the spinning stops only when
spin
each of the next nervous ones
drop
change from pockets or ice clinking
fall
like barstool apes and alcohol wipes
float
over concrete and asphalt on metal wings
splash
it's amazing how much liquid your head holds.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
19/30 2014
This cold cup of coffee
is all that stands between
me and the inevitable
oblivion that happens
when the body is decaffeinated
for long enough. I
will swill it down with
gusto and aplomb,
enjoy the minute of
tension released,
then send it all back
to its maker, swirling
in the porcelain like
a broken promise.
is all that stands between
me and the inevitable
oblivion that happens
when the body is decaffeinated
for long enough. I
will swill it down with
gusto and aplomb,
enjoy the minute of
tension released,
then send it all back
to its maker, swirling
in the porcelain like
a broken promise.
Monday, April 21, 2014
18/30 2014
Playing catch up right now. It's all good.
Rich man
big car
slow child
crosswalk
honk horn
big smile
small hands
big wave
flipped bird
asshole
he's mad?
why dad?
He's sad
I said
no hands
to hold
'cross streets.
Rich man
big car
slow child
crosswalk
honk horn
big smile
small hands
big wave
flipped bird
asshole
he's mad?
why dad?
He's sad
I said
no hands
to hold
'cross streets.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
17/30 2014
This club pulsates with so much
bad cologne my nose might detach
itself from my face like a lizard
dropping its tail to survive. A
congregation of shiny-shirted men
circle a threesome of women in
dresses made from permanent
marker and dental floss. The men
are silken sharks with nothing
on their mind but the impeccably
gelled spikes of their 75 dollar
haircuts. The leader, his popped
collar signifying dominance,
has undone the fourth button
on his shirt, separating the silver
fucking dragons on each breast
pocket to reveal a tattoo of some
forgettable saying like Freedom
or Truth or No Regrets, which
ripples on his pectoral like a nervous
pond. There is not enough liquor
in the world to make this encounter
bearable, not enough smoke and
laser to mask the spectacle unfolding
in front of my eyes. So, I gingerly
pry them from their home, place
them gently into my drink and stuff
the sockets with ice to numb the
pain. Some nights DJs are blind.
bad cologne my nose might detach
itself from my face like a lizard
dropping its tail to survive. A
congregation of shiny-shirted men
circle a threesome of women in
dresses made from permanent
marker and dental floss. The men
are silken sharks with nothing
on their mind but the impeccably
gelled spikes of their 75 dollar
haircuts. The leader, his popped
collar signifying dominance,
has undone the fourth button
on his shirt, separating the silver
fucking dragons on each breast
pocket to reveal a tattoo of some
forgettable saying like Freedom
or Truth or No Regrets, which
ripples on his pectoral like a nervous
pond. There is not enough liquor
in the world to make this encounter
bearable, not enough smoke and
laser to mask the spectacle unfolding
in front of my eyes. So, I gingerly
pry them from their home, place
them gently into my drink and stuff
the sockets with ice to numb the
pain. Some nights DJs are blind.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
16/30 2014
No metaphors.
We walked the tracks
behind the apartments
to the AM/PM. Sean
lived in a blue van
outside & wore garbage
bag diapers whenever
he spent the night -
I never told anyone he
was a bedwetter. He
never told anyone I
collected spent fireworks
because I liked the smell.
It was a good basis for
friendship. We found
quarters in a tin can
by the fence out back,
lots of them. Dividing
the haul into two piles, he
said he had enough for
his mom's cigarettes and
the neon panther poster
he'd been eying. I got
twenty of the silver -
eagled discs, more money
than I had ever held in my
hand. I bought the cheapest
candy I could find at the
AM/PM, 15 boxes of
orange Tic Tacs. This
left a lone quarter, which
I placed on the smooth
iron of the train track,
half believing I'd derail
the train, or at least
make every passenger jump
as they barreled past
my window.
We walked the tracks
behind the apartments
to the AM/PM. Sean
lived in a blue van
outside & wore garbage
bag diapers whenever
he spent the night -
I never told anyone he
was a bedwetter. He
never told anyone I
collected spent fireworks
because I liked the smell.
It was a good basis for
friendship. We found
quarters in a tin can
by the fence out back,
lots of them. Dividing
the haul into two piles, he
said he had enough for
his mom's cigarettes and
the neon panther poster
he'd been eying. I got
twenty of the silver -
eagled discs, more money
than I had ever held in my
hand. I bought the cheapest
candy I could find at the
AM/PM, 15 boxes of
orange Tic Tacs. This
left a lone quarter, which
I placed on the smooth
iron of the train track,
half believing I'd derail
the train, or at least
make every passenger jump
as they barreled past
my window.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
15/30 2014 the boy
He sits atop the high slide,
one battered matchbox car
in his hand. His knees, chubby
and scabbed, stick out at
awkward angles as he runs
the wheels of the toy over
each bump and twist of metal
in the grate supporting him.
His face a psychedelic concoction
of macaroni, chocolate, nosebleed
and electric blue,
blue,
blue eyes. They sparkle and
widen as he launches the
small vehicle down the slide,
he whoops like a neverland imp,
follows headfirst into the sand
and gathers himself in a crinkle
of diapers and motley stains.
Two hands to the sky, he throws
his head back and cheers with
an elation so primal the entire
playground nearly blinks from
existence, nearly collapses from joy.
one battered matchbox car
in his hand. His knees, chubby
and scabbed, stick out at
awkward angles as he runs
the wheels of the toy over
each bump and twist of metal
in the grate supporting him.
His face a psychedelic concoction
of macaroni, chocolate, nosebleed
and electric blue,
blue,
blue eyes. They sparkle and
widen as he launches the
small vehicle down the slide,
he whoops like a neverland imp,
follows headfirst into the sand
and gathers himself in a crinkle
of diapers and motley stains.
Two hands to the sky, he throws
his head back and cheers with
an elation so primal the entire
playground nearly blinks from
existence, nearly collapses from joy.
Monday, April 14, 2014
14/30 2014
I have a thing for repetition right now. I have a thing for repetition.
In my dream
I am running
and afraid. I
am running
and afraid and
running. There
is no air and I
am running
and breathing
in the nothing
and afraid.
In my dream
my breath
catches and
jerks in my
chest and I am
running and
afraid and it
is dark except
for the moon
and the moon
and the moon.
In my dream
I am running
and afraid and
the moon follows
and I can't
run fast enough
because the moon
is all there is
and the dark
and the fear
and the nothing
and my breath
and my legs.
In my dream
my legs are ribbons
tied to the moon
and I am afraid
to let go.
In my dream
I am running
and afraid. I
am running
and afraid and
running. There
is no air and I
am running
and breathing
in the nothing
and afraid.
In my dream
my breath
catches and
jerks in my
chest and I am
running and
afraid and it
is dark except
for the moon
and the moon
and the moon.
In my dream
I am running
and afraid and
the moon follows
and I can't
run fast enough
because the moon
is all there is
and the dark
and the fear
and the nothing
and my breath
and my legs.
In my dream
my legs are ribbons
tied to the moon
and I am afraid
to let go.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
13/30
There was a man
there was a man attempting
suicide
there was a man attempting
suicide on an overpass of the 105
there was a man attempting
suicide on an overpass of the 105
in Los Angeles.
There was a man attempting
suicide on an overpass of the 105
in Los Angeles, his feet dangling
like Chinatown ducks from the
chain link security fence. He
contemplated the scene below:
ten lanes of traffic in a city whose
name smells like smog, stopped
up with human cholesterol, people
who stepped out of their impeccable
cars to line up and take a selfie
with the jumper on their iPhones.
Somehow, in the hours that passed
with him perched on a narrow
stretch of concrete above the worst
that this world has to offer, he
must have seen something beautiful -
or perhaps at the last moment, he
realized there were places and
people more deserving of the blood
he wished to share.
there was a man attempting
suicide
there was a man attempting
suicide on an overpass of the 105
there was a man attempting
suicide on an overpass of the 105
in Los Angeles.
There was a man attempting
suicide on an overpass of the 105
in Los Angeles, his feet dangling
like Chinatown ducks from the
chain link security fence. He
contemplated the scene below:
ten lanes of traffic in a city whose
name smells like smog, stopped
up with human cholesterol, people
who stepped out of their impeccable
cars to line up and take a selfie
with the jumper on their iPhones.
Somehow, in the hours that passed
with him perched on a narrow
stretch of concrete above the worst
that this world has to offer, he
must have seen something beautiful -
or perhaps at the last moment, he
realized there were places and
people more deserving of the blood
he wished to share.
12/30 2014
My friend Fernando has invented the Fibonacci poem - a form poem following the fibonacci sequence in syllables. Here's mine.
Hold
me
tight as
angry men's
fists, your ligature:
a bonfire aflame in my spine.
There is only exhalation; once, twice - that is all.
I
drop
from your
embrace, spent.
A cooling ensues:
diaphragm contracts, chest swells like
the ocean. I miss you in all this water, come home.
Hold
me
tight as
angry men's
fists, your ligature:
a bonfire aflame in my spine.
There is only exhalation; once, twice - that is all.
I
drop
from your
embrace, spent.
A cooling ensues:
diaphragm contracts, chest swells like
the ocean. I miss you in all this water, come home.
Friday, April 11, 2014
11/30
He was nine or ten,
in the supermarket by himself
on a Friday at nearly 10pm -
short the 14 cents tax on a
two dollar slice of pizza.
It just so happened I had a
dollar in my pocket - I smoothed
it, handed it to the cashier
who smiled and said: "careful
to pick up your change,
kids like that got sticky fingers."
He winked. I wanted to grab
him by his apron and rub his
face against the scanner til his
forehead registered a barcode.
I did not. The boy looked confused
and walked outside. I think he
mumbled "thanks" on the way.
When I paid for my groceries
and stepped through the automatic
doors into the warm night air,
he was there; triangle shaped box
ajar, he held out his pizza.
"wanna share?" he asked. I took
a bite, because it seemed like the
right thing to do. It tasted exactly
like one would think supermarket
pizza should taste - but I did get a
little hope stuck in my teeth.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
10/30 2014 It's been hot.
The heat descended upon April
with a strangler's hand, shushing
the wind with frightening confidence.
Dust rose with our footsteps on
the dry trail, spring seedlings already
brittle underfoot. Even the lizards avoided
the sun this morning, choosing instead to
bask in the shade of stale colored rocks.
This should be the month of green,
our shoes whisper to the scrub oaks,
the coyote brush. So easily we forget
our base existence is desert, that this
parched earth mimics our own thirst -
California, you are a barren chatelaine,
kissing with cracked and peeling lips.
We are all masochists in your presence,
reveling in the grit and chafe, a withered
tongue, the sweltering hand at our throats.
with a strangler's hand, shushing
the wind with frightening confidence.
Dust rose with our footsteps on
the dry trail, spring seedlings already
brittle underfoot. Even the lizards avoided
the sun this morning, choosing instead to
bask in the shade of stale colored rocks.
This should be the month of green,
our shoes whisper to the scrub oaks,
the coyote brush. So easily we forget
our base existence is desert, that this
parched earth mimics our own thirst -
California, you are a barren chatelaine,
kissing with cracked and peeling lips.
We are all masochists in your presence,
reveling in the grit and chafe, a withered
tongue, the sweltering hand at our throats.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
9/30 2014
She sits in the back,
hoody up, headphones dangling
like empty promises from her
neckline. A constant low growl
plays from the forgotten buds,
a quiet snarl, a small warning.
She speaks only when spoken to,
her responses staccato and rushed
as if the words are afraid of being
found out. Her nervous eyes don't
trust anything long enough to rest
for more than a moment. She's
always looking for a way out -
the emergency exit, an open window,
the crack under the door.
A lonely magician,
she only knows how to disappear
into herself. Her body is a poor
sanctuary, though - the hinges are
all broken and the walls never
could hold back the wind.
So she sits and hides behind her book
the book she always, always has
the grimoire, black
and scarred with a thousand
names written and scratched out,
written and scratched out, they are
the runes that protect what is inside.
She opens it at a tilt, careful not to
spill whatever spells abide there;
careful to smooth a page when the
magic gets wrinkled.
Shes works on invocation
while the class discusses
nonsense with words that
sound like bricks and mortar
her lips move silent,
desperately conjuring spirits to whisk
her away, spirits to upend this desk,
the spirits of pry bars and demolition hammers
and when they don't come,
when the spirits stay bound in
those pages, as they always, always do.
She smiles tight lipped,
writes a new name on the front of her book
slides the buds back into her ears
and escapes - her tread silent as ghosts -
the bell ringing just as the door
clicks shut at her heels,
the sound is a broken spell,
the class is a cobbled wall.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
8/30 2014
For Tony
I wonder, Tony, if you would have laughed
knowing how you died. You were always
laughing, Tony. You were all chubby cheeks
and teeth, eyes squinted so hard tears jumped
from the corners. I'M NOT CRYING! before
launching into another fit of giggles & pounding
the tan wood of the desk. I wonder if that desk
misses you like I do. I wonder if it dreams of
your pencil gliding across its face; of doodles
and braggadocios rhymes.
I only saw you serious one time, Tony. You had
two days left of summer school to ensure promotion
to the ninth grade. It was hot, you had your house
shoes on, feet up on the desk like a bad 80's movie.
You got a text: best friend got jumped behind the KFC,
you sighed like a brick from a window, jumped the fence
and never went to school again. Just like that.
When that boy shot you, Tony, did his finger
point like the disappointment in your mother's
eyes? Did it curl like he did on the ground as
you pulled his snarling attackers from their prey,
fists and face and blood? Did you smile when
he stole that twomp - show your teeth at the silver
of the muzzle, did you double over with laughter
when the bullets ripped through your stomach?
Tony, did you watch your blood pool on that
balcony, drip between the rusting struts onto
the asphalt below like tears forced from squinted
eyes? I want to believe you laughed, Tony. I want
to believe you did.
I wonder, Tony, if you would have laughed
knowing how you died. You were always
laughing, Tony. You were all chubby cheeks
and teeth, eyes squinted so hard tears jumped
from the corners. I'M NOT CRYING! before
launching into another fit of giggles & pounding
the tan wood of the desk. I wonder if that desk
misses you like I do. I wonder if it dreams of
your pencil gliding across its face; of doodles
and braggadocios rhymes.
I only saw you serious one time, Tony. You had
two days left of summer school to ensure promotion
to the ninth grade. It was hot, you had your house
shoes on, feet up on the desk like a bad 80's movie.
You got a text: best friend got jumped behind the KFC,
you sighed like a brick from a window, jumped the fence
and never went to school again. Just like that.
When that boy shot you, Tony, did his finger
point like the disappointment in your mother's
eyes? Did it curl like he did on the ground as
you pulled his snarling attackers from their prey,
fists and face and blood? Did you smile when
he stole that twomp - show your teeth at the silver
of the muzzle, did you double over with laughter
when the bullets ripped through your stomach?
Tony, did you watch your blood pool on that
balcony, drip between the rusting struts onto
the asphalt below like tears forced from squinted
eyes? I want to believe you laughed, Tony. I want
to believe you did.
Monday, April 7, 2014
7/30 2014
When she left the door cracked,
my daughter gave a gift of giddy
dancing over her strewn legos;
a crane, soaring over such
kaleidoscopic chaos.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
6/30 2014
Tomorrow is my mom's birthday.
Here is a list of things I would not know if it wasn't for her.
1. If you close your eyes in a tent full of butterflies, there is no such thing as time, and the world is all fluttering. It is all crepe-paper kisses and pulse in the ears. 2. It's ok to hate soccer because they have sharp shoes and not ride a bike until you're ten and wear two pairs of socks if you know there's going to be gravel and opt for the pink converse and use unnecessarily big words in contrite situations, all of those things make you a good boy. 3. Hard choices lead to big changes. It's fine to leave a little piece of yourself wherever you pick up from. 4. Always carry a worry stone. 5. It is very rarely all about you. It is most often all about the ones you call family. 6. Love can have a thousand faces. 7. Love is never easy. 8. Love. 9. Clean your fucking room. If you don't clean your fucking room there is a high possibility all of your shit will be on the lawn. 10. Don't be afraid to fall. Don't ever be afraid to fall. You can be afraid of the hurt, but not the fall. 11. If you fall, this hand will always be there, always. You will reach for other hands, and they may or may not be there. It may be dark and they can't see you to hold. It may be late and they are sleeping. They may be holding too many things to let go and catch you. But not this hand. 12. This hand can hold as little or as much of you as you need. It always will.
I love you, Mom.
Here is a list of things I would not know if it wasn't for her.
1. If you close your eyes in a tent full of butterflies, there is no such thing as time, and the world is all fluttering. It is all crepe-paper kisses and pulse in the ears. 2. It's ok to hate soccer because they have sharp shoes and not ride a bike until you're ten and wear two pairs of socks if you know there's going to be gravel and opt for the pink converse and use unnecessarily big words in contrite situations, all of those things make you a good boy. 3. Hard choices lead to big changes. It's fine to leave a little piece of yourself wherever you pick up from. 4. Always carry a worry stone. 5. It is very rarely all about you. It is most often all about the ones you call family. 6. Love can have a thousand faces. 7. Love is never easy. 8. Love. 9. Clean your fucking room. If you don't clean your fucking room there is a high possibility all of your shit will be on the lawn. 10. Don't be afraid to fall. Don't ever be afraid to fall. You can be afraid of the hurt, but not the fall. 11. If you fall, this hand will always be there, always. You will reach for other hands, and they may or may not be there. It may be dark and they can't see you to hold. It may be late and they are sleeping. They may be holding too many things to let go and catch you. But not this hand. 12. This hand can hold as little or as much of you as you need. It always will.
I love you, Mom.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
5/30 Fishpants.
The man had a fish in his pants
a fucking fish, I tell you. And
I'll be damned if it wasn't the
most intelligently absurd thing
I've seen. He had a fish in his
pants and he told us our names
were magic. We believed him,
him and his fish, and his chicken
bones and his shoestring fishing
line. For five minutes we believed
that fish and names and pants were
magic, that shoestrings and shouting
and banjos were magic. We believed
that art could stink, and words could
flop, pale and fleshy on a concrete
floor - that our names were so much
more alive than any of these things;
our names were magic for five minutes -
which strangely enough, was just long
enough to forget exactly which name
was our own, and we schooled like
sardines to our chairs.
a fucking fish, I tell you. And
I'll be damned if it wasn't the
most intelligently absurd thing
I've seen. He had a fish in his
pants and he told us our names
were magic. We believed him,
him and his fish, and his chicken
bones and his shoestring fishing
line. For five minutes we believed
that fish and names and pants were
magic, that shoestrings and shouting
and banjos were magic. We believed
that art could stink, and words could
flop, pale and fleshy on a concrete
floor - that our names were so much
more alive than any of these things;
our names were magic for five minutes -
which strangely enough, was just long
enough to forget exactly which name
was our own, and we schooled like
sardines to our chairs.
Friday, April 4, 2014
4/30 2014
Fordham University, South Bronx, blind drunk in the middle of a field
We had one forty left between us,
sitting in that midnight field
since we could not stand.
We talked shit to the stars
until one fell. It smacked the
grass near my left foot with
a small thud, then began twisting
and squawking like a broken trumpet.
I picked her up (it was always her,
even now when I'm sober), beak
opened and closed, blood foaming
onto my knuckles, eyes bulging like my own.
I turned to the kid next to me, his mouth was open
like a railway tunnel, he said nothing
The star scratched my palms with tiny talons.
She spasmed, squeaked, and was still.
I put her in a pocket of my green army jacket,
and began to sob like a man with nothing left.
I slept in a bush that night, woke with one eye crusted
shut, and a trail of ants leading to the tiny supernova
against my chest.
We had one forty left between us,
sitting in that midnight field
since we could not stand.
We talked shit to the stars
until one fell. It smacked the
grass near my left foot with
a small thud, then began twisting
and squawking like a broken trumpet.
I picked her up (it was always her,
even now when I'm sober), beak
opened and closed, blood foaming
onto my knuckles, eyes bulging like my own.
I turned to the kid next to me, his mouth was open
like a railway tunnel, he said nothing
The star scratched my palms with tiny talons.
She spasmed, squeaked, and was still.
I put her in a pocket of my green army jacket,
and began to sob like a man with nothing left.
I slept in a bush that night, woke with one eye crusted
shut, and a trail of ants leading to the tiny supernova
against my chest.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
3/30 2014 Spam Poetry
I got a notification to check my spam folder to find an email that was supposedly sent. This made me realize that there is some serious damn poetry in the titles of these spam emails. Then I realized that "spam poetry" is a thing and actually has a website & wikipedia entry and everything. here's mine, made up completely of spam email titles - this is also the first time I've attempted a completely "found" poem.
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Wednesday, April 2, 2014
2/30 2014
I'm trying something new, which is temporal prompting, a phrase that I made up right this second. For this year's 30/30, I'm going to try and write from whatever the first thought, image, scent, sound, etc... enters my consciousness when I open this computer to begin... and so-
Hands
An out-of-body experience
should be connected to some
manner of life changing event:
a near death, the birth of a first
son, an incredible ice cream cone.
It should not be this hangnail,
forcing my eyes to regard these hands,
creases and callouses and scars.
These are not my hands. Mine
are beautiful bird hands floating
in the beautiful bluebird sky.
Mine are young hands, the pencil
indentation from furious scribbling
springs back in seconds. They are
supple and nubile and exciting
and fucking post-modern! These
rough fingers that catch on the
threads of sweaters, that hold dirt
in the lines of knuckles, that wipe
tears from the cheeks of children,
that caress the soft,
soft
soft
impossibly soft skin running from
behind her ear to her shoulder -
These are a mountebank's tools,
and I watch them work with
leery and covetous eyes.
Hands
An out-of-body experience
should be connected to some
manner of life changing event:
a near death, the birth of a first
son, an incredible ice cream cone.
It should not be this hangnail,
forcing my eyes to regard these hands,
creases and callouses and scars.
These are not my hands. Mine
are beautiful bird hands floating
in the beautiful bluebird sky.
Mine are young hands, the pencil
indentation from furious scribbling
springs back in seconds. They are
supple and nubile and exciting
and fucking post-modern! These
rough fingers that catch on the
threads of sweaters, that hold dirt
in the lines of knuckles, that wipe
tears from the cheeks of children,
that caress the soft,
soft
soft
impossibly soft skin running from
behind her ear to her shoulder -
These are a mountebank's tools,
and I watch them work with
leery and covetous eyes.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
1/30 2014
1/30
When the rain finally comes,
it will be late. I will sit, spine against
the cold window, and listen
for you like a child waiting on
his mother - the hushed patter
against the glass a thousand
watches, ticking beneath woolen
blankets. I think I am wound too
tight for finalities like these;
Southern California agrees and
collectively sighs with the soil,
I can hear it in the lawn outside.
In the morning, I will open the
door and writhe with the worms
on the cement of the driveway -
our bodies plump and washed
of dirt. Some will say, "what
elation!" others, "what torment."
We will know it is just the irresistible
unwinding that comes when the
seconds drip past the terminus
and we wake, soaked and new.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
1/9/14 Amiri
"float flat magic in low changing
evenings. Shiver your hands
in dance. Empty all of me for
knowing, and will the danger
of identification..."
- Amiri Baraka "The New World"
may your words color the minds of a thousand
blank stares. may they rest inside keyholes and
deadbolts, to rust and break. may your words
stick in craws, lodge themselves under sensitive
gumlines, and force careful extraction from any mouth.
may you write with a thousand hands, a thousand
pens from a thousand schoolhouses caging frustration
and anger. may you speak with a thousand voices
from rooftops and jail cells, from coffeeshops and
podiums, from the muffled scream of triumph or
hatred or fear or joy into the palm of a hand to hold
for all time.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
1/8/14
Miles and I have an ongoing feud regarding who can make the best dinosaur noises. Usually this competition takes place in the car after dropping Isla off at school, because she can't abide by the noisiness of it all. Today, Miles upped his game to a whole new level with some high pitched nasal screech that my vocal chords can't compete with. In truth, my guttural growling roars sound pretty tame now - which makes the competitor in me furious. I will be channeling my inner ultrasaurus bellow soon. Just you wait, Miles.
Speaking of dinosaurs, Isla's latest thrift store appropriation is nothing short of genius. It must be seen to be appreciated.
Monday, January 6, 2014
1/6/13
Isla and Miles were both saintly today. I woke up to Miles nuzzling against my neck, saying "Daddy cuddle," Isla had been awake for an hour or so and already made herself cheerios, and washed the bowl. She immediately grabbed Miles and played legos with him while I drank coffee and sat by the fire to regain my senses.
When I asked what Isla wanted to do for the day, she suggested going to Ventura to go thrift store shopping. I promptly decided that this was the best idea I'd ever heard and said I needed to change Miles, give him some yogurt for breakfast, and we'd head out. While I did that, Isla MADE HER OWN LUNCH!!! I swear I'm not making this up. Then, she got some water for miles and herself and we headed out.
She found a Mother Goethel doll from "Tangled" for $.99, and bought some dinosaurs for Miles with her chore money too, then we went to the park, and played for a good hour or so and ate lunch. On the way home, we all sang ridiculous versions of Christmas carols with invented lyrics. One was about zombies, it was fabulous.
At home, Miles fell asleep for his nap in less than 2 minutes, as Isla listened to Percy Jackson on cd in her room. Then, we broke out the thrift store painting I bought so Isla could start her new series of awesome alterations to bad paintings. Tegan brought dinner home on her way from work, and God Damn if this wasn't a great Monday!
Sunday, January 5, 2014
1/5/14
Today I sat on a rock,
surrounded by oak and pepper trees
splayed like a errant hand
and watched a hawk
dip and turn into the brush,
silent as time.
He returned in one motion,
claws clutching a stunned
squirrel - it's tail pinwheeling
against the backhand slap blue
of the sky.
He made a meal of the rodent
on an oak branch above my head,
intestines spattering the rock
like heiroglyphs.
If I could read them, I think
they might say something
about temporality,
If I could read them
I might dissappear.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
1/4/14
The new year brought a DJ gig at the Jester again - which last year added up to a handful of people in the place, since New Years was on a weekday... same thing happened again this year, although I did approach the situation with a different attitude. Instead of being upset and annoyed at the situation, I just decided to have a little bit of fun with it, so the Wild Stallions mixed Diplo with Brittney Spears, Cee Lo and Ace of Base all night long. On top of that, we got to go home early and still got paid, it's all good in Ojai.
Miles has been on a tear as of late, tantrums average one every two hours, which is almost impossible to handle, but I decided to make a timeout jar today... since I'm approaching everything with a new attitude and all. This thing is pretty rad. It's a jar filled with water and glitter glue, which you shake up and wait for the glitter to swirl and settle - it's totally mesmerizing and hopefully soothing for toddler minds. We'll see tomorrow. Or in two hours, whichever tantrum takes hold.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
New year, new try.
1/2/14
I made myself another promise, to devote 30 minutes a day to writing, regardless of how it looks. I've done this in the past, obviously the year of writing being the most successful, but I need to reset my routine to include something so necessary.
My daughter Isla is 5. This scares me, because I don't have a clear distinction between 4 and 5, or 3 and 4 for that matter - time is one of those things that makes absolutely no sense the older I get. It does not seem to bother her, however, as she is coasted beautifully through her toddler and preschool years. As of now she is completely obsessed with learning - Greek myths, how flying works, what the hell a sea anemone is good for... she needs to know. I like to make up stories that have sort of true things in them, which makes for interesting conversations because she can smell my bologna from a mile away when I'm working on a half-truth. It's fun.
Today was all about the beach. We saw some tidepools and carefully walked around the anemones, hermit crabs and starfish. We even found a dead skate - which smelled worse than my bologna. I really like the word bologna. When searching for sea creatures got old, we did what any self respecting Californian would do in the middle of winter: we went swimming. Or, I should say, Miles went swimming on accident, got sand stuck up his nose and in his ears, and then caterwauled all the way back up the 99 stairs (Isla counted) to the car. Dad should have brought a towel. I mean it was the beach. Come on dad.
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I am loving southern California in wintertime, though. I kind of forgot what cold is.
I made myself another promise, to devote 30 minutes a day to writing, regardless of how it looks. I've done this in the past, obviously the year of writing being the most successful, but I need to reset my routine to include something so necessary.
My daughter Isla is 5. This scares me, because I don't have a clear distinction between 4 and 5, or 3 and 4 for that matter - time is one of those things that makes absolutely no sense the older I get. It does not seem to bother her, however, as she is coasted beautifully through her toddler and preschool years. As of now she is completely obsessed with learning - Greek myths, how flying works, what the hell a sea anemone is good for... she needs to know. I like to make up stories that have sort of true things in them, which makes for interesting conversations because she can smell my bologna from a mile away when I'm working on a half-truth. It's fun.
Today was all about the beach. We saw some tidepools and carefully walked around the anemones, hermit crabs and starfish. We even found a dead skate - which smelled worse than my bologna. I really like the word bologna. When searching for sea creatures got old, we did what any self respecting Californian would do in the middle of winter: we went swimming. Or, I should say, Miles went swimming on accident, got sand stuck up his nose and in his ears, and then caterwauled all the way back up the 99 stairs (Isla counted) to the car. Dad should have brought a towel. I mean it was the beach. Come on dad.
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