Musings - August 30, 2011

Awful, like a tattered rag

            Like nails on a chalkboard among a roomful of students trying to read

            Like the useless arrangement of dead flowers

One thought infects her worn brain

            Nothing poetic do I attest

            Just simply a loss of rest

            By the dilapidated words that ooze from her mouth like a volcano that erupted last week

Prairie fires have been less destructive

            Than the negativity that mirrors my work

            Six years is a long time to take the abuse

                        But my God!

            She chose to remain guarding her burned trashcan

I wish she would have that cigarette for lunch

            For then a modicum of joy might pervade her warped view

            Just taking it in the form of cancer would be better than the cancer her mind has become

Work all the day while

Mind has swam at least for a mile

The rooster crowed, the dog let out

The drive to work coupled by coffee stout

“Coming around the corner!”

            The chain of flow broken like the lace of my favorite shoe

            So abrasive, like a bridezilla sanding something borrowed

The day’s thoughts turn to pudding, desperate for a rope

I shall continue to cope

For six years she suffered

            (Probably raised to complain from the cradle,

            Her parade of horribles after winning the lottery would make Macy’s look like used floss)

And damnit, she IS right

            God knows I’ve suffered, too

But when does it end?!

            When will she learn?

            She tries to train the old dog to perform new tricks

                        She should be training herself

My work suffers blows

My attitude hardens like a wart

Time to release the woes

To my inner march I must comport

Musings - August 28, 2011

The hum of the engine lingers in the heat
As the mother unbuckles her child from the seat
Exiting slowly, taking each breath by step
'Tis only a simple trip to the corner pharmacy
So pure, like a painting, except

Their canvas moves to the beat of her arm
Guiding her child down to avoid minute harm
She moves to the back end of the car
And notices his unwound shoelace
Overseeing his tying bent over the lot's dried tar

She touches his head, each strand sings
As if the crack of a hatched egg brings
New life with each ray of light
A new skill is learned by his hand
And her heart subtly leaps at this sight

I imagine they're out for milk
Or cough medicine to make his throat feel like silk
But every errand or task is another scene
In his burgeoning life's story
And his mother may be here in a portrait serene

When the innocence leaves, it leaves forever
Yet by her eyes, remains tied by a tether
Never shall it leave her maternal heart
Never shall he grow out of her image
She has built a David to transcend art

Parading its youthful exuberance
No ding, nick or scratch breaks its trance
Until the ultimate touch breaths life in
He'll move like sliding rock from a canyon
His cracks will scar his infected skin

The beating he takes from the sun's rays
She cannot prevent despite that she prays
So the simple act of a boy tying laces
No matter what ruins may come
Enlivens her heart, 'tho suspended time races

Musings - August 18, 2011

Day breaks the dew on the East horizon
Wash'd o'er the tufts of new hair on your head
Reaching for the sun as a gold crayon
O simple things dreamt whilst lying in bed
Hitting the road makes your father's pride swell
Along with the fear of highwaymen's snares
Race for the blue sea and draw from they well
Of all thou loves' hopes you capture your cares
Peace shall you find when at last you touch home
No need to speak when you pass through the gate
The table set, feel chill melt from thy bone
O then shall you eat, 'til ye become sate
     So ride on, sweet prince, t'ward the ocean's roar
     And rest eterne on His bright Western shore

Musings - August 15, 2011

My sweet Nancy Pants, weep not for thy state
Great goodness supplants grief when you release
Thy tragedy, you succumbed to no hate
Doth not now thee take thy pleasure in peace?
Or would thou rather take hold of your hurt
Thine love fasten’d to his ghostly eidólon?
Pay not tribute to others thou find curt
And right thy mast, trusting in Poseidon
Lest ye recall him lain with you in bed
Conjure the feeling pad’ling in his boat
Whilst thy duvet’s cloak wrapped sound ’round your head
His kiss upon thine lips keepeth remote
          Remember him as you would a scar’s blot
          With fond memories of how it was got

Today's Moment of Happiness

Musings - August 13, 2011

Feeling like I caught the sight

Of a girl’s glance in the night

     I took her by the hand and led her to the band

That makes everything all right

My arm across her shoulder

When she leaned I wasn’t bolder

     The moment passed, I missed the cast

Now she’s a fish in the pond

There I with false hope, not to elope

     But merely dancing

In our two young hearts, playing the parts

     Of a couple kids romancing

As the years roll by

Her memory’s always nigh

     Steeped with loss, openly

Turning back the clock

My heart becomes a rock

     With my sister I fought, she always thought

That I should walk off a dock

Jumping in the dark water

I tried to acquiesce her

     But it never would do, each said we’re through

Now I am left competing

With the pleasures of herself, I myself

     Left in the cold

Her impression struck me dear

     Her venom nae growing old

Now that we are mature

Let’s admit that we’re not pure

     Steeped with loss, openly

These thoughts prove burdensome

Stewing costs a hefty sum

     What they say is true that the things we do

Define who we become

This lesson will surely teach

To treat life like a peach

     Equipped with this, I shan’t expect bliss

’Twas not the story penned

Rather an epic, prolific

     Moments pass before us

Hold each other tightly for

     All moments end, they must

The clock I will rewind

Live by my heart sans mind

     Steeped with loss, openly

     Steeped with loss, fruitfully

Musings - August 11, 2011

Tribulations of young life’s growing years

Unfurled the banner for kinship up close

Forced engagement laid down pearls of our tears

And gnashing of teeth in speech quite verbose

Mere crossing of wires marred true peace from sin

Your rebuke justly, my affliction real

Thy fruits at odd, noble patience wears thin

So stirs the pot, our forking paths must peel

The hand-woven bushel frays thy thought

That we shall someday be true kin with love

Your righteous anger splits what my heart sought

Blood to blood we might be what I thought of

Vast distance now divides our parted hearts

I long for the day when acceptance starts

Musings - August 8, 2011

Live just for right now
Lone seat to my right
Still running dirt cold
The same every night
Never to fear
Don't oversteer
There'll be other days
There'll be other ways

Rush off from breakfast
No sweet goodbye kiss
Never have I known
How much was amiss
Never to faint
I just must wait
There'll be other days
There'll be other ways

Headlong through the day
Trudging o'er the hours
Work stiff for yourself
Tis not yet for ours
Never to care
Nere a dispair
There'll be other days
There'll be other ways

Nighttime hath arrived
Once gone meager meal
Twas tasty I thought
Still lacking your seal
Never to need
Ignored thy seed
There'll be other days
There'll be other ways

Thirty years gone past
Seems like yesterday
You lain on my step
Couched soft in plush hay
Never to speak
Always too meek
There'll be other days
There'll be other ways

Now I think of you often
Sometimes lulling me to sleep
Praying for return of youth
To prevent this aging weep
Always have I lied
Profess that I tried
Long last day
No more way

Musings - July 18, 2011

Day broke through the cracks of the white Venetian blinds. The light spilled over the piles of unopened mail, down the dusty amplifier, onto the scratched hardwood floor, and then right through the eyelids of the man of the house. He was not ready for morning.

He moaned into his pillow and rolled toward the middle of the bed. His head spun and throbbed, but he definitely could tell someone else was in his bed. And it wasn’t female.

He lifted up his pulsating head with a strain of his neck and saw that skinny, shaved white dome and forced himself to remember that Tony had led the night of debauchery.

Oh, it wasn’t that horrible. True, he would have to sleep through the afternoon, down four Excedrins, and chug enough water to drown a porpoise; but all-in-all it was a tame evening.

Before Tony had shoved him to the other side of the bed, he and Hank had showed up for some light pre-drinking. Three beers and five cigarettes later, they were ready to roll. So the three hopped into Tony’s black Equinox to hit the downtown bars. As luck would have it, the top-40 rap station was on that night. As the sound of Lil’ Wayne, Pitbull and some old school Jay Z casually ruled the airwaves, Tony popped another drag and casually bobbed his round dome back-and-forth. Boyz Night.

The trio inaugurated the July evening at the Max, taking in some of the video arcade and drink specials among the low-rent hipsters before ditching it for the breezeless patio of Arnie’s. Hank and Tony, ever the domesticated lions, blew past the cute hippie reading for her psych test after she checked their IDs. They talked shop for an hour and a half as the bachelor bought a couple rounds as an excuse to interrupt the hippie. Not yet a company man, he found the lack of a wingman unfortunate; but as he strode back to the patio, Tony got his juice flowing with talk of the next boyz night in October.

The fourth horseman would be headed in from the East Coast for OU-Texas. The conversation picked up speed as they colluded on hotel plans, party scenes, and escape routes. Tony didn’t want to have to bail his boy out again.

It seemed so long ago now even though the bachelor was still in his twenties. His compatriots had fully embraced their strides into the next decade. Each married with a child, steady pay, living for the weekend. Hank had designs on a house in the good part of town. Tony was already there, housing a dog on the outskirts. Yet, Tony, for all the responsibility he had learned the hard way to shoulder, yearned to relive the hard way. So – perhaps out of man love, perhaps because they were boozehounds themselves – the three embraced their inner wild child every time Tony came to town.

The scene shifted to McNellie’s and the men took it upon themselves to close it down. Beer after shot after beer, they reveled in drink and smoke as the memories washed their swimming heads to a place not too far down the road. Maybe it wasn’t Norman, but the man who would never leave the Mecca led the charge into the night.

~ ~ ~

To be continued…

Musings - July 14, 2011

Words swirl in his throbbing head
Resting just behind his sweating head
The time to depart mysterious
Causing ventricles to swell in size

Searching to relieve the pressure
His concave chest beat like a drum
Spilling into the untame world
Indifference paints the conundrum

To speak is to judge
To listen is to prepare
Doth better to follow the patient guide?
Or unfurl arrows on those sans care?

Silence is golden, doffing to film
In light, nuggets more akin to dung
Like the color of hackberry branches
Freshly torn from their rung

Therefore he waits, to ponder more
Trepidly defers to the wind
Torn palm open for boomerang
A returning chore does he tend

Musings - July 13, 2011

“Hold on. I have to blow into my breathalyzer.” Radcliffe heard a low, vibrating hiss cascade out of the other end of the phone.

“Why do you have to do that? I thought you were already driving.”

“What?”

“You were already driving, right? Or did you pull into a Sonic on your massive fucking commute?”

“I have to blow into it every 30 minutes to make sure I don’t have a drink while I’m driving.”

Brilliant.

“I have some good news! I’m officially done with my court stuff today,” Heath announced.

“How’s that?”

“I turned in my community service paperwork today. I’ve paid my fines and I’m on my way!”

“What community service did you have to do?” he asked with intrigue.

“Now I just got one month of this breathalyzer and I’m fr–”

“But what community service did you have to do?”

“I was supposed to be working on cleaning up Venice Beach from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m. for two weeks.”

Radcliffe saw where this was going. “You actually did that? What was it like?”

“I didn’t actually do it. I paid a guy $800, and this guy signed all my paperwork.”

He thought to himself, Why the hell would a court clerk accept some random-ass idiot’s signature on this stuff? “Explain to me how this works.”

“I found someone that was in a position to sign my paperwork. I needed his signature and he needed the money. Win-win.”

“Interesting.”

Heath tried to climb on his garrison, but he had pretty much left the gate open as he pulled out with his Brown Bag Special. “I don’t fucking have time for that. I can make more money waiting tables at L’Idiot for two weeks than it cost to buy him off. It was a business decision.”

“Fair enough.”

“All right, well, I’m almost at work,” Heath let out with relief. “I have to let you go, brother. What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m writing a speech on volunteerism.”

“Fuck me.”

Musing - July 11, 2011

My boss pulls me into her office. I can feel the sweat dripping off my chest inside my shirt. My heart pounds as I sit down. Just then, she snatches my timesheet and rips it in half, bites into her pencil then goes to town on me. Yep, just the conclusion to another hourly workday.

Given the choice, would you take a guaranteed salary or an all-you-can-eat hourly wage?

The answer, of course, will depend on your personal situation. For me, hourly wages lead to questions about how I spent my time. My head pounds just thinking about how I’m wasting clients’ dollars each time I go to the bathroom, reach for another handful of sunflower seeds, or – God forbid – yawn.

If you’re a temporary employee like me who could be let go at any time, a guaranteed salary would be very nice upon which to rely. If you’re a workaholic company man, the hourly wage would be a deserved raise.

However, consider the ramifications of each. A salary makes a man complacent, satisfied. A raise has a tough time adhering to the next promotion. Extra work tends to be spoon-fed to the salaried because it costs the company nothing more.

The hourly wage, though, goes away at every holiday. Each vacation costs a week’s pay. Time equals money, literally. When your time is bought, every second of it is expected to be of value. If you’re not completing billable work, you’re wasting company resources.

It’s an interesting dilemma from which to choose. Right now, it’s nice to be able to garner overtime pay and have extra hours actually pay off. I’m not looking forward to a year from now upon graduation and landing a job where I can be manhandled into toiling the nights away at my desk for no marginal compensation. But the pressure of the expectation of productivity can sap an hourly man’s soul.

I know that even a salaried man must account for his time. I’ve been there, too. 60-hour work-weeks were barely a blip on the radar. But you put them in and your boss praises you. You work 60 hours on wages and your boss rips you for those 20 time-and-a-half hours. Are you kidding me?! I have literally been given “permission” to work overtime. I have to tell you, that was a weird exchange.

Life is a trade-off and it’s easier to climb the ladder when your boss is not worried about giving you extra work. Here’s the next question: Do you want to spent your accounted-for time and stress units climbing the ladder or building your wallet?

The answer to that consideration makes a big difference of not only which job you choose but how you structure your career.

Two married men from two similar upbringings. One chooses grad school to get a solid, salaried, demanding, but outlined career and weeks. The latter chooses an entrepreneurial venture full of daily and financial volatility, but passion and endless possibilities.

The former is an easy man with which to hang while the former clasps to his business constantly. Both are lovable in their own rights, with devoted wives and children. Yet neither could ever grasp the other’s life. I mean, it’s as if one is West Coast, the other East. One from America, the other Japan. I stop short of pitting opposing gods, but the comparison is not that far off.

And I think about how easy it is to choose one path or the other and the consequences of each. It comes down to stability versus passion. Comfort or engagement. Building a system, or building a legacy.

Neither choice in itself concludes with sheer enlightenment (giving due consideration might); however, the choice makes the man. I cannot recommend letting life choose for you.

How do you want to get paid? When do you want to get paid?

Next time your boss pulls you into her office while you are sleeping, will it be a daily nightmare? Or will it be an erotic dream?

Probably ought to write a version for the ladies…

Musings - July 6, 2011

Heath watched in helplessness as Radcliffe furiously packed the car. He was determined to cram every last article he could into that economy Honda SUV. They would not be lacking for a knife, a tent, firewood, or anything a survivalist Tenderfoot could not live without. It wasn’t even an hour into their drive when Radcliffe realized he had forgotten his little Weber-100.

Both brothers had been longing for this moment when the intensity of the world melted away, leaving them only their wits with which to survive; that and three cans of propane.

Heath could almost see out of the back window, but Radcliffe had no other place to store the sleeping bags since he had decided to bring his dog. So every once in while, Heath would crane his neck towards the side mirrors and into his blind spot to change lanes. Radcliffe felt visibly bad for his insistence to pack his brother’s car, but couldn’t muster an apology. After all, he was the one that used to camp as a newbie Boy Scout as a kid. Fifteen years later – including the two he always had on Heath – Radcliffe still knew better.

“I’m so glad we did this,” Heath pronounced.

“Yeah,” Radcliffe echoed with subdued excitement. He was still wiping the summer sweat from his forehead and chest. He glanced back at June, panting at the window as she watched the North Texas road fade into Eastern Oklahoma.

Planning was the bitch of the trip. Now that they had gotten all their junk on wheels, Heath was ready to enjoy the open road with some bonding time with his brother.

“Tell me about your job, Rad.” An easy enough question.

“What do you want to know?”

“What’s it like? Do you like it?”

“Yes, I guess. I’ve just been so buried for so long that I don’t think about it that much anymore. I just do.”

Radcliffe worked for himself, writing freelance copy for magazines, newspapers and advertisers. He fell in love with the beauty of writing, fancying a future as a Steinbeck or Twain. Instead, he found a labor of drolling formulaic blurbs and retread VW Beetles that never should have hit the shelves in the first place. He lied to his brother because he had tired of complaining and didn’t want to defend why he hadn’t done anything about it. Each day started with a cup of coffee at his parents’ house in Dallas and proceeded with a search for apartment-deposit funding, sapping what little creativity he had left. He attempted to break up the monotony by joining the rank-and-file of twenty-somethings who stayed fit and took up cool hobbies. Radcliffe’s was distance running and acting like he knew what he was doing whilst casting a spinner. He would never admit it, but Radcliffe loved his brother and missed him. It’s really why he invited his little bro on this camping trip.

Heath, on the other hand, had no problem saying, “I love you,” or giving people toothy smiles. He told his brother he missed him. And he had no problem with letting Radcliffe plan the trip as long as he got to visit home. He had moved to the City of Angels after college to become an actor. In other words, he was a waiter. Every spare moment he had he used to comb the message boards for bit parts. He was prepared to struggle some, but money had become so tight that he had to scrap his favorite indulgence, the L.A. Times. Once the Times went, his momentum followed. It was his window to the world; it was how he started conversations. Now he had to talk about the latest TV show, of which there was never a shortage of interlocutors. He hated taking calls from his friends and family back home because the question always came: Did you get the part? His consummate retort: You’ll know when I know.

Radcliffe indulged Heath’s probing a bit, then turned the question over to Heath’s verbosity. Fifteen minutes later, they came to a fork and missed it without even knowing it.

The Oklahoma highways are just what you’d expect. Ranches stretched for a mile before a tree along the barbed wire line gave a horse some momentary shade. Cows waded in mass at reservoirs – or fishing holes, depending the age of the person describing it. Every once in a while they’d spot a billboard for a prairie dog farm or a five-legged cow. It wasn’t until the sign for Caddo that Radcliffe had realized they had gone too far.

They bickered for a bit at who missed the exit, but ultimately winded through town East, towards the trees, towards the hills, towards the river. So far, they had lost two hours.