Thursday, June 23, 2011

Father's Day

In haste, I catch another angel, put out another fire, try to perfect a deity with my clay hands. Fatherhood is fashioning the future with the past as your only reference. You tend to fill in gaps of memory with imagination. Father is a mystic that changes diapers one minute and changes minds the next, still get some shit on your hands either case but, that's what daddies do.

The less ego, the more you have to give "I want you to be better than me". Couldn't have said that a 17 or 22, but at 32 or 40, of course. I see my own limitations and push my offspring past them. I surgically remove those handicaps with spankings, lectures and exposure to parts of the world I didn't know at that age. I stand on myself and left you up over my head.

"What do you see?"
"Ok, I don't understand, but go for it. Just remember what I taught you."

They come back with little treasures from atlantis, college and friendships with age-old enemies. Strange writings on stones that can be read by younger eyes. I trust the currency I provided will spend in the future. It came from my flesh, pounds of it.

"Daddy, we don't do things like that anymore."

Like VHS tapes, some of my knowledge becomes obsolete and I fight with myself to accept it. My shrunken ego wallows in the past and brushes off the Now as an illusion. My higher self rocks back and forth and listens.

"So, how do things work now?"

Now, I'm the old man being taught by the future. Ego goes to the grave long before me, but I don't miss him. Less tension now. Things are as they are, no interpretation needed. I just am. My children just are. There is enlightenment in just accepting what you experience as it is. Just rocking back and forth. Just listening, just being available when needed. Just fading into memory, becoming a ghost like my mothers and fathers before me.

Photo: Firetruck speeding passed me taken w/iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Big Up)

Thursday, June 16, 2011

It's Summertime

Once I could touch the sun. I could hug their fiery photosphere. Wash them with starlight, before sending them off to school.

After the divorce came the Fall. I could still see them, but the distance - things just got a little cooler. Moods changed, from bright green to more sober colors. Sometimes I'd feel like I was just floating, drifting on some uncaring wind.

On Thanksgiving day 2010, I was told they were moving to Florida, the farthest point from the sun. Icicles were on my face by the afternoon. I could see my breath, words like "You'll get them this summer. They won't forget you. Use Skype for video calls." More cicles, crying like a bitch. Angry, confused, frustrated, but still willful. I would see them soon.

One thing I've learn about my orbit is that it never stops. I set small fires at the cave's mouth. Stored fruits and vegetables. Sent presents from the amazon. Always prayed to the stars, always knew my season would come.

Now, I can see green beneath my toes. The earth doesn't resist me as she once did. Hope, laughter, more dirty dishes are coming into view. It's summertime...

Photo: Lamp light through glass cup taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Jimmy, Blanko Noir)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Monday, June 6, 2011


She whispered in my ear, silence. A textured, colorful fatigue of sound that felt medicinal. Words from my ears, trickled down, into my hand. My palm was read. Said I'd achieve things just beyond my reach. Said I was talented, had a voice for the masses.

Tears. Tears that puddled in my hand formed a mirror. I see the me that she saw. Eyes look hopeful, smile is slow and confidence. No wrinkles. Lost a little weight. Looked at my hands, callousness on my fingertips. They are beautiful.

Photo: Favorite mug and new journal I bought taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Buchhorst H1, Big Up)

Sunday, June 5, 2011


Peeling. Time is eroding your sexy. At some point in this spiral, some fluid point over my shoulder you were YOU. Mad fans, lots of accolades, a kind of fame was bestowed. Somewhere back over a forgotten horizon, you stood hips and shoulders above contemporaries. Now though, in this present foam, these waves, these throngs of people don't put face to music. No recognition, just polite smiles as they keep moving toward work or play.

Cycles, we'll see your kind again. Just a different face, different lyrics, but the same song. You carried swishes to the beach like the other currents before you and were appreciated at the time. But time is a lazy foam, bubbles popping on shore, soon forgotten. Splashes are different, but I'll never forget that sound.

Photo: Corner of old building on 7th & L Sts NW, DC (Now painted over) with remains of a Tracy Chapman poster on wall taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Buchhorst H1, Big Up)