The Blackwood Press DUB 'log

Radiohead plays as I write in my new home
I love it here, pros out way the cons
as much as the con is terrible
the absolute beauty here is undeniable
and now I have to shit
I should of thought of that before
I walked down here
now I’m forced to walk back to the main house
no big deal but it always seems to creep
back up by the time I get there
needless to say I look forward
to settling into a routine
now that I think about trading my
orange diamonds for white
do I need it? don’t know but
I’m willing to rely on a crutch
for a while
maybe I should just shit in a plastic bag
I have ass wipe
maybe I’d feel a lot better
maybe then I could concentrate on poetry
instead of this semi-autobiographical
account of boringness
ughhhh! so much better
aside from a few squito bites on my ass
today will be a day of cleaning
sorting the ‘Ranchita’ and pushing
dirt around giving the
aesthetic of cleanliness
we need a shop vac and washing machine
a propane stove and water heater
I think right now all we have is cold water

my second day descending
Big in the Sur
the cabin isn’t as small as I remembered
and we found out there is no money
for an addition, no biggie
I worked yesterday my first day
helped set up and put in
a 500 gal. water tank, hoo-wee fun
got to learn about building surveying
learned how to plumb a bit
and of course
putting in the water tank

this morning drinking my morning tea
up at the main house I noticed
every morning I’m here,
I wake up to inventory
inventory of the itches
is it mosquito is it spider
but always…is poison oak
I made a solid effort whilst working
to avoid any at all costs
but this morning I found
that I miserably failed
failed again, and failed forever
so now I realize I’m faced with a year
a full body year
of fanatical itching and
low grade irritability waking nights
scratching till bleeding
feeling like I want to
extract the first three layers of skin
with a razor because the sting
is easier than the itching

the last of my grass, once again down at the bottom of the bag
someday I shall live like I want to, and the world be damned
I’ll grow my own grass, sit in my own rooms
without interruption
sipping coffee and alcohol, smoking my pipe, writing these
letters to the air

I have come to realize that no matter what you do
they will always throw you back on trial
even if they have to put you through double-jeopardy
for any old already-argued experience

your coworkers, your boss, your friends and enemies
the institutions, the governments, the society tea clubs
your parents, your wife, your children, even grandma

and always, too,
yourself

so many court battles and conversations
echoing through the head
a man is always a defendant and first-hand witness
to his own innocent life
on the stand and specified in all directions and districts,
dynamic levels and
juries in alternate dimensions, lobbied-over, wobbling and
tumbling, cascading and crumbling into himself as he
stands living now, flesh and breath and
undeniable, undying, even when the flesh and breath have
gone and even the cold
grave has been forgotten, the trial goes on, and the man is not
decided

so the smoking pipe, the coffee, the phone calls, recess,
athletics in the yard
every proceeding receives its breaks, and still every open door
is another world

and so, your Honor, in the charge of pleading innocent first, I
find myself guilty
hereby sentencing myself to a long life and a carnivalous
multitude of hearings
and appeals;

may I suggest I find myself a good team of
lawyers and attorneys, take
comfort in the right places, and try to keep a friendly
demeanor with those I meet

now let us put down the drinking cups, smother the ashes and
get back;
another court marshall has arrived, the newsman says the
queen’s been beheaded,
natural disaster has struck the coasts of Sri Lanka, tonight a
singing organist is on
the late show

and this one’s in
the books