A little time to sit pays dividends as I correct the mistakes of an earlier time.
It’s bugged me how the interior of Turboblues looked. Some of the same stupid stuff I found in Roadside Truckstop happened in that earlier book. I was never able to gather time to make these fixes previously. After all, I assembled Turboblues during a crash session in November, 2005, and revised/added as time went on. The original publication happened one late overnight at a local Kinkos as a result of my having three-day weekends. I was so astounded by the fact that I could self-publish and have it look reasonably OK that I took the beast and smashed it together.
Scanning the material in a quick proofing-editorial read (Roadside Truckstop helped me dust off those old skills), I see the personality of Turboblues more clearly than I did even when I assembled it. One of my most favorite poets is a man called Ikkyu. He was a Zen practitioner/master who lived and died five centuries ago. His was a practice known as red-thread zen. The link will take you to a short essay about him. Reading his material during the time that I did had a strong influence on my writing during that period. A lot of Turboblues is about my red thread, if you will, where the bulk of Roadside Truckstop is about the journey motif, another huge thing in my writing and in my life.
Like Roadside Truckstop, Turboblues has a personality, but is a mix of periods in my life. I was in a different place when I wrote the various pieces in these books and I was in very different places in my life when I assembled them as well.
Taken together you have me.
Am I the only one who feels this way? Why do I do this to myself? It can’t be solely for the material can it?
Starved for affection,
There is a discord
In your touch.
Please touch me.
Lips find spots
Nuzzling your neck,
For more of you.
I wish that you
Hungered for me too.
Just like this.
Please kiss me.
Vibrations in the
When you are nestled
Next to me.
Please come closer.
Don’t stand so far.
Don’t be so distant.
Don’t you starve for me
Just a little bit too?
I hate this feeling. I did it to myself yet again!
No one’s fault but mine, no one’s pieces to pick up but mine. This time I am not wallowing in sadness. I am pissed off at myself for letting this happen. A-gain.
A good night’s sleep will help. Nothing like sleep to level the head. And apparently this head is a little pin-like.
Sorry for the display. Read this quick, it probably won’t stay up for long. I needed to vent my emotion somewhere and here it is, dear reader. Sorry too for the vagueness. If you know me, and if you’ve read this blog thoroughly, you can pretty much guess what stupidity of which I bespeak.
Yeah, this won’t stay up long. Just mad at myself kids, and ranting here is narcissistic, sure. But fuck you. This is my blog. What else am I going to do? Post another poem?
I don’t read a lot of fiction, save for the literary candy of a good mystery or one of the masters of SF. My reading–actual decoding of shapes on a page–has for many years been in the realm of philosophy and its bumpkin cousin spirituality. I am fascinated by the nature of consciousness and its need–its obsession–with finding meaning and order where none actually exist.
Everyone from Dawkins to Bohm would contend that is mind’s purpose–hard-wired to see order. And from that attempt to derive meaning. Is that part of the purpose, or part of the problem?
My travels of late return me to my roots: Good ol’ Buddhism. A concept known as the Hungry Ghost.
Hungry Ghosts on cellphone and laptop.
Sipping ventis and Facebooking importantly.
Hungry ghosts tapping controllers and iPods,
Living prepared fantasies far removed,
Hungry ghosts reading Bibles and
Burning candles reverently seeing shapes
In the empty empty.
Yes sweets, god is another trinket
In the marketplace.
Another waste of the Here and Now.
Do you have nothing better to do?
Me neither, which might be the point.
I just received the proof copies of Roadside Truckstop tonight and, well, wow.
I made a few real bonehead layout mistakes, but fixed those. Other than that, I am going to be honest with you.
This is a great fucking book.
Sorry kiddies, but I have to give myself props here. Maybe it’s just the swoon from having this in my hands, you’d say, but remember I already went through that swoon a year and a half ago with Turboblues. This ain’t swoon. This is seeing your daughter on stage in her first school play and being smitten because she’s actually good.
Here it is. If you’re reading this, please go buy my book. Thank you.
I started the day sad but end the day a bit happier. I put in the last piece for Roadside Truckstop and ordered two copies from Lulu. There are still a few more steps to go, mainly to figure out what I do with this book from here. First though, I just want to see and feel the book, make sure the cover was a good choice, see how it flows from page to page.
I found a piece I wrote almost two years ago now. Dropped it into the manuscript as the last piece of the puzzle, not the last piece in the book. The last two pieces in the book were pre-determined when I assembled the first draft back in January. Roadside Truckstop always ends with a song called “Elephant Graveyard” (that goes back to 1988 when I first wrote the original pieces) and the book ends with a very short Last Word.
The last piece of the puzzle is another one of those poems that came floating up fully-formed from the depths. I called it My Prayer, and felt it didn’t fit in Turboblues. Given the mood of all the newer material in Roadside Truckstop, it seemed appropriate to include there. And here. Love to you all.
My sweet Lord,
My True Self.
I love you.
Please help me
Out of your way
As you embrace
Following the red thread to its tired old end…
Or else you just don’t give a shit
You already know
How this “Love Story”
Your open book,
Her locked door.
Shall I skip to the part
Where she “breaks your heart,”
Or are you
For the heartache?
My poetry is nothing more, nothing less, than Self teaching self. I thank you all for watching as the boy learns a lesson.
So now you understand
This feeling you have,
The mix of need and
Burns with a dull ache
Does it not?
She might love you,
She might care too.
But you know she won’t
As much as you do.
And that’s the bitch of it.
Out of sync.
The brain burns hot
In moments like these.
Creating its own universe,
Its own version of her
To love and
But it’s not her, is it?
It never is.
The one you love
And pine for
Is an artifice, my friend.
than a fool
Saudi princes and fat oil cowboys spend our drug money,
Flashing it in our faces like the dealers they are.
We hit the pipe on a daily basis going to work,
Take a hit when we turn on the light,
And turn a blind eye as our leaders rob, rape and murder,
Sending kids to death for our next fix.
Push the pedal down some more, fatso. Do it for freedom.
Or how ’bout this. Imagine the world after the smoke clears.
A utopia borne of solar silica sublime,
Collecting sunlight with rectilinear blue leaves in thousands.
No one needs to freeze or boil or go hungry in darkness.
Suddenly power is cheap and peace is possible.
Those that like money can find profit in other places.
No one need die for God and oil. The nightmare is over.