The Blackwood Press DUB 'log

I waited all day to get here, through children, neighbors, lunch
with my wife, a short nap
The older I grow the less time I have, and the more
distractions to take me away

I wonder, before all the kids, and the wife, the ever-visiting
friends, what did I do with all of my
time?

well, here I am, finally
with nothing to say
nothing to do

I scrape the tar out of my pipe and smoke it
tastes like hell but it eases my mind

across the room lay two new cigar-box guitars
made by my father
I plan on writing and recording an album with those two and
an old toy Telleno, along with one of
my babies’ toy pianos, just as soon as I finish the
currently ongoing album project

yeah, music, recording, writing: I’m a professional amateur
living in low-fidelity chaos
here I am, looking at a lampshade I once painted, inside is a
glowing blue lightbulb; I painted
a lampshade at some point in my life, and installed a blue

lightbulb

looking into those paintstrokes, thinking back, I remember my
wife helped me with that lamp
there’s another lamp over there across the room, with no shade
or bulb, just bare, a socket on a stem
casting a shadow on the white-plaster wall

I guess I would need to focus on the poem structure, and the
form; I hardly know now what is a poem,
and the same with the novels, whatever they are, and the
songs, the guitar albums

all around me are stacks of printed and folded paper, printers
and computer parts, cables, from the
last time I believed I could forever mass-produce my written
works for all the people of the world
it’s amazing how much I’ve sat here, daydreaming, typing out
the occasional uniquely-worded thought

god damn my ass is numb
and now I see some flowers

such a place of paradise
to line highways with flowers

the way he flips me birds
makes me feel so at home

even though she’s there
I manage to still feel alone

but only on Tuesdays

tonight I’ll sip scotch
to ease the synaptic rush

closer to the life of the earth
the life of the ocean

my nose ceases to bleed
tonight I’ll feast a’ la’ yuppie

Cali-cuisine but fuck, it is so beautiful
maybe too nice like call me home

calling me names and throwing its own stones

my whole world is so scattered
the basement and the attic
the air has changed, my office is
a war zone, and more than ever
I’ve been picking my nose

I still drink cold coffee,
though I’ve decided to give up smoking
at least until the new year
that starts next week

I stare in out to nothing
at the floor, ’round the room,
out the window for three hours
waiting for someone, something
to come and start me flowing
once again

I’ve wanted to get back to reading, I’ve
known that I’ve stopped reading, my life
has sunken and dedynamicized to a solemn
sleeping stagnation, and it’s overly bored
and boring, writhing illishly before the tv

Palm trees and 3 hybrids
I talk about myself too much
four Acura’s and four pretty girls
five women with short cuts
in Toyota trucks with curly locks
six down out of 18 Bud-mules
seven of seventeen signs
for Best Western fools
8 nosebleeds some while driving
eight droppers of various items on my shirt
I fixed my bar slide and feeling funky
about to hit Sonoma and fall out
nine reps of nine push ups I’ll do
even if it takes till tomorrow noon
and 10 is 10 of the most true embraces
giving over to her every piece of my mind
my heart and soul
California

3 hours max
that’s all we have left
meeting friends in Sonoma
gunna have fun gunna rest
glad of a safe journ out West
wait wait
we should pull over and help that man
as we go speeding by and he pushes
his ‘dat brat’ up the street
50 feet from the scenic treat

I just broke the bar return
some how as I was smoking
another flaw of character
will I maintain my integrity?
while I’m here
wanting and living the ideal
there is nothing in my life
that doesn’t have something
good going for it