Perpetual Notion

And after you have taken your pen out
you will see that everyone is a writer
for good or for bad
everyone is a writer
words creep out of everything
only to end up on everything else
trying to say something new
can best be done by closing your eyes
because if you see anything
you will see whatever you wanted to share
is shared
all that you could muster to say
is said
everyone has a story to tell
and we are running out of ears
your pen is out
wet
and everyone is a writer

dHb 10-29-07

Tonight is a slightly different Haiku. A friend and I, once at a coffee shop, created more of a free-verse haiku. The method: he writes one syllable, I write two, he three, me four, and so on until deemed done. He has stepped back home from Alaska, and we once more have done it, four of us in fact…

Touch
sour lips
if blood drips
use tourniquet
to quench the flow of
consciousness beneath a
a boarded plank bridge which shifts
swaying in the November wind
on this night, the last child of the month
why is it that the cheese continues on?
My bull-dog named Zed rode a pinkish skate-board
fire water spiked with sugar, chase with hip hop.

“Patience is no longer a virtue. It is just another thing, a fact. A detail such as a color. It could be black or white. It is not absolute in its placement, always good and never questioned. I question it. I am done with it. No longer second nature but a seatbelt to a dead car. It holds me tightly to a road going nowhere. I have lost patience, and will be better for it.”

dHb 11-6-07

For a year and a half I have made it a ritual to journal everyday. The entries are quite wide in scope, subject, and coherence. The weblog is an effort to write for an audience beyond myself, but now and then I may let a journal entry sneak in. In the instance that I categorize an entry as “verbatim,” I am pulling something directly from my journal and publishing it unedited. Poor grammar, ranting, and likely made-up words plague such entries. And yet in sharing it, I apparently recognized some semblance of value.

“Anxiety is the mother of the stagnant child. Get up get off your ass do something or get a switch. There is no restraint on the value of hurt that can should will be applied to the do nothing bag. Crucify yourself just so you get up within three days and birth an idea that walks. We have no use for a mind fart destined to linger and fizzle. We need to kick such things right back up the pants. Do nothing do something they die they are in finality a use to society because they make the living all the better for the rest the doers. Their death is a contagian as the quota must always be of some doing some not. The not die to beget more nots. Trim the fat and reassess what fat is then trim some more. We will not have a society of doers makers creators and those that push things forward. There will always be the place of the loaf. The next head on our chopping block cornerstone keystone fulcrum of eternal balance. A pain in the ass head foot eyes to the fingertips anxiety is. It crawls through the skin as an unwanted guest but wanted just the same. Making the person allergic to stagnance by shifting them so consistently that there is no position of comfort. The eyes lose the focus of everything that is unimportant and that is everything so they just roll as marble until the focus catches something and holds and that is the only thing worth doing the only thing. Wait for it wait for it…

I have taken the position of the dominant idea. I do not own it yet. But I will keep the space vacant for when it comes. The books I have along would just stuff my holes with pillows and pervert me to other wonderings. I have no space nor time for such fluffy perversions. The neon light blinks vacancy with an asterisks. The fine print will inform any asking such details that there is space but only for one. Perverts need not apply. Another asterisks, this one clarifies perversion, anything that is not what I want in my head. Where is my idea? I sit in ready wait.”

dHb 5-22-07