Green Ink # 1 – Crummy Weather


Hot wind gusts pull yellow leaves off undressing branches ~ the city is whooshing in the wind, all pieces hit with airborn particles – sometimes it accumulates in the corner of my eye and I have to stop and rub. Eyes like peppermints. Here at Cloudburst, I write poems because I can’t find a job, and I drink craft beer because I can’t write a poem. The wind blows across everything and everyone and connects us in our decisions to wear windbreakers.


Iron & Wine in the room of lights mentions live-tracking human-sounding music as the mission. Not that computer music is bad, he continued, we are simply not that. A level headed interview with Kevin Cole and Beam talks as soft and articulate as he sings, his singing being a direct reflective quality of who he is. With his new musical surroundings, his emphasis on “good things” as opposed to paralysis based on seeing red and labelling it as red. Writing about the acceptance and rejection of the home town.



poor sister had something established now gone or going – a house, some vehicles and a job, two dogs, a cat ~ the depressing deconstruction of a life just barely felt to be lived in. Take down the posters, move the vehicles one at a time with the help of mom, introduce the homelessness again. See: restlessness. See: lack of direction.



sleeping or searching in blue scale & perfectly so. I can pour beer or sell carabiners. I can talk caramelized oak or push clearance Patagonia. I can sleep all day and rely on the passive magic of a sent resume to do the work for me. Is it working out there beyond the offered visibility of this depressing fucking fog? Is it getting closer to somewhere? Center?



She has to pack her bedroom into boxes, I have to find a job.
She has to cancel her love, I have to close out my tab.
She rents out a storage unit, I stay perpetually drunk.
Imagining her unsettling after nesting in that remodeling home
for this amount of months is unsettling.
So I order something with a crushing hop profile
and listen to the wind thrash
the loose parts of the city around
which includes my sister & I.

The House of $2 PBR

I refuse to conceal how sadly present I am in this writing, not freakish, but – the reactions here keep a tone of total indifference. Swing hard, Merrell. It is the bottom of the 9th. Even still, not engrossed by that or what’s happening on stage. In the fog a striped shirted man hollering and strutting, like a Mick Jagger on lean. Classic punk style but vacuous of meaning now that ‘punk’ has illuminated itself elsewhere. 

Standard human hearing. Comfortable socially. There is hardly a method you know, getting neglected in the chain of shots. I wasted it on myself for transient holy feelings when the rest were made uncomfortable with their tasks for closing… you moved nowhere closer to your goal. 

Does that place exist? No, and it was in San Diego. Might be a rush of waitstaff from other places coming in. That’s my temporary. I am sorry for keeping you up – move into an uncrowded bar –  but with too much gain on the cymbals – punk with a miscue in. Painful production (with that high gain) – we capture emotion with intent to make it reach the frequencies of Standard human hearing. 

Let’s talk about dad and mountains. Practice environmental consciousness and think with the M.S. Merwin poem about the names of trees they grew up with and never knew, I don’t know, and I don’t know (cut off the serrated edges next time). I am clearly engrossed and alone, but alone in a place like this, the house of $2 PBRs, looks like waiting, waiting for a beloved friend to show up out of the fog. 

The weather for last call might prevent and influx… “Play like a champion, leave no doubt.” Can you close my card whenever? I’m sorry but who are you. Little cues, rags thrown aside while harmless patrons sip slow last calls or play pool without adding to their stamped cards. You moved nowhere closer to your goal. 

The jealousy can’t be mutual. For me it is a weight I think I can ignore, no matter how many knots form in my shoulders. No longer in the house of $2 PBRs, and cars zoom by the Florida ceiling windows, enjoy yourself angel… enjoy your baseball – share your mouthwash, forget the aux cable, etc. Forget the rest of the World. 


1:44 – 2:04 am

12:55 – (tangent ended abruptly after 1:06)

Goodbyes and misgivings. The smoky air of an overcooked sausage breakfast. The late night of the drinking in the canoes and the late night work ethic for production values of blue-heart. The twenty minute free-write I never do anymore is attempted presently, in the stifling air with the beers in my belly and the ice cream in my throat. A drive thru. A confused girl calling my advice to plan her vacation and I wonder what I have to do with her three weeks if I am anybody decent I would let her discover her own acceptance of time to be forgiven

1:44 – 2:04

Holy fuck I haven’t done anything with my life in such a long time. I have read of the Sphinx and realize the current astronomical amazement of Venus and Jupiter approaching slowly like tentative lovers across the black crosshatched flannel sheet of the forever-night that occurs outside the reach of our sun or others…. the infinite, unwritten dark and humming emptiness. They have not preformed this particular dance since I was pre-born. About halfway through my mother’s pregnancy of me. I cannot speak of this process of development – where I may have been between embryo and fetus and baby with appendages and near-teenager at the halfway point, and why do I garner so much positive attention from them? Is it pity because I had to endure a kind of hostile environment around the house? that we all did? No, I think it is because of the alignment of the moons and the stars with the closer lovely planets with their theoretically and satellite-mapped landscapes, too hostile for poor human life, but for the rich they gather themselves into plumes of cinder smoke exhaust because the space between them shrinks with the knowledge of the infinite as accessible.

Too many old thoughts are pouring in on me. They are not that old. They are the written thoughts of the last four years. From Arizona to Los Angeles to now. They overwhelm me with their completely different realities and how none of them seem to reconcile with my current realities. How does it make a difference to write for class or for personal pleasure or for the sheer mystery of it to do so in public and to listen to Ra Ra Riot and be reminded of the “wild time signatures” they played with when Matt saw them probably in 2009. Some festival maybe. Something else entirely maybe. I need to see the man in his new grown habitat without any outside influences. Some kind of scattering of personalities of old friends around the landscape and the heart of the harbor is still present with all of them because the family housing climate cannot be sold of their runes they grew from the chopped trees and the planted pots. The house-leaning tree at Shawnee Drive is about as old as me and the astronomical absurdities of tonight. I am old as the rendezvous of Venus and Jupiter in our sky. “And what happens when they collide” someone asked. “That wouldn’t happen unless the sun died,” I said and peacefully added, “I mean WHEN it dies.” Suddenly one day there will be a large vacuity where their once was the source of life. And then what happens to life unless we are all torn out of our global comforts into a volcanic inferno of every possible medium, the trees on fire in an instant, I mean one hundred percent of them, the mountain ranges all erupt from the sudden helpful rises in radiation and science and literature and college educations and money all erase themselves into a great inferno with the help of a great imagined being clapping the final overture, into the void of silent darkness forever where the heart of the soul of the ridiculous and social man the personification in a word not meant to be gendered, though it is…. the person with the social knowledge that overpowers their ability to become anything at all… the social creature that no longer has a humanity but only a cursory flight, a flavor taste, of the true humanity capable of the species, the feathers gone long, the haunting growls only cast aside for violent fights in the street that often resort into metallic avenues instead of the classic and neanderthal hand-to-hand combat, the same combat that took down wooly mammoths for food, and as if we are still a hunter-gatherer species and the insolence of the companies that sell the corpses of animals to us, their are no mammoth beefsteaks out there with pricing by weight and the time runs short for all of the existences I’ve addressed because it so happened I decided to time myself for twenty this night unlike other nights. I need $9.50 in beer to be able to record such impressions in a way that makes sense to the fiery and unforgiving light of the morning, coming so quickly to burn me and wrap me in its hundred blankets of warmth. I will wake slow because the arms of the morning light are so damn comforting.

word of the day is ‘mason bee’

Buddha smiles at me and dj music mocks me and this is the home that my younger self died in, there, on the couch. Are you with me, listener? Can you tell how loud I am speaking? What if I say, “Everything I did today was okay for awhile and then I just sort of, I don’t know, showed up on the couch again, with some beer and the cat meowing to get out…” ? Could you tell I was trailing off into the turtle shell of my sweater?

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shameful weekday hangover

I had too much wine last night and not enough jazz. The man played a headless guitar, with tuning pages on the opposite end, strange midi pick ups and pedal, morphed into tones of flutes and marimba, over soft blue note funk back beats. My mind felt lazy eyed in my first batch of classes. (why do I recognize you, have I flirted with you before, disaster?) I brained myself with cheap beer bar hop indelicacy. Tipped bartenders and waitresses with poetic thoughts written on the backs of drink menus. Talked to an actor, whose musical dreams died. I imagine a drumset dissembled, gathering dust in a storage unit. No longer banged. (does he still have that old obsolete key on his keyring? has he ever lived without keys). “Take care, boss,” says a jazz patron, leaving his seat. Complementary beer for the sake of the poem. How great it is to be fueled.

A lot of moaning this morning. It all started with vodka, orange juice, a missed bus, and a drunken corpse surrounded by paramedics outside the jock bar. Sour omen, instead found myself haunting a small club that threw a tea party and writing for the pretty waitresses. How they smiled, uncertain. Serving me cold beer and sidelong glances full of mistrust.

Lecture was a stifled cry of protest. I disassociated with the material to the extent that the words were mere symbols like crop circles, unimaginable fathoms of distance between myself and any semblance of clarity. How odd to analyze myself as I lose focus, irretrievably. Paradise Lost became hieroglyphs. I screwed up on the peer review for Cole’s paper. Sorry Cole.

Struggling with nausea and time. I started walking home to sleep it off and skip oceanography. Couldn’t bring myself to it. I sit in the student union building watching people eat horrible looking food. Mostly I couldn’t muster up the energy to walk all the way back to my place, about a mile down hill. Seemed mundane and grey to go there. Now grain, electrolytes and caffeine, artificial sweetener and grand stomach pain. These observations are distractions against the true nature of this experience.

Indecision back ground. Foreground hangover.

A mind churning with the overabundance of memory, all of those flashes of intellect like lights and music when a door swings open at the club and someone bursts to the sidewalk to vomit. Bartenders, bouncers, townies, restaurant owners, transients, (brainless ID check man watches the food channel), men, women, and a mysterious route home.

Like the jazz musicians, I find myself improvising melodies over a central idea or theme. Here I gained experience to write about as I shake up the details and pour them out across an infinite canvas.

What do I remember?