Tag Archives: random

Ambient Words – Sketchbook Brewery

I’m on fire.

Biological state of being:
Thistles and cobblestones.

The State of the Union,
Raised in the shadow,
That little bit of tart sweetness.

His name was other names:
Two people I never met before
Up until two weeks ago.

Otherwise, I have nothing else.
A V.I.P. experience.
You got big names,
Something that can provide data,
And if it’s simple
(You probably know all this)
So just think about it.

I don’t think we can go over 10
(Every time you close your eyes).

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From the Rock in my Back

Between the close end of the pack and its unmarked center I have set foothold in the broken rocks and step press side stepped myself onto a hard perch here where the lake is not so removed and I am not too far gone to alarm the law

The near water is edges of glass over dusty mitey motey clouds licking at cool stone candy tumbling jawbreakers through silty spit and spray looking out out it is an undulation of sunlight blue and shadow green pulsed out from a hidden heart of Michigan

Exposed bones of old docks like spears stuck in the gullet of a wave out out to a horizon broken only by scattered sails of defiant insignificant boats on their way to nowhere

I am here in this nowhere as I have been on muddy tracks and hidden up in a bunk listening for thick blood rain on the cobblestones and shouts and laughter and staggered heels and silent for the threat of a knocking door or  kick-propped against green walls

Small in the company of paintings and pianos heaving breath for another long draw from a foamy cup or back to the boards and velvet all around me buried in the deep secret concert hall casket

I am here
the rock is cold
the lake is alive
I must go

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Further Notes Over Coffee

unzip my spine
make me pay attention
to the delicate brief dances of shadow
soft as cotton and sharp as life
masterwork of dull clouds
spinning sunlight as an afterthought
through lattices of black iron

held hostage to myself and my habits, i crack and lie and battle against this soft false true version of me, rolling out half-lidded and blunt-minded to stumble through a day stretched across a week stretched across a month stretched across a year across a year across a year it goes on

brief flashes and long evenings of clarity punctuate a drifting haze, dancing sparks in smoke rising from ebbing embers of a fire-eaten stick tumbling deafeningly into ash that was a tree

does the soot remember the light on its leaves? creating energy and not being burned by it

This pen, the way it scratches ink onto the page, sometimes in great dark wasteful pools obscuring the definition of an O, elsewhere in the dry desperate drag of an S, imperfect transfer of the random trembles in the tiny, memorized convulsions of my hand on this elegant tool–its sputtering flow amuses me, leaves streaks and stains where these pages press together, these records non committed to secrecy for the sake of

ha look at the way my thumb has already smeared the thoughts

i wonder what a woman so close to my left has dancing and crashing and careening off the corners and bumpers of her skull

unraveling from a hunch i straighten and stretch

unzip my spine

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Another year another place another alone (again) but not forgotten (again)

Things are opening (progressing [in progress]) moving along and as a man in a (child’s) lifestyle I can feel the shell starting to break, we’re hatching, we’re living, we’re finding what we may have been meant to be.

Sometime in the past I thought maybe I could have been a somebody, and I thought I knew not how to get there but how to find out how.  Turns out I’m wrong but I might have been right?

Anyway there’s another way.  Bring on the new chapter and if this is a good one let it be long.

In another dimension – What do I do about who I do?  She is sweet, like a sticky dessert, and the way she sticks to me is too like a cinnamon roll but I lost my sweet tooth a while back.  She is good to me and I try to believe that I am good to her, but a guilty conscience is not the same as a loving heart.  Do I love her?  I say I do, and if I am lying then I am not the adult that I thought I might have been.

Well, well, well, well, well.

Now there’s time to think.

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An empty time

Today I met a beautiful smile with shock blonde hair and a face like a kid.  She had the back of a woman and it crept out of a backless sundress like the first rays of a morning

There’s a heaviness to this lightness, a sort of weighty quandary that says okay, what now?  I’m getting older and fatter, I can feel a full roundness when I lean forward and I see myself not as I have been but as I was.  My next step is to shift out of this lazy summer skin and create someone else entirely.

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Just tell them all what it is,
what is it?

Only a series of random objects:
The Edible and Inedible / Sacred and Profane, hand-churned by waterfall and ejected or Regurgitated onto an inexpensive plate.

Nothing for a bird to see here except a little bit of pleasure in a sunny little hell. Even the birds won’t eat the dead here they say (and by they I mean myself) but I’m not much of an authority on these things

It just sounded good on paper–So an anonymous architect of half thought ideas is surely a finer recommendation

PALM TREE is an ancient sort of vegitant (which I suppose we love for its glamorous images of sunwashed beaches and tropical sunsets [monkeys, coconuts, you know the type]) I don’t know if they do much as far as plants go, THEY STABILIZE DIRT HILLOCKS maybe? But don’t quote me on that.

When palm fronds get old they tend to blow away in thunderstorms and are heavier than you’d think, the stalk inside the frond is thick and fibrous and sometimes I think it has spikes.

You know that feeling when a song intro seems to have all the right elements and then the track proper starts and it’s not the kind of thing you can dance to?  I think the more we understand that emotion the better we might understand such phenomena as love and Christmas presents.  Obviously love and Christmas are equally viable subjects for psychological investigation and my initial suggestion is only a matter of opinion.

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Death, The Life Story

Tracing a life through stories of death. Sometimes funny, sometimes not.


"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

Seal Matches

Stories & News

unbolt me

the literary asylum

Jehona Thaqi


Mugilan Raju

Prime my subconscious, one hint at a time

The Flyleaf Wordsmith

The door leading to blaring madness.

Hiking Photography

Beautiful photos of hiking and other outdoor adventures.