14 Apr 2014

Easter Waxes (The Rest Of It Wanes)


Lent, in its pale hearse, has rattled
almost by and I remain unchanged.
Closer to death
but no wiser for it.
When I was a child, my mother
once told me the world was good
and offered as proof
maggots and buzzards
and their unquenchable mouths.
“Better than a world full of dead things,” she told me.
Better, indeed.


Except this is
a world full of dead things.


What started with ashes and snow—
that seamless wind like one long cruel word
hissed for weeks from between the dried lips of a witch,
that pallid gray sky like an aged smoker’s lungs
giving up and given up on,
those heating bills that would not dip, though
we could see our breath as we lay shivering
beneath piles of quilts—
What started it all has turned
preeningly into a baker’s dozen of warms and greens.


Now, the crocuses and daffodils
stand along fence rows and mailboxes
like young, pert, pre-sexual-revolution secretaries,
armed to the teeth in delightfulness.
Beauty’s but a low-slung sandbag in these parts, ladies,
tossed and tossed again along the banks of
Time’s ever-rising river—
the only cup we have that runneth over when running out.
Next? The tulips, I suppose. Cherry blossoms
and the ditches full of wildflowers whose names
I still don’t know.


Do you remember how,
when the old lady next door fell
her last time to the pink
bathroom’s linoleum,
her orange cat
took up with another neighborhood retiree?
He’d become attached, it seemed, to
loud television sets and early rising,
the smell of Bengay and slow-moving feet.
He may have to move on again
unless his own burial befalls him first
in the short, unruffled row of hemlock out back,
where he suns and courts birds.


We are time bombs ticking toward eventual bloom


until eaten
softened
rusted through.

— Another poem that I feel I still haven’t sanded down properly, but Lent’s days are numbered, so…

4 Apr 2014

jdaviddark:

mosteverybody:

Sketchy: Coeur de Pirate and quotes (most via @daviddark)

I’ll throw this in from Parker Palmer (It’s in front of me today): "Tips, tricks and techniques are not at the heart of education - fire is. I mean finding light in the darkness, staying warm in the cold world, avoiding being burned if you can, and knowing what brings healing if you can cannot. That is the knowledge that our students really want, and that is the knowledge we owe them. Not merely the facts, not merely the theories, but a deep knowing of what it means to kindle the gift of life in ourselves, in others, and in the world" 



and I will add in this from Arlyce, given to me today: “Your job is to carry your brokenness with you—to let it be a gift—so you can keep learning to carry the brokenness of others.”

jdaviddark:

mosteverybody:

Sketchy: Coeur de Pirate and quotes (most via @daviddark)

I’ll throw this in from Parker Palmer (It’s in front of me today): "Tips, tricks and techniques are not at the heart of education - fire is. I mean finding light in the darkness, staying warm in the cold world, avoiding being burned if you can, and knowing what brings healing if you can cannot. That is the knowledge that our students really want, and that is the knowledge we owe them. Not merely the facts, not merely the theories, but a deep knowing of what it means to kindle the gift of life in ourselves, in others, and in the world" 

and I will add in this from Arlyce, given to me today: “Your job is to carry your brokenness with you—to let it be a gift—so you can keep learning to carry the brokenness of others.”

26 Mar 2014


Guerrilla stunt in downtown Vancouver, by the Plastic Pollution Coalition. 
"A giant plastic six-pack ring is tangled on a wildlife sculpture at the corner of Georgia and Thurlow St…. #PlasticIsForever"




oh, f-word. what’re we gonna do?

Guerrilla stunt in downtown Vancouver, by the Plastic Pollution Coalition.

"A giant plastic six-pack ring is tangled on a wildlife sculpture at the corner of Georgia and Thurlow St…. #PlasticIsForever"

oh, f-word. what’re we gonna do?

(Source: kragtbakker, via jdaviddark)

22 Mar 2014

The Honoring
(for my mother)


It’s like this.
You try 
to do some of what she taught you. 
There is the working hard without complaint— 
even though you welt your tongue with biting, 
even when what you work for matters 
little, or not at all. 
There is the how to correct a gravy 
lumped by your own impatience 
when handling too many mouths and a husband’s indifference. 
There is the knowing necessity of silence when chancing speech 
might bring tears easily labeled irrational, 
or worse: manipulative. 
And there is always, underneath it all,
       moldering like a corpse in you as it moldered in her, 
the honoring
       of what you said you would do or who you said you would be— 
even though it was years ago, now, 
even though you really (really) didn’t know what you were getting into, 
even though your honoring is honor-less—
       more Marge Simpson than saint, 
       more chain smoker than last cigarette, 
       more Natty Light than single-malt scotch, 
       more the garnished wages of a paternity-doubting, post-divorce dad 
     than anything else, really.
You honor it. 
You do.

It’s like you wandered drunk up a muddy hillside at three in the morning to catch the last white spit of a meteor shower only to find at the top that you lost your shoes in the mess of your head and the mud back there, and they’re not your favorites, and you don’t really care if you ever see them again, but with your mind like the missing frames in an old movie, you jerk your way back down, cursing at yourself and the world aspin—the black night no help—and you look and you look until the faint blue edge of dawn pulls you and the branches and the power lines back into the crosshairs of existence, and you find them finally, one right in front of the other like you’d stepped out of them into the air, and they’re dry now—ruined and no good to put on—so you hold them against your chest, even though it further disrupts your still-buzzing balance, and you carry them down the hill toward where you think you left your car, trying against the thud inside your brain to recreate the burst and blaze of rock hitting the atmosphere like quick, good luck salt tossed over the shoulder of god, since you forgot to look up, so concerned you were over the gathering up of nothing important.

The Honoring
(for my mother)


It’s like this.
You try
to do some of what she taught you.
There is the working hard without complaint—
even though you welt your tongue with biting,
even when what you work for matters
little, or not at all.
There is the how to correct a gravy
lumped by your own impatience
when handling too many mouths and a husband’s indifference.
There is the knowing necessity of silence when chancing speech
might bring tears easily labeled irrational,
or worse: manipulative.
And there is always, underneath it all,
moldering like a corpse in you as it moldered in her,
the honoring
of what you said you would do or who you said you would be—
even though it was years ago, now,
even though you really (really) didn’t know what you were getting into,
even though your honoring is honor-less—
more Marge Simpson than saint,
more chain smoker than last cigarette,
more Natty Light than single-malt scotch,
more the garnished wages of a paternity-doubting, post-divorce dad
than anything else, really.
You honor it.
You do.

It’s like you wandered drunk up a muddy hillside at three in the morning to catch the last white spit of a meteor shower only to find at the top that you lost your shoes in the mess of your head and the mud back there, and they’re not your favorites, and you don’t really care if you ever see them again, but with your mind like the missing frames in an old movie, you jerk your way back down, cursing at yourself and the world aspin—the black night no help—and you look and you look until the faint blue edge of dawn pulls you and the branches and the power lines back into the crosshairs of existence, and you find them finally, one right in front of the other like you’d stepped out of them into the air, and they’re dry now—ruined and no good to put on—so you hold them against your chest, even though it further disrupts your still-buzzing balance, and you carry them down the hill toward where you think you left your car, trying against the thud inside your brain to recreate the burst and blaze of rock hitting the atmosphere like quick, good luck salt tossed over the shoulder of god, since you forgot to look up, so concerned you were over the gathering up of nothing important.

21 Mar 2014



Come to The Green Lantern tonite to celebrate the Spring Equinox and the Persian New Year.



Italian Beaches.

PezHed Orb or Oram.

DJ Uncle Dave Farris Dave Uncle DJ.



It’ll get weird and lovely.


7 Mar 2014

My friend, Dave Vicini—aka Dave Cave—is one of my favorite artists in Lexington and the whole, wide world. He’s a co-frontman for Boston-based rockers Viva Viva. He plays drums for Idiot Glee, and he has some really solid solo projects, too. He just put out some more music under the moniker Beat Awfuls, which is where he plays the part of an overly self-conscious, genius, possibly alcoholic and unassuming Rock-And-Roller-Save-Your-Souler. Hands down one of the most compelling live performers I’ve ever seen, Dave also writes great songs—so good in fact that you can just enjoy them without having to notice how well-structured, thoughtful and singable they are.

This glowing review is just to say that you should take a gander at his latest Beat Awfuls offering, Party Slip. It’s real, real good.

4 Mar 2014

This is my friend, Emily. We are calling the Wildcats’ game tonite at 9pm. Click the photo to listen.

This is my friend, Emily. We are calling the Wildcats’ game tonite at 9pm. Click the photo to listen.

28 Feb 2014

Sometimes, I need a little perspective.

Sometimes, I need a little perspective.

(via josiiiaaahhh)

18 Feb 2014

"Good work uses no thing without respect, both for what it is in itself and for its origin. It uses neither tool nor material that it does not respect and that it does not love. It honors nature as a great mystery and power, as an indispensable teacher, and as the inescapable judge of all work of human hands. It does not dissociate life and work, or pleasure and work, or love and work, or usefulness and beauty. To work without pleasure or affection, to make a product that is not both useful and beautiful, is to dishonor God, nature, the thing that is made, and whomever it is made for." 

Wendell Berry, from The Art of the Commonplace: the Agrarian Essays

Today, I am besot with work—some of it good, some of it necessary, some of it questionable and some of it leaning even into that misty and nihilistic place where what I do I do for money. Tonight, I will rehearse with one of my bands in a space provided to us for free by a local business, and I will know the work we do together is good. I am grateful for that.

"Good work uses no thing without respect, both for what it is in itself and for its origin. It uses neither tool nor material that it does not respect and that it does not love. It honors nature as a great mystery and power, as an indispensable teacher, and as the inescapable judge of all work of human hands. It does not dissociate life and work, or pleasure and work, or love and work, or usefulness and beauty. To work without pleasure or affection, to make a product that is not both useful and beautiful, is to dishonor God, nature, the thing that is made, and whomever it is made for."

Wendell Berry, from The Art of the Commonplace: the Agrarian Essays

Today, I am besot with work—some of it good, some of it necessary, some of it questionable and some of it leaning even into that misty and nihilistic place where what I do I do for money. Tonight, I will rehearse with one of my bands in a space provided to us for free by a local business, and I will know the work we do together is good. I am grateful for that.

12 Feb 2014

Advice to the Players

jdaviddark:

Advice to the Players

There is something missing in our definition, vision, of a human being:
the need to make.

We are creatures who need to make.

Because existence is willy-nilly thrust into our hands, our fate is to
make something— if nothing else, the shape cut by the arc…


11 Feb 2014

This Saturday nite, y’all.

This Saturday nite, y’all.

10 Feb 2014

My friend, DeBraun Thomas, Music Mondayed me this morning for one of the local NPR stations.

6 Feb 2014

DMX is slated to enter the ring (most likely) against George Zimmerman in a f*cked up future bout of Celebrity Boxing.

In other news: Yesterday would have been Trayvon Martin’s 19th birthday.

6 Feb 2014

A few years ago, I started writing/working on poems again with a semi-regularity that allowed me to actually finish some, which means I’m sitting on quite a few poems. I’ve decided to hatch them on the Internet from time to time. Here’s the first one out of my current clutch. I wrote it in a heat wave. It’s called:


Why I Read My Horoscope

It gets hot too early.
I sit at the kitchen table, my running shoes unlaced. 
I trace drops of paint upon the dulling surface. 
I am as wasted as the moon and almost as lonely. 
I think of medication. 
My mind forms the beginnings of some eternal word 
I will never learn to speak. 
When will the heat combust itself so I can go outside?

I have not heard from you in days. 
Do you finally believe me, then? 
Against the declarations of faith you stamped on reams 
inside your heart, do you finally believe that 
what others might cherish, I will tighten 
into this noose I stayed up, three nights now, making? 
It is almost finished.

I will do it, you know. 
I will hold this lithe and beating overripe berry 
you so carefully tended. 
I will cradle the red of its mouth against my ear, 
let its cooing calm me. 
I will peel it slowly, with a judge’s deliberation, 
until its delicacies could be anyone’s. 
I will detail a most accurate record of all this 
luscious blush and bruising.

In this way, 
last-ditch efforts on desire’s behalf will fail
like postcards from a stranger with the wrong address, 
read with mild interest sometime last year, 
then put out with the recycling. 
If this is the line at the abortion clinic I take my place in, 
I will not blink though all the nurses look like my sister. 
Do you really not know I have this in me? 
This pragmatism? 
This urgent cruelty?

Today will challenge.
But it is yours to handle.
Love may still win out.

What I seek is this: a message of relinquishment 
written by a Sierra or Divinity or Chartreuse— 
she who holds the cosmic frizz of her hair back with 
a halo of crystals and the secrets told to her by stars.

Look back no longer. 
The time is now. 
After all, what did you expect?

A few years ago, I started writing/working on poems again with a semi-regularity that allowed me to actually finish some, which means I’m sitting on quite a few poems. I’ve decided to hatch them on the Internet from time to time. Here’s the first one out of my current clutch. I wrote it in a heat wave. It’s called:


Why I Read My Horoscope

It gets hot too early.
I sit at the kitchen table, my running shoes unlaced.
I trace drops of paint upon the dulling surface.
I am as wasted as the moon and almost as lonely.
I think of medication.
My mind forms the beginnings of some eternal word
I will never learn to speak.
When will the heat combust itself so I can go outside?

I have not heard from you in days.
Do you finally believe me, then?
Against the declarations of faith you stamped on reams
inside your heart, do you finally believe that
what others might cherish, I will tighten
into this noose I stayed up, three nights now, making?
It is almost finished.

I will do it, you know.
I will hold this lithe and beating overripe berry
you so carefully tended.
I will cradle the red of its mouth against my ear,
let its cooing calm me.
I will peel it slowly, with a judge’s deliberation,
until its delicacies could be anyone’s.
I will detail a most accurate record of all this
luscious blush and bruising.

In this way,
last-ditch efforts on desire’s behalf will fail
like postcards from a stranger with the wrong address,
read with mild interest sometime last year,
then put out with the recycling.
If this is the line at the abortion clinic I take my place in,
I will not blink though all the nurses look like my sister.
Do you really not know I have this in me?
This pragmatism?
This urgent cruelty?

Today will challenge.
But it is yours to handle.
Love may still win out.

What I seek is this: a message of relinquishment
written by a Sierra or Divinity or Chartreuse—
she who holds the cosmic frizz of her hair back with
a halo of crystals and the secrets told to her by stars.

Look back no longer.
The time is now.
After all, what did you expect?

5 Feb 2014

Head On 2006 by Cai Guo-Qiang.

A dystopic installation in which a pack of 99 wolves run into a glass wall, circle around and try again—forever.