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.


November 2

Without hesitation, he is concerned with where he will be tomorrow, where the rain will be, and mudslides, and making a way out there to get to a place that makes meditation on the heart rate easy. A serene lake, he thinks. Somewhere with reflective surfaces and distance. Somewhere with old trees to keep out of the rain. Rivers overflowing. Or flowing low or spitting out salmon, don’t remember what happens when you lose three seasons after intending “maybe August” and letting that go, letting the dream of backpacking the Olympics lost, making the music no one asked for and wondering, in this age of wonder, where and when it can all find outlet. Go out and make it to the ocean, lovely human, your body is not lost on you, it is waiting for you to make up your mind on how to fix what is tense, smart, spelled, and coming after you with the chemical make up of invisible threats or serotonin bombs, the fireworks when you are happy, sad duds, the rain picks up I can feel it in my spine and my 1st system edges toward and away from the sound of the guitar music and the old rain. Dry tones with open chord changes, as everything changes, “unbroken for one hundred years in a constantly changing world” and wondering what watch on what wrist can keep me locked away in some false resemblance of time spent hovering away from who you are, barely hiding the taste of the spirits (self-critique squeezing back in) “days are fine, nights are unbearable” and let me tell you about familiar feelings. I feel tired and sore with scratched and stabbed hands a weighted chest with some guilt spiral and some vicious words from a bereaved and November already I lost everything this year, it is all gone and from its absence, this new canvas, I can move away from hating imagining your body and settle back into the flowers, where the haunt is, the rain on feedback loop, the goings on in the night. Nothing makes sense. Let time pass and let yourself feel back inside the body you live in. No abstractions in that. Commit to the body you’ve been given. Its limitations and experiences and vaunt over the depressions with new experiencing conscious art racing heart tracing mountain yodel gallop wild horse kind of sound of the heart beat in the bath tub too small for that same body, the little pump staying regularly heated in the tension and letting itself fizzle down, spark up, and flash red lights to his submerged toes. I am watching this happen from above, as steam rising off a body picking out warm from one source and dispersing it into the room, but is it cold, and why have I acted on such little positive forethought, all a kind of rushed emotion, signifying nothing.


“Firefuck! Firefuck!” I yelled as it floated by with floral wreaths, slowly, somewhere in Tacoma, as a young boy. This outcry did not trouble me but my mother flushed red like the side panels of the machine I had pointed out. Ladder hung on the sides, men in small cabs and yellow uniforms, hats like conquistadors, enormous powerful hoses to dowse the greatest of fires and keep us safe from burning while we sleep. I thought of heroes though never got into comics or television at the depth of many children of my generation. It’s new! It’s great! Everyone is talking of it! No. I was a boy and I loved building empires with lego’s and cheering trains on as they passed. I sat on green lawns and squinted to the skies to form animals out of clouds. Half built a tree fort. The tree has since grown and the platform is no longer flat due to disproportionate growth between branches. 

Machines amazed me. They were isolated incidents. Networks of gears and steam that communicated through cogs and spinning wheels to accomplish a task. Demolish a building. Carry boxcars and hitch hikers across nations. Send people into space. Dowse fires and all. There were parade floats that filled my imagination with wild crime fighting tasks or the impossible scenarios in which I dreamed physically into my empires. The architecture of a child who made his fake lawn blue. It never was about emulating the machines or the nature I saw. I wanted to create my own machine for a heroic task, some closed, self-contained system that would extract kittens safely from branches, or trace around clouds and name scientific terms for their make and model, or the ability for a child to get a cloud down on tracing paper to create monsters or animals out of them, cloud tracing paradigms, musical delirium, it was always about experimentation, and then the physicality within my self that suddenly became sterile and nervous as I grew older. I wish to return to the first time I said “fuck!” without knowing what I was saying whatsoever! On my mother’s shoulders at the april parade. The flowers and streamers. a whole roadside crowd turned and laughed and I smiled, mother blushed. these are golden moments, all of them. the simple creation to develop the child mind into that of an adult should never stop. hence this. this simultaneous idea and creation forum of stream of conscious writing. 

it is a machine and an invention and inevitably unique and you should do it too because it makes you heroic to your future self