it's like walking on a trampoline|
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
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|Saturday, November 29th, 2014|
|randomly typing things up, starting now... he says... so we'll see....
laughing upside down at the laundro-mat
I forgot the detergent to wash
the welcome mat.
I put it in the drier and it caught on fire.
I never meant you to feel like that.
I only wanted your love.
Doing somersaults in a limousine
drinking Champagne with my left hand
and fondling my bride with my right––
is she really my bride?
According to the rings and certificates
we must have gotten married last night…
“What is your name again honey? Oh,
Honey, that is a pretty name, honey––
I’m not trying to be funny, let’s drive out to the lake
and live in that cozy cabin and paint, and write,
and make music the rest of our days…. and never,
not ever, not once anymore ever again feel any
need to complain.
We can explain all we want, because explaining can be fun,
and tell each other funny stories, and even spill our guts,
but I’ll be grateful for all that is,
even the pain,
and I won’t even try to explain … but, wait,
what am I jabbering about, what am I thinking, here,
have another glass of Champagne.
Ocean waves, and I wave back.
Waves whisper and I want to go back.
We all came from the water, everything did.
So soothing underwater when you’re dissolving.
swirl swirl swirl swirl
a low grade fever
a memory of a girl.
it was hard to believe.
in the past.
on a rainy morning.
when reality was thin.
and the body just wanted to be cozy.
memories like waves.
and what were they––
images with feelings attached and probably highly
a memory of a girl.
ten years ago.
how was that any more real.
than the memory of a girl in a book from ten years ago.
what is the memory for.
is it to motivate some action, or thought.
is it cellular hunger for something missing.
or is it random mechanical
abundant nature throwing of energy sparks like the sun
so voracious and bright.
|Friday, June 13th, 2014|
|experiment #1 (maybe more to follow)
I'm useless but forgotten
like a tooth that already got pulled
not a big deal except I think about it
and want to be an ornament
on the necklace of a tribal chieftain
or involved in some ritual
where I can dance.
|Tuesday, August 27th, 2013|
I saw my pet tarantula crossing the highway about a mile down the road.
Out in west Texas. Where the road is so long and straight and flat it was easy
to see my pet tarantula crossing the road. I got to him before he was clear across,
and pulled over, and stopped, and got out, and walked up to him and said hello.
He had no idea he was my pet tarantula––I told him I had named him Edward,
becasue that's the name that just popped inside my head one day. He kept
walking across the road, somewhat Gruffily I thought––and said again that
he had no idea he was My pet tarantula, and would just as soon keep it that way.
I said, Fine. Have it your way. And drove off. I'll admit, a bit disappointed and
Then I realized, well, hell, he can still be my pet tarantula whether he
knows about it, or not.
In my mind, his Is still my pet tarantula, wherever he is, and I wish him well.
In his mind, well, I probably don't exist. I hope he doesn't have some restentment
about it anyway. What did I ever do to him?
|Thursday, August 22nd, 2013|
I decided what I needed
was a blank slate.
So, I went to the store,
and bought one.
After I got home
There were one hundred
scattered around my
some were still
So, I threw them all out,
and decided I had to re-think
the whole thing.
|Monday, July 1st, 2013|
Ludicrous lumberjacks with little dogs and jungle cats
like to drink liquor but then they bicker and fight with the bikers.
Who are not ludicrous at all, but just straight up mean,
and it is clear who might win such a juiced up brawl, but
you might be surprised
because the Betty's have a say––and the Betty's are Russian babes,
who know how to play Rough, if you know what I mean.
And they like the crazy lumberjacks and like to give their lunky heads
a smack, and a whack, to snap them out of ludicrousville for
two seconds if they can.
And the other thing about the Betty's is they are seriously glamorous,
and usually tanned, and they generally wear bikinis and high heels at
most of the cocktail parties they attend.
And the bikers freeze and drag their chains and their bikes back
to the outskirts of town when they see the Betty's arrive, because
they are so hopelessly in love with the Betty's they can barely speak
when they are near them, and don't want to do nothing to displease them,
no matter how drunk, or stoned, or amped up on sterno and coke and
amphetamine they are.
So, then the ludicrous lumberjacks think they are such bad asses for
scaring away the bikers and are too completely ignorant to see they owe
practically their very lives to the Betty's, showing up the the very nick
of time, in their high heels and string bikinis, no matter how cold it
may be outside, their eyes are always bright and they like Vodka by
the shotglass and dance to the jukebox while now and then laughing and
smashing a wineglass over some ludicrous lumberjack and dragging him
and his jungle cat back to their tents.
And leave the little dogs to fend for themselves.
|Saturday, April 27th, 2013|
In my lungs
a tree of black crows
flying into the winter sky.
Their death caw echoes
off the frozen ground.
I am in the red chair
in the bird room.
Time has quit
|Wednesday, December 12th, 2012|
I dreamt I was a bicycle and had two wheels
and they each went around and around and
couldn't agree where they were going.
I dreamt I was a high school football star
and my girlfriend was a cheerleader and
I felt the energy of the sun bursting like
a firecracker in every cell of my body.
I dreamt I was a polar bear diving off
an ice berg into the arctic chill water
to catch a fish to feed my cubs. . .
|Saturday, December 1st, 2012|
water is a sleepy man trying to wake up.
the moon is the size of a bowling ball.
seaweed smells like turpentine and feels
like cold wet silk. when it burns it sounds
like fireworks of all colors into the air
popping like popcorn. and when you eat it,
it tastes the way ice cream would look if
it were invented by lightning bugs.
|Sunday, November 4th, 2012|
inky swans glide through the velvet mist
dark indigo water indigo air indigo outlines
a fiasco of roses shining red barely lit along the shore
sound of fog whispering to weeping willow painting its
leaves with dew
|Monday, October 29th, 2012|
when you were looking they didn’t see what they saw that way then
you know how the horse race goes in circles don’t ya?
but there’s always one that gets there first
and one that gets there last
and which is which
that’s real hard to tell sometimes
because like a million years from now
it might look different
if it’s all the same moment
|Tuesday, August 30th, 2011|
|Saturday, August 27th, 2011|
|Thursday, July 28th, 2011|
have you ever tried to hold on to that really
very fine beach sand and you squeeze it and
it is almost like trying to hold on to water it slips
and slides between your fingers and no matter
how you try it won't do what you want it to do.
|Thursday, July 14th, 2011|
Breakfast One Morning.... or a Thousand mornings... who’s counting.
I wake up it doesn’t matter but already my mind is saying it matters.
I ask my mind what is the matter and it says your body is the matter.
I say my body is the matter but not the spirit, I heard I am a spiritual being having a human experience.
My mind groans and says that’s what I’m saying your body is the matter.
I say what’s the matter with my body.
Exactly, my mind says, notice it, take a breath, run your sensors over and through it.
How’s it feeling? It’s in pain, right? The matter of the heart is that the body is in pain.
Yes yes yes yes yes. What shall we do? What shall we do?
Er, take care of it?
True, the body is in pain. But taking care of it puts it in so much more pain. And puts you in pain too, if I remember correctly and I’m sure I do. . . you, mr. mind, are usually whining the whole time I try to take care of the matter.
Well you just can’t win then can you.
Geez. I’ve only been away 5 minutes. Gimme a break. Don’t you have something else?
You have to have something else.
A mantra maybe.
Yeah, find a mantra. Anything. Or, hey. what about thoughts of gratitude and abundance and joy and the miraculous curious mystery of this right here and now. . . can’t you stay amazed all day and just fucking relax and enjoy it?
|Thursday, June 23rd, 2011|
|Spaceman.Dada.Robot videos + lyrics on youtube.
All the Spaceman.Dada.Robot show.
songs. videos. lyrics. info. etc.
available on YOUTUBE at this link below….
watch the videos… please… and send me an email or something.
if you looked at them, don’t even have to say what you thought if you don’t want.
If you want to read the lyrics they are available by clicking the “show more” button under the video… then click the next “show more” button and you can see all the words.
I thank Sergio R Samayoa for his tech wizardry and music and artistic genius. He is the bass player for the band, and he is the one who created and edited and loaded and etc. all the videos
and recorded and mixed all the music. Thank you Sergio!
Much more is on the way. All the other shows from EPE plus other stuff from Sergio & me from early days.
You can see all the menu of what’s coming up at
thanks thanks thanks.
more to come.
|Tuesday, June 14th, 2011|
haven't liked the prompts lately....
I'll try and get back to it, or, do my own the days I don't like theirs.
|Wednesday, June 8th, 2011|
|aus scriptworks prompt: summertime
Every morning at my parent’s summer place in Door County, Wisconsin,
my dad would take what he always, and only, referred to as an “early morning dip,”
in the waters of Little Sister Bay. I mean early. It was like a sacred ritual for him,
carried over, he said, from when he was a boy at camp.
When I visited them, he’d be back from his swim by the time I woke up,
and sitting at the big round oak table; his hands on each side of a mug of
hot coffee, an empty bowl of oatmeal in front of him, and dressed in some old,
torn up jogging suit, smiling like the Cheshire cat and the Buddha combined.
I did wake up early enough to join him a few times, though, and am forever
grateful I did. Those early morning dips have become eternal magic moments,
framed like staggered photos against the general blur of life.
He’d walk to the dock in blown apart tennis shoes without shoe strings,
shoes that were at least twenty years old or older––wearing some faded old
swim trunks with no cling left to the waist band and maybe held up by a rope
or string of twine. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford new shoes and new swim trunks,
but he’d never throw them away if they were still functional, no matter their
condition or appearance, in any way.
One morning, the waves were high like the ocean, dark clouds in the sky,
and chill cold wind from the north. It was quiet. No one around. A few birds waking up,
flying lazily around. Peace and stillness, even when the waves were whispering thunder.
We stood there a few moments, stone still, bracing ourselves, and then he asked if I was ready,
and I said yeah––and we ran the last two or three steps to dive off the dock at the same time,
the water was instantly jolting like electric shock, and I was wide awake and exhilarated
and wildly alive.
We swam a while underwater then came up for air, and he shouted “yee-haw,”
or some sort of whoop or Indian cry, and then said something corny and sweet and heartfelt
and deeply sincere, like, “Isn’t this the berries?”
|Sunday, June 5th, 2011|
|prompt #3: "I don't know what to write, but if I did, I'd..."
Clown went to school one day
and they made him write an essay
on what he did with his summer vacation:
Clown wrote–– I don’t know. It must be around here somewhere.
I can’t keep track of anything these days. Whaddya want it for?
They said no. Not that. Try again.
Clown wrote–– Awright, awright. . . I get it. . . ok. . . hmmm. . .
I don’t know what to write, but if I did I’d right all the wrongs of this world.
I’d write some big fat checks to everyone who needed or wanted anything.
I’d write it all off.
I’d write a new Bill of Rights but this time I’d name it Charlie.
I’d write a song that made the whole world sing,
and then I’d sell ear plugs.