take care of their wolf cubs.
Isla: But do they eat little girls?
Me: Not that I've ever heard of. Why? Are you scared of a wolf?
Isla: No dad, are you?
Me: Not really.


This conversation has played out in it's entirety three times now. I can't tell if it's a little red riding hood thing, or if it's just an active imagination, but I'm starting to second guess the werewolf thing now. Next full moon I got my eye on her.

1/12/12

Today we went down south for Tegan's interview. This move is getting more and more real.

101 South
The sun rises on
a silhouetted oak
emerging from the mist
in this field, alone

rain has been slow
this winter - the grass
brown and patchy
the dirt cracked

The ocean teases as
the sun burns through
peeking through sleepy towns
then disappearing behind hills

when it shows its face
once more, it is braggadocios
twinkling diamonds on
gunmetal peaks and valleys

we point across lanes
to a pod of dolphins
their movement looks like joy;
looks like home

Year of writing 10

1/10/12

I love teaching creative writing. Especially to junior high school kids - there is no other time when a kid can go from "I don't have any ideas for a character" to "he's a gorilla who lost his forest when people built a mall, so he became bionic and now he uses his super strength to break in the mall every night and cause pandemonium." in like 5 minutes.

Other story/comic book character ideas from today:
The world's most stealthy ninja, who reveals herself to be a shy middle school girl.
An insane cupcake, bent on ruling the kitchen.
A werewolf gladiator, fighting to restore his freedom from captivity.
A graffiti writer who happens to be the son of the anti-graffiti task force commanding officer.
A mutated spider crossing guard, who can't understand why people don't like him (yeah, that says crossing guard).
A mild mannered father of two kids who has a terrible secret: he is an alien, sent to Earth to destroy it.
The most intelligent barnacle on earth, biding his time on the bottom of a whale.
A humanoid burrito superhero, whose weapon of choice is a jalepeno sword.
Chuck Norris. ( "come on," I said - "you can't just create somebody who already exists" )
OK then, Chuck Norris' bacon. Baaaaack from the deeaaaaaaad. (shrug, "ok, why not")
A sparkle eater. (this is by far the most intriguing character)
and.... wait for it....
Yo Mama. (applause)

Year of writing 9

1/9/12

As kids we were all
chapstick and chewing gum
fingertips and butterflies

This is the beginning of something, or perhaps the middle - but the image is all I have. The closest things to me are the hardest to write - why is it that the people closest to me dance on the tip of my tongue, that the closer something gets to my heart, the more I want to couch it in irrelevant details or overdone prose? I'm pretty good at writing pain - so as my life has become full of joy, the writing tends to dry up - the words won't come. Maybe it's because they don't have to, but that feels like a cop out. I want to express what is real, not just what is sad or upsetting.

The lines creeping out
from the corners of her eyes
are shy now, testing the waters
each gray hair a treasure
a reminder of the miles
we've traveled together
hands tightly clasped
around the stick shift
of a little red car

MAaaaaan this is hard.

Year of writing 8

1/8/12



By the time I knew him
they were gnarled, wrenched
but gripped like the pliers
holding steel to grind

his handshake softened
before he let go, betraying
a gentle heart
beneath his stained shirt

how it must have felt
to be steel in hands like his
the metal lost its rigidity,
lost its gravity

now his hands rest ashen,
awkwardly entombed
in a maroon plastic box on my shelf
too rectangular, too geometric

I wonder if his sculptures
pine for strong hands
as they patiently wait on pedestals,
steel tears dripping upward


In memory of Lou Pearson 1925-2005

Year of writing 7

1/7/12


Sometimes everything is perfect. Sometimes a pie plate is Darth Vader's helmet, all you need is a pair of scissors and the string from a birthday hat.

Her eyes
deep chestnut
search for joy
in every face
every cold corner
of this house

a blanket campfire
a pie tin mask
these are her handmaidens
a line of figurines
keep whispered secrets
under hard plastic hats

some days the world
opens wide and brilliant
under this roof
some days her eyes
are endless

year of writing 6

1\6\12


After being a DJ for the last 10 years or so, there are a few things that I have learned about life.

1) Montell Jordan is the great equalizer for people 25+ of all races. This IS actually how we do it.
Montell

2) people have no idea what music is good for dancing. this is highlighted by the most ridiculous requests ever. "do you have gregorian chants? no? how about any cannibal corpse?"

3) human beings are forgiving. So what I just played my favorite underground hip hop song and cleared the dance floor, here comes Bell Biv Devoe and high fives all around.

4) people put way too much emphasis on the DJ as a person. honestly - a dj is a jukebox with a little more skill... enjoy the night, enjoy your friends, laugh, then buy me a drink at the end.

5) the day you forget your business cards is the day you get approached for a "big deal" gig. Every time. goobers have my cards. important people get a napkin with my facebook scrawled in sharpie.

6) music is not work. that's why it's rad.

Year of writing 5

1/5/12

third and jefferson

razor wire, brick, and concrete
Hold jack London's ghost
In a stiff embrace

Streetlights form
A sad parade
A spotlight for broken bottles

Rust attaches itself
To door handles and chain link
desperate, slow

I'm here early again
Waiting for the people
To spill down the street

Like an upturned toy box
I watch them line outside
And wonder who will be left behind.

Year of Writing 4

1/4/12

Dentists. I hate them. When I was between the ages of 4 and 11, they were innocent enough - arrive, read HIGHLIGHTS for children, sit in the big chair, put some foul pink silly puddy looking goop in a ill-fitting mouthpiece into your maw and drool out the side of your mouth until you get a sticker. Easy. My picture was up on the wall at the dentist in Seattle with at least 6 gold no-cavity stars by it. I was ballin'.

Then 12 hit. The years of frivolously tossing my paltry allowance at candy vendors had finally caught up with me. A cavity. I remember it well - the dentist smirking as he brought the x-ray over to me in the chair, the sour metallic taste of the needle, the whine of the drill, the inadequacy of the numbing agent, the neverending ache of jaw muscles and tendons... you get the picture.

I have gone to the dentist many times since then - 95 percent of them with the same result. I think I have a complex. My wife Tegan suggested Adavan. I suggest laudanum. Regardless, I went to the dentist today. NO CAVITIES! NONE! I felt like I was 7 years old. No gold stars or polaroid on the dentist's wall though, just a glow in the dark lizard. And my daughter gave me that. Oh yeah, she went to the dentist too. She likes the dentist. All in good time, my sweet, all in good time.

--------------

year of writing 1-3

The Year I Write.
1/1/12

This year I've decided to make it my resolution to write every day for at least 10 minutes. Whatever that may look like. Writing has been slow coming to me for the last few years and I feel out of practice, sluggish, frustrated, and inadequate when I finally do attempt to put pen to paper – or in this case, fingers to keyboard. I may try and experiment with form, continue to write toward a novel, or simply rant here on this paper, in the hopes that it may spark something creative, something that I can feel proud of.

Oakland

I will be leaving you soon
you concrete bludgeon
you sad mother
I tried to hold our babies tight
against my chest
tried to calm the flutter

you whispered in my ear
when I arrived
green words, gold words
you were beautiful;
cracked, leaking,
holding your fingers
crossed behind your back

I will miss your calloused
fingertips – tracing lines
tight around your children
wrapping them in chalk
feeding them acorns
leeching the tannins

be good to your sons
teach them to hold
forefinger and thumb
curled in
teach them the language
of tree forts and charcoal
paint them in a color
less red
1/2/12

The second day of any type of activity one strives to make a habit is infinitely harder than the first. For me the writer, the blank screen is tortuous. It offers everything and nothing at once – the perfect conundrum – I have unbridled control over what is put down, but no idea to write about. I do give myself permission to continue this silly stream of conscious drivel then, for as long as it takes until something actually happens – but that's mostly because no one will see this.

White
the kind of bright
that hurts.
Just a little at first -
it needles at your skull
behind the eyes
gaining strength
as characters
on conveyor belts
move left to right
enter
shift
new line

Great. It’s day two and I’ve already started writing poems about not being able to write poems. Please, let this be a phase.

1/3/12

Movement and transition don’t always sync up the way I wish they would. I can’t wrap my mind around what I should be doing to facilitate this time of flux. It’s a strange feeling, I am filled with an energy, but no focus - I find myself packing and repacking the same box of books over and again - removing one or two, then replacing them. It’s a little disconcerting. hopefully by the time our move is a reality I’ll be more effective at moving through space.

I saw a cat yesterday on the sidewalk near the BART station. It had been hit, probably recently, and its eyes were open. It looked almost like it was a snapshot of a kitten in play, but it’s limbs were all wrong, stuck in improbable angles.

The wind tousles her fur
gently
like a tentative child
her twisted back
lies against pavement
and sky
her body is a contradiction
limbs splayed obtuse
a fly lands on one innocuous canine
an emboldened soldier
a last kiss

Sometimes these poems will be junior-high in nature - but I am a junior high school teacher and everything.