When it rains, you know it's raining.
And when it doesn't you know it will.
Rain is kind of like a metaphor that stands for something else,
When you shouldn't be standing in the rain.

ugly afghan blanket drapery contains a singularity of warmth
across shoulders not so bold as rain
downbeats.

Rain impermeable,
Wet then whet,
Now, more or less impermeable.

The sidewalks

Where I live now, the only sidewalks lead out of town.
There is either money or there are
Friends
But here people may
be
People who want to be
My friends.

And then distance and place
And the problem has always been
Not belonging, or
Belonging to too many places it's the
same.

I think that most poems are just pages that get erased and erased and then they are episodes of futurama, which is ok because I'm the main character which is a joke i tell and everyone laughs everyone laughs who has seen it.

Yes, That is what they do.

Don't do much anymore.  There's a beautiful beach and a sad river that they call a slough outside.  But a sad slough is somesort of tidal metaphor where all your friends are somewhere else and people drive big trucks as you walk to work that say "border patrol" and there's so much to fight and your the only one.  Not a fighter anyway.  Friends in other cities are like drugs.  Bumps to get you to the next day.  Wouldn't really know if that makes sense.  Don't they mostly just make the next day unbearable.  Yes.  That is what they do.  And then one day you wake up and airy songs make you happier somehow and your neighbors call their cat "puppy" until it comes in.  Never had a neighbor that didn't stomp.

I don't make noise when I'm not wearing my boots, and I'm always wearing my boots.

My current playlist is "Get out," by the Leave and Never Come Backs.  Their hit album is produced by collusion of time and distance.  And it won't be so bad for the first year David.  It's always tough in your 20's and just stick with it.  No problem.  No other options.

There was a time, I've said, where I was pretty disillusioned by the letter. by this elevated thing that's really done me a sort of no good.  The letter's taken me nowhere I like, so why do I like the letter? Inversion statement.

The problem with being an outsider is that you're outside and it's cold.  When people can't stop talking about your pants, they aren't people anymore.

My favorite neighbor had a glass eye and fed me corn early one night after meeting him.  People tend to meet me and pretty quickly feed me.  

Blanket.

There's talk now, about how a good deal of people experience a brief period of wakefulness midway through the night.  Puberty, for me that was the wakefulness.  Up all night from three until dawn reading Jules Verne.  Terrified.  It wasn't the book, that was to keep my mind quiet.  To shut down the fact that if I didn't sleep with my blanket tight around my neck, that if the window wasn't shut, that vampires would come in an suck my blood.

It was only briefly that I felt this way.  That I knew, almost simultaneous that these things weren't true.  But still, it felt good.  So it was even surprising to me, on an overnight trip for school, that I made the choice to not be afraid of the dark.  I remember at the age of eleven, making that choice.  Saying, no.  I won't be afraid.  It was the same thing the first time I ever took my clothes off in front of someone else.  This will be fine, you know what's under there.  It was the same when I opened up my mind to meeting new people, and the dam broke.  That we can all change, that we can all get better, but we don't need to at first.  It's not immediate.  And that sometimes a nervous, imperfect energy is the comforting.  It's honest. 

Notes.

There's a waterway outside my home called the Coal Bank Slough.  It's called the Coal Bank Slough, because a slough is a tidal waterway home to the whims and scoles of the weather, the moon, and my own emotions probably.  Sometimes it's brimming with coal, the product of burning so hard and so fast that like a candle breathed on heavily by a step aerobics instructor, it has produced coal.  I don't know how coal is formed, but I understand that diamonds could be created by the lack of support which subsequently causes a massive burst of pressure from a nearby dam flooding the ocean.

There's a waterway outside my home called the Coal Bank Slough.  It's named after the deep sadness suddenly realizing that my life is dedicated to sometime I'm pretty good at but have no interest in.

There's a waterway outside the place I live.  It's not my home because, it's just filled with my sparse aesthetic, my transitional sense of self depended on supportive community and collective interest with peers, dashed against a wall and then collected, and swept into the dust bin.  It got broken in the move.  No.  It was dashed against the wall.  I packed well, but there were no selves here labeled.  They had to go.  It's called the Coal Bank Slough.  A slough is a place where birds and seal and sometimes egrets come and sometimes regrets come and the egrets and the regrets have to fight about whether they really want to live by the Coal Bank Slough so that when I finally get that kayak.

The waterway, coal bank, the otters and the regrets.
It's the saddest place I've ever lived,
And I've lived in the central valley,
And I've lived in Tennessee.

There are big trucks here today and I saw one that said border patrol,
And sometimes I feel like I'm too young to be fighting this shit.
It's like, wars are for old white men, and I'm none of those things.

Tie a knot.

You know, there was a point when not only
Did I start to dance,
that I started to realize,
I was good at it.
Not that formal formality of dance,
But that self dance. 
That kind that defines you.
Head down ears out
Come a little baby
Let's jump the broomstick
Come and let's tie a knot.

And when I can't dance,
I can't be me.

I have a lot to say about how much I want different.

When I was hired to my first teaching job, which I waited two years to get, I had to make a decision.  This was two months ago.  Do something I "wanted" to do, and make a wage that would allow me to pay off my student loans, have insurance, afford the things we tend to value, like a place to live, maybe a car.  But I was implicitly asked to do something else.  I had to move away from my friends.  People whom I've grown to love in my time in Oregon.  I'm not from here.  These are people I've met, in a city I valued.  A place I chose to live, explicitly.

Not a lot of people know this, but I moved to Oregon, not just because this place is beautiful, but because I wanted to ride bikes.  That was a major factor.  Eugene was great for a time, but after 5 years, I was ready for a change.  For a bigger town.  Portland was everything I wanted.  My fears of big cities were put aside after a year and a half, I felt like I could meet people, grow as a person, and have knowledge of a place.  I felt like, if I wanted, I could live in a bigger city.  I'm just a country boy, really after all, and these are big things for me.

When I was offered a job, it was a shock.  After years of rejection.  Of blatant unprofessionalism.  Of abuse by Education, a place where we should be nurturing the growth of not just our students, but our peers, and community.  As if that community has no meta-cognition about it's own actions, I was offered a job.  Asked within a week of application to interview, and to accept.  Laughed at when I asked to take a day to make a decision, and pressured to snatch that job up before it was taken away.  I agree, it was the smart move to accept this position.  I'm greatful for it.

But, I can feel two ways about it, at least.  I hate it here.  It feels like taking a step backwards.  It feels like putting me at my most vulnerable, and providing no support.  Having no friends.  Having no family.  Being a first year teacher.  This is something we don't talk about:  What if I don't want to do this?  I'm not even allowed to think that.  Why?  Because what else is there?  What if I'm still here in a year.

Now I'm told that it'll be ok.  That I'll make friends here.  I don't want to make friends here.  It's like when someone used to give me a hard time when I was working the door, and that little demon voice in my head would want to lean over and whisper in their ear, "I don't even want to be here."  But I didn't.  I'm a nice guy.  I put my head down, and do the best job I can do.  But I don't want to be here.  I don't see anyone around me here acknowledging what it must feel like to tear yourself away from everything you value.  They have families, and partners, and children, and big fucking trucks.  I'll tel you something, a cat is not enough.  A cat in not a partner in crime.

I do not want to live in Coos Bay, Oregon and it's not Coos Bay's fault.  It's my fault.  I'm 26 years old.  My biggest fear is that I'll be 31 and in Coos Bay, Oregon.  And I'll be a different person.  I don't want to be a different person.  This is me being an impetuous youth, does that make my feelings any less valid?  I'm aware that this is the time in my life when stuff is hard.  It doesn't make it easier to hear that.  What I want to hear is, "I'm sorry, that sucks."  Don't tell me it will get better.  I was told I'd get a teaching job right away.  It echoes of that.

A student asked me the other day why I became a teacher.  I struggled for an answer.  Because I'm good at it I guess.  There was a time when I thought I liked reading.  I don't really anymore.  When have books made me happy?  What have they done for me that I like.  If I could reevaluate my life, make different choices, I'd think about this quote, which I bring up sometimes.  "So you're a writer, what excuse have you got for not being ashamed of yourself."  John Dos Passos.  I always say that it was structured within an essay about the deep importance of writing.  I don't actually agree with that, I just say it so I can have things two ways:  I can express my disillusionment with my craft, and not.

What it comes down to for me, is that in Portland I had a place where I could be with friends, and meet people and do the things I like, and here I have a job and a cat.  To me, it doesn't matter if you live in a beautiful place if you have no one to share it with.  I don't want to be cheered up.  I don't want your sympathy.  I just don't want to live here anymore.  I miss my friends.  Sunday.

Ceremonies.

I used to think I hated weddings.
I do,
But I used to think it was just weddings.
No, it's funerals too.

Couldn't we just do this at the post-office?
And then it went further.
The Star-spangled banner, no thanks
Heard it once, didn't like it.
4th grade,
I'm remembering this,
It's coming to me.
Crisis of self:
Stopped saying the pledge
Of allegiance.
Hand on heart, no words.
Then just standing.
A hearts just an organ.
Graduations,
Isn't it the work that gets us there?
It's ceremonies,
That's the problem.

Bag

I had one of those fever dreams at this specific point probably in high school,
But it was a fever-dream.  Hyphen fever, (comma) dream.
The distance is palpable even as it happened.
In the dream winter fell and washed the ground with not that light snow.
Not the snow of dreams of clean and Christmas day or silence waking.
The mud the dream of snow brought that sits on edge that plows drag up
Leaving crust and ice and whatwassnow but now is deathfall if a fall (it'd lead to death).
A bag of dead cats underneath the shovel discovery at the lip of a driveway
My driveway the job I did not because I was asked and sometimes was but that I often
And this time did
Self plow that lip that if left will freeze and provide a successful impenetrable speedbump
Speed Zero.
And it never happened.
And I made the mistake of telling someone,
Telling my family, in passing, ha, ha, remember that weird thing that happened?
When it never did.

Literally hundreds

Literally hundreds of non-jokes:

It's true what they say about Santa:  Great Guy!
I've never been to California, but I hear it's terrific!
Three old buddies meet up in a bar, and really catch up!
A man goes to the doctor, and is fine.
Beans are part of healthy diet!
Well, my friend called, and she is a good friend.  Good to catch up!
Did you hear the one about the farmer?  I've heard many things about farmers!
There were too many bats at the baseball game so it was cancelled because there was literally a swarm of bats, but the expectation was about the types of wooden bats used in a baseball game.
I saw a clown that had sad make-up.
A guy tripped and was hurt as he fell, but not that bad, bad enough though.  We all still laughed, and then were worried, but he was fine, but we still felt bad for laughing.
Why do Jazz musicians practice so hard?  Some don't!  Some do!  Internal motivations I suppose.
The President turns to the First Lady and says, "Doesn't it seem as though heteronormative expectations of this position are directly related to the conflation of liberty and religion, as endemic in this country's construction of it's power delegations?"  Except he doesn't say that.
There were four different types of dogs playing poker, in a painting!
A mouse is a type of rodent!
I don't remember whether the Bernoulli Principle is about temperature or flight.
How many bohemians does it take to screw in a light bulb?  1.  It isn't difficult.
Germans!  Can you believe the history there?  Wow, years.
What sort of animals are in hotdogs?  It depends!
A mermaid coaxes a fisherman into the rocks and he dies!

Earth.

It's true what they say about Earthquakes,
I've never been in one that I can remember.
That's what I say at least.
They sound terrible.
The earth quakes.
I tremble,
Already.

Yes and, No.

I know this for sure, that the first time I put all this stuff-
The black, the grey-
(It's mostly grey) together.
It'll be called,
                      "The Year that I broke My Leg."
Which, I've never done-
And it won't be until I can put that year
(Which has been most of my life) behind me.

I used to say, "If I'm ever going to do that,"
"I'll have to be a different me,"  "That this me,"
"Can't be."

Touch

Now loneliness isn't something you can make in a day.
It's not bread.  I know that some bread takes a while.  A couple rises at least.
This isn't bread.  It's loneliness.
It's not about distance, but distance doesn't help.
It has to do with the sudden and repeated realization that there is touch missing
From you life.
And by your life,
I mean, my life.

This sucks.

I was going to write a list of the things my students probably think about me.
I was going to talk about how people probably perceive me here.
But to be honest, it's me.
I'm making poor choices.
I'm judging people more.
I see a big truck drive by, and I hate it.
I used to be nicer.  Not really nice, not free of judgement.
But better.
And now, now that I've achieved my goal, of teaching.
It's still not good enough.
The moneys not.
The hours aren't.
I'm not active in the way I want.
I don't have friends here.
I'm not attracted to anyone I meet here.
Nobody shares my interests.
It's probably hard for you to believe.
"Oh, you'll meet someone you get along with."
Well, actually, you know what?
You don't live here.  You don't know.
This,
Sucks.

Difference.

Metamorphosis is a dangerous and unclean act. Have you seen the carapace inside the chrysalis? It happens between the ears in this case. It leaves husks. Husks are like shadows, or like metaphors. Metaphorphasis for change.

Zone.

We do our best impressions when everyone's looking.
Someday our masks will be our faces.
And that day was 50 years ago.
50 times twilight
zone.
(It's better, and in reverse.)

All true.

Birds I've seen today,
Sandpiper, Hummingbird.
Birds I haven't seen today,
Sapjaw, Three-chested Albarol.

the year that i broke my leg.

So you broke your leg
And you smile all day,
but when you get home,
and you is (me),
you get home
and you don't smile at all
and nobody sees that
and you didn't break your leg even
so what's your excuse.

Showing Appreciation.

I never liked that metaphors
weren't as blunt as
"Thank you sir,
for the coffee and the letter."

I didn't miss your missive.
In fact I just received it today.
And I want to say,
"Thank you sir,
for the coffee and the letter."

It's true though,
I haven't got much to offer in return,
Except for a place to stay,
and nice things I'll say.
"You've got a nice rump.  Have you been working out, that precious little behind?"

We'll see.

I used to talk about my "problem."

No, not that.

Or that.

Well, maybe that.

No!  Nothing like that.

Oh.  Oh, no.  That's a thing.  No, definitely not that.

No, like a regular people a problem.

Like, not having a job,

Or enough sex.

Or not having a job you really want.

Or sex with the people you really want.

Actually.  Those were my two problems.

That's it.

Then I solved the job one,

Probably, effectively,

Took myself out of running for the other one.
(Moved!)

That's working for now.

We'll see. (Could be a new problem.)

Could be an old problem, 

Anew.

Prorated.

One month later
And my days have reversed
I still see sunrise, 
but from the other side.
And what was a backwards day
Is backwards turned again,
Not forward restored,
But all twisted up.

Mask.

I used to, and I think a lot of people who've worn masks, and I'm talking about literal masks here, have had the experience that they're freeing.  That when you're wearing a mask, you can do and say what you wouldn't normally say.  But a while ago, I had the opportunity, and it caused a reversal for me.  Masks, no need.  Freeing is not wearing a mask.  There's a fear, that without the mask the bunting will be stripped clean.  That without the mask, the beat red face, the pounding nerves, will be the end of it.  There's no coverup.  It's like, so what if you're having that dream where you show up nude to some important something.  You're ready, but you're nude.  So what?  Get it over with.  You're nude.  That's the end of it then.  Can't show up double nude.  No mask then?  That's it.  You're you, and that's all you're ever going to be.  The best mask is your own face.  Take it off, and it's still your own face.

Badly told.

A man is performing standup.  He's just started at it, and he's not bad.  It's mostly just latent story telling, and some ability to hold the attention of a crowd.  Denial, that the jokes are good.  But when the girl he really likes walks in, one of his jokes references his inability to express his interest in girls he likes.  Paralysis.  It's Joyce.  She walks in, and mid-joke, he has, "And so there's this girl I like." And his eyes scan the room, locking on the girl.  "That girl."  And so then he leaves the stage.  Asks her out.  They leave.  And the catch here is that now that he's gotten up the courage to say what he wants, is he still funny?  No.  But there's time, and there's endless places for jokes to flow from.

Practical advice about splitting wood.

Axes are neat, but when you really need to
do some mauling, I'd suggest, well,
a Maul.

Don't do go for the 12 lbser, it's just
too much weight to swing over
200 and sixty times.

It's a simple tool.  It's simple tool use.
It's simple, too. 

Axes need sharpening.
Better when they're just wedges.

Sol

Being in a place of discomfit,

I rely on myself.

That's all there is.

Solipsism.

Egrets and Echos.

On my last day in Portland my bike was stolen exactly one year and one month after I bought it one block from where I work and where it was parted and it was stolen and exactly one year after I crashed that bike one year minus a day from when my helmet was stolen and one year from when I replaced that helmet and one year and one day from when I bought that same helmet again because my helmet was stolen and I replaced it and then I crashed my bike exactly one year from when I purchased my helmet because someone stole it from where I work.

There's something to be seen in this, but for me seeing is something best done with the gut.  You're smarter than you think you are, and you've built in safe guards.  And the way you'd refer to this situation if you were anybody else would be with words like friends, family, and love.  But not you, and now you live in a place with a cat, and a slough in the back yard, and today you saw an egret.  I know what an egret is, I'm a member of the Audubon society.  A slough is probably salt water.  Sometimes I say things that are true and sometimes I knew that when I said them, and sometimes they're true by accident.

There will be changes, and there will be echoes.

(Insert Changes Here)

On my last day in Portland my bike was stolen.
I live in Coos Bay now, teaching high school.
The back yard is a slough, which means that it's salt water, probably.
(In transition).

People who talk about being writers bother me,

But then, here I am.

Living alone, with a slough,

And a cat,

And the obscure liquor is sure to follow.

Probably vests with pockets and a beard,

Mustache, fishing pole.

How do you gut a steelhead,

Just chop off the head, and let it spill out.

I used to say,

That if I was going to ___________,

That I'd have to be a different person.

And then I moved away.

And the differences were.

Chan-nges

I, the author, am moving to Coos Bay if all things here go as planned; Teaching.
This is going to be a scary, difficult, and challenging time in my life.
Also, exciting.
Please stay tuned at this juncture to see what by-products
For good or ill,
Are regurgitated transformed
In this forum.

Thank you loyal reader(s).

-DMK

Regarding the Need

There is a disconnect.  And in one instance the noise, ambient and embracing, music playing, friends and community.  Then the exegeses, which although that word doesn't mean "exit," probably should, is abrupt, but not discontinuous.  And marble can feel warm in the right light, and the night air in the summer is something to be warned about.  It leads to flights.  Leaving is a possibility.  You can do anything, reading rainbow.  There are no rainbows at night.

It doesn't matter that you aren't familiar with Bede's parable.  If you are, you I'm sure, have been unsuccessful in life, spending your time on such antiquated and frivolous things.  But central issue there is that life, outside the great hall is unknown, and from where did that Bat, or bird, or nightingale come from, and where did it go.  In one end, and out the other.  It's true that sometimes the night is filled with fear and shaded mystery.  That someone who doesn't believe in ghosts can see a spectre blah blah blah it's a trash bag, no doubt.  But stabbing dude guys with something drug stuff.  Points of no return.  It's mostly just quiet streets, and the occasional Chevy Suburban driven by the lone thrity-six year old mother of two.  She doesn't want to kill you, but she has to; to protect her children. 

And have you ever thought about how the human head occupies a unique space, or how you almost never see a president laying down.  Five feet to six feet.  Most of the world, that's where heads are, just barely off the ground.  They don't even bob as much as video games that made me sick with nausea at twelve would suggest they do.  They just float.  A sea of heads.  And it would look like some sort of weakness, the president, en repose.

Boys Band

Ok, so I like musicals. 

No not those musicals.  The musicals I like.  I'm not having a conversation.  I like some specific things. 
This isn't a give and take.

No, I don't want to hear about your favorite books.

You're right, I'm being a jerk.
Sorry.
I'm just frustrated.

I still don't really want to take your suggestions though.
I'm not there yet.

How could any pool table hope to compete with a gold trombone. 

Titles

This is a poem called, "I don't like you very much, at all."
And it's a poem because I'm not saying it.
I could be saying it.
And everyday, I get closer to saying it.

At this point in the poem,
I could write your name.
But in truth, this poem isn't directed at a specific person right now.
Write, now: ______________ (Their name.)

But I've felt this way before,
And I'll feel that way again.
So,
Be prepared.

-D

That it? You proud.

Melissa Bridgette Etheridge knew nothing of the sallow mass writhing before her, or how she had come to share a name with a singer whom she also knew relatively little about.  It was clear from the cries that not only do cartoons feel pain, they can die.  But with a relatively swift kick, Burt Lancaster, yes- the actor, rode a horse into the scene I'm describing.  "Huzzah," he said, but it was so muffled by the gas mask I didn't tell you about that there was only an indistinct release of valves and the clink of ice cubes in a glass.  "Scotch's ready," said the bartender from Love Boat, a show I never watched.  He wasn't there, but a TV was on, somewhere, silently muted, something only dogs could hear.  There were no dogs, here.  This is a mall, and dogs aren't allowed in the mall, goddammit.  I've been a security guard here too goddamn long, and I don't need no dogs, with all the other shit I've got to deal with.  Rogue Santa flash mobs.  Pervert Easter Bunnies.  The Gap, that is, the gap in our balcony, in front of the Gap store.  People have fallen.  It's really pretty dangerous.

Letter of Disappointment 2

To all Uninterested Parties,

I am writing this letter to express my disappointment.  Some of you may have received my previous Letter of Disappointment,  and I appreciate your not reading it, a skill I'm sure you honed not reading my references, resume, previous work experience, degrees and licenses, and any other pertinent information contained on my curriculum vitae, a document and term I learned about at Graduate School, a place where I earned not only a MA of Education and $30,000 plus in debt, as well as a deep, brooding, not-affected disposition that often accompanies problematic situations, like my own. 

But, I want you to know that although I am very disappointed, I hope I am not disappointing.  Although this comes off as a sort of easy juxtaposition of similar terms, it's mostly florid so I avoid using those nasty and unpleasant terms, that I am disappointed I know.

Moving on with business, I'd like to outline a few disappointing aspects of our latest interactions.  Now, let's be clear:  Some of your have very difficult application processes, and some of you aren't hiring at all, and some of you are just untalented, middle of the road professionals who don't really make those deep changes needed to strengthen their skills, and improve the performance of their students.  This is addressed to all of you, but specifically those whose automated application processes don't even included automated rejections.  I'm disappointed that I'm excited to receive one of these auto-rejections. 

Ye gods man, it's almost as if a person interacted with me.  At least I know this one didn't just go out into the ether.  I want to thank you for the personal disappointment that an in personal interview and subsequent personal phone call means to a young professional.  This best of the worst situation, really cements a definite bell curve of anticipation, excitement, and dashed-hopes, or if you pardon my repetition, crushing disappointment. 

But, and this isn't about you, I haven't met most of you.  You'd know that if you consulted your files where you keep your resumes, a place I imagine that is only rivaled in scale by the fictional warehouse where the Ark of the Covenant resides in the last of the Indiana Jones films.  I'm really good at film, which I've actually developed some curriculum based around perspective and narrative; it's fairly adaptable and can really teach to the standards, show learning gains, and be extremely engaging especially when coupled with relevant history, cross-curricular teaching, and secondary sources, and I'm disappointed I'm not doing that right now.  Planning that lesson. 

I could tell you that I'm disappointed to be doing what I'm going to do tomorrow, to make a meager living, and be uninsured, but I'm actually disappointed that I'm not, that I'm grateful to have any sort of job.  I'm disappointed we won't have the opportunity to discuss this in person.

Professionally unfulfillingly yours,

D M K

Uhg.

I never believed in the soul until mine started to hurt.
I feel terrible and I feel fine.
I think my heart might literally split, from the hypertension caused by my disappointment. 

Thanks.

I should work in HR.
Which is surprising, and
I never would have though that I'd be softened
By constant professional rejection,
Not that I was particular hard to begin with, But
I think naturally,
As we get older,
There's a hardening.
But I'm getting softer,
Or smaller.
Diminished, for sure.
Less confident.
And it feels really terrible, to get no response
From a job application
From people who are supposed to be your colleagues,
But I worked in HR
I'd personally call every person back.
I'm sorry sir, but the administration has made the wrong choice,
You didn't get the job.
Good luck,
And I know there aren't any jobs left.
So really, good bye.
Have fun doing things you don't want to do,
While people who are worse at what you do want to do,
Fumble.
But god damn,
You can clean a floor.

How to take a fucking picture.

It always bothers me when people look unhappy in photos,
I'm not particularly happy
And I look a fuck of a lot cooler when I'm not smiling,
But I'll pick up a grin
That'll put your teeth in disorder,
Because this isn't about me,
And I want you to think that everything
Is going to be ok.

The male gaze.

Nobody takes photos of me, or particularly often.  It's just that you see some people, and their glamorous lives still shot, in places you'd like to be, good company.  Not me.  The camera adds ten pounds of beauty to already beautiful people.  But us men of statue prone to jerky elasticity and gaunt resignation freeze frame like, well, our jerky gaunt selves.  It's just that, I've always hated beautiful people.  Hate is a strong word.  But so is love, and beautiful people seem to find it falling over themselves regularly.  With regularity.  It's a burden, it's a whip, it's an ungazing eye.  But that eye is a camera sometimes burning indelibly those standards which we value onto paper.  It's like seeing the host of NPR for the first time, for me, for me.  It's like, I'm not how you'd think I look and I often get confused for other people.  Someone asked me if I hate my job today, and I said yes, but what I really meant was, I think you're terrible, this job is fine.

Captain

Sometimes I see people, they profess their adoration for artists, and writers, and musicians.  But, god, I hate it.  It's not jealousy.  You're missing the point, if you went there.  It's something about the way the worship is focused on the individual.  How the artist is the intrigue, not the creation.  And if the piece is were the worship is wielded, then why?  And when did this start and how will it end, and what will be next?  It always seemed like the point of it was that it's excessive.  That it's grotesque to express ourselves this way and look, look now, don't look away, it's happening, you can see it burning or blossoming or expressing itself in a way both noble and relatable.  Didn't sea captains, unknown intellectuals, have locks on their doors and the desk drawers, and when they shouldn't have been writing secret poetry at late hours by candlelight as the waves rocked and the seas rolled, and should have been charting the skies and checking the maps and quelling crew insurrection instead of sitting quietly with their pining and their pawing for women they have or want, or maybe it's not women at all, but something else, something more taboo or less taboo, and years later their children find what was written and it's either embarrassing for everyone involved or it's vaulted to great acclaim, but it was secret for a reason.

Lightfoot.

There is something sacred in the solitary lamp lit.
Ideally the distance between yourself and the object in question,
is two to four feet.
Any further, and you begin to separate what matters from the world.
And you know what?
A light on in the day,
is obscene.

Must.

Being bound by three laws is simple:  Don't Kill People, Improvise, Always Leave Some Space.  I parked my car between two other cars today, in an area where you can back in.  My car is small, and I have terrific spacial awareness.  You wouldn't know it, but I can catch a football in a dead run.  Not that my build suits itself to sport.

A time.

I think, part of my problem is that I have a romantic expectation, in the classical sense, that by distancing myself from people I know, and places I know, that by creating a self-imposed exile, that I'll emerge one day from the wilderness with something beautiful.  That people will look at me, and they'll think about what could have possibly happened.  About what great strides I've made, and what a person I've become, and there will be mystery.  The exile will exist in their minds as this period of unimaginable magic and growth. 

But it seems like, and I was going to write, "the truth is," but the truth is, I don't know, it seems like, people are what make us better.  People we know.  But I don't know. I'm still having a hard time.

-DMK.

Sherry,

Our phone bill was way too high this month, and I know that the new cordless phone is convenient, but I need you to be aware that long-distance calls cost a lot of money, and I don't really want to split the bill this month, it was mostly your calls anyway.

Also it's your turn to buy eggs.

-Justin

To the owners of the Brown Hyundai Accent,

I dropped a notepad that had my deepest thoughts written in it by the wheel well of your car the other days because I thought your car was the car of a cute girl that I only sort of know from a place that I like to get coffee.  I need that notepad back, I actually figured out what car is her car and that she's actually married.

Thanks a bunch,

Barry S.

Dust

Petulant.  That's what she'd called him.  Some sort of dog-like analogy that through a haze of bile and gut-wrenching echoed between his skull and the down-town office of the military recruiters.  From there, passed around, his sallow skin pinched and poked and weight and bones checked and rechecked, there was finality in the Salvation Army.  God-bless the less-fortunate, and with guns after measure 4-0-5b R passed. 

It was discovered that among the donations of older people, entire estates often left arms.  One family, victims of monorail collisions, goddamn monorails, an entire crate of grenades left behind.  And for all the regimentation of the regular-standing Army, the Salvation operated with it's own autonomy.  Victim of circumstance, and lifetimes collection of arms more fitting for a museum.

Dirt.

It's true what they say, and in eight years it had been a pretty rough hall; those boots could probably take a few more miles and the rifling on his gun was sure, sure enough for about, let's say, four more shots at close range.  But the thing about it,  the thing is, is that although Douglas Ancoopers training had worn thin. 

One pair of socks for eight years.  Cost-cutting austerity.  And sure, this wasn't the real military.  The military with exo-suits and top-o-the-line satellite lasers so accurate they could bore-out the medulla-oblongata of a field mouse, if field mice have those.  This was the Salvation Army, and god-dammit, they had a mission. 

If it's

I think the reason I have a hard time with life when things don't go my way, and I get down; It's that I'm a winner. 

One

I read a short story in the New Yorker and later found out from someone who is probably wrong that the author is kind of a dick, but also I read his book before that person said that, and thought it was OK, but I didn't realize that the short story was actually a chapter in the book, which shouldn't have been a surprise, I was an English major and isn't that how authors like F. Scott Fitzgerald did it; I should have seen it coming; it was so obvious, and I thought that the story was actually pretty good, maybe I got a little watery-eyed during some of the novel, and what's stranger is that I'm actually thinking about a different story and a different author:  The short story was called something like "Severe Haircut," and yes I really like those and mine is inspired by Ron Perlman in "The City of Lost Children" and the title f that short story, but everyone always says other dumb things like "greaser" and "Elvis" and "Pony-boy," but that last one I kind of bring on myself, but enough about me, it's good to see you again, want to make-out?

Nathaniel Hopfer wore his shoes like he wore a vest, without a shirt, but those were the demands of this island.  No cotton.  To be fair, the demands were to sit and sweat, and probably, slowly die of starvation, but goddamn it, they needed all of cloth to patch together sails, and they needed leather vests and leather boots in one hundred degree weather like they needed a four-hundred-thirty-eight pound Nathaniel Hopfer on an improvised raft of airplane seat cushions.  They float.  But they didn't float for long.  And Nathaniel Hopfer sat sweating and squinting into the horizon as he saw a party of six young men and women sink before the horizon dropped away. 

The ocean is seventy percent of the planet.  It is often personified as a woman probably, I don't know.  Sometimes it's ruled by a king or something Greek or Roman.  Either way, it's big, and people talk about it.  Imagine all of the things that they could say about the ocean.  That's what they're saying.  It's terrible, I guess, that some people were on it, and then they were in it, and then they were below it.  Terrible.  But that's just some people talking.  They don't really know what they're saying.  Turns out, they are robots, I guess.

Dear Sweeping and Ice-cream,

First, of all, we've met, and yes, I understand that you're an unlikely pair to be receiving this letter.  Perhaps it's inappropriate.  I don't believe you typically cohabitate, but none the less this doesn't concen either of you.  I apologize for the intrusion into your lives, but isn't it nice to get mail? 

Maybe you two should talk, sometimes people with the most differences can be the best friends?  That doesn't seem to hold true here.  You're not people, and honestly I just made that saying up. 

-DMK

Dear Mayfield, Iowa (A place that may or may-not exist,)

We haven't met.  I'm sure it's possible for a young man to fall in love, especially with someone who is a place perhaps.  I don't know much about Iowa.  I could list the few facts I have buried deep inside me.  It sounds cliche, but my a 4th Grade report on Iowa was a disappointing experience.  There's a perception that Iowa doesn't have much to offer, but Mayfield, I have hope.

Your friend in letters,

DMK 

Come out, Come out.

What maybe you don't understand is that, when I wake up, I don't want you to talk to me.  In fact, when I wake up, I don't want anything.  It's called "bear-hands," and if I reach into the refrigerator, I will knock everything over, and I will grumble something not unlike a bear's roar.

Some mornings I wake up to thoughts:  Play Toto, as soon as possible.

When I come out of a migraine it feels like the smell of a pavement after a rainstorm, but you still can't play basketball because everything is all wet, and you aren't very good at basketball anyway.

Shame.

There is nothing more shameful than the liberal arts
And the mental masturbation that says this and
That can mean anything if you
Twist the nipples of analytics
Hard enough.

And I don't want anyone to ever call me
A writer, or worse,
A poet.
Those words taste of stale sweat and pretension;
Someone whose words carry such weight
That panties will drop
With their meaning.

And there's nothing more appealing to me
Than to discredit another,
Established author.
I get it Jane (Austin) this novel should have ended
100 pages ago.

Lies.

One of my favorite lies, is to say that it was the year that I broke my leg,
But also, I just thought of another, where maybe I talk about
Having to save a baby goat that was drowning probably in a flood of some sort,
Near a farm.

Physical Labor

It might sound strange, but I don't really think it's alright to pick flowers and it's not my cup of tea to name things. Sure, you might have seen me at some point with a rose in my cap, a walking contradiction of gender for the unenlightened, and you may have met my cat, Eugene, who is yes, almost the exact same shade of orange as my own hair, but what you don't know is that I don't pick flowers; I don't have names for things.

And I'd be perfectly content cleaning the same room for the rest of my life. I'm not a spiritual person, at all. But I've always found a strange satisfaction at putting order and a shine on wood. Ask my parents. At twelve, they'd come home to find the living room floor had been hand waxed and polished. This is true. You can still watch TV while applying paste wax with an old rag, but you have to do it on your hands an knees. I've always had that sort of energy.

Around that same time, I'd find myself in the basement of our old house for hours, and I think I was probably listening to Sir Mix A Lot, or NPR or both, off an on. Side A, the News, Side B, a program about outer space, repeat. I was refinishing old furniture. I don't think I asked permission, or was asked to do it. I was compelled.

There was that stool, that is still floating around my parent's house, a different house, but still their house. It says, burned into the bottom, 1867. You ruin the value of antiques by refinishing them, but you don't know they're antiques sometimes, until you refinish them. And what's the value of something broken and covered in Spackle and dried paint anyway?

For some reason, I'm not quick to defend myself or define myself when it comes to describing who I am. Sure I have seven or so bicycles, but I remember being in seventh grade and riding to school almost all year. Mostly it was because the bus wasn't very fun. Mostly it was because I got a satisfaction out of being independent. Of being an independent. Not politically of course, personally. But for a time I forgot that I did that. That I biked to school in the cold weather, and that time that the wild turkeys flew over the road and almost hit me, and that I didn't tell anyone, I just tucked that one away because it happened to me, and it was mine forever.

I remember learning that rugged individualism was a term used to describe the conservative philosophies championed by the republican party, and that it had it's roots anchored in pictures of cowboys and soldiers and that sort of thing. It was disappointing. Before I learned that, I remember liking that term; Rugged Individualism. After, it was tainted. I couldn't keep it, now. Thanks Ronald Reagan.

How to Right Erotica.

...Clarissa, engorged by the sweet pie probably was turned on by Garret's timid rippling muscles, wet with perspiration from nervousness. It was then that he suggested, "Let's get another slice," probably. He may have also asked in a voice, not quite audible to Clarissa, if she had a sister or a brother, "I couldn't remember," he muttered once more. Too much peanut butter from the sweet pie kept her mouth locked shut, "Mmm, hhmmm." It was a pie consisting mostly of peanut-butter and powdered sugar, no crust. Bending closer, to hear her confessional words of love, maybe, Garret assumed and was assaulted by breathy bursts of that which had escaped being eaten, in a sexy way. And Clarissa, now only three to twenty-seven inches away, somewhere in that distance, it was like-a wavering sort of distance, was able to smell heavily the must of man on Garret. But it wasn't this man, in front of Clarissa, it was a much more handsome, less-balding, man. A man dressed just like the Brawny Paper Towel man. As if Clarissa had a magical wishing pot, and after casting in six or seven dollars, thought dispolitely about the Brawny Paper Towel man, and what if he took actual, physical corporeal form. Like maybe, maybe he steps out of a mirror, and it's not a murder mirror, it's a love making mirror. A mirror where a handsome paper towel man steps out and instead of murdering people with, he has an axe I think, he like uses his axe-like dick to murder that vagina. Or if it were a metaphor, I guess Clarissa would think, something like: that Brawny Man, Chandles St. Souflons, arms embracing the world held tight Clarissa and the wings of an american bald eagle swept her away metaphorically to the clouds where it was cold but there was plenty of precipitation, if you know what I mean.

Part 2 of 7.

B my Leg.

I've always been an excellent liar,
Like when I was fourteen and I lost all the blood in my left arm for weeks, and the strangest thing was that the doctors refused to amputate and for a time it just lay limp and dangling and black as a salt cod, because it was white. Nestled in the hills, water ran clear and copious and in the summer we could eat the dirt it was so fertile and ripe with goodness, but our family was forced to relocate to a town plagued by mining disaster after mining disaster and Veterans of World War I, where a boy less on arm functioning could be a relative belle of the ball compared to black lunged leather faced mine workers and octogenarian war hawks missing digits and teeth and eyeballs and hairlines which kept proportions of normalcy between amount of face and hair. Sure, there were mustaches and pinne-totte charlemoule, but nothing but a keen hat and a copious delirium would fool you into thinking these coin tossers had never bit hind paw off a living dog just to appease their older brothers in a game of "that dame won't wink, no will she."

And to top it all off, it was the year that I broke my leg.

Rundown.

Ah, the rub and the rustle.

The Grind and the gird.

The time thief,

Noble Busyness,

This business.

Full sentences don't always contain a verb and a noun; Sometimes they are just full.

Eczema.

Scattershot. If that's not a transformer it should be. I wouldn't know. Not the type for research, and missed Transformers somehow; I'm very good at TV, this is unusual.

Leads us to one inference. Transformers sucks in execution, but conceptually, exceptional. Perhaps it was only designed for those toys. A firetruck that turns into a Robot? Amazing. It puts out fires and is built our lord's image.

Religion. That's why I don't like Transformers. Admittedly, I put that there. Injected a hot shot of God into that cartoon. But like most things I make up, they're probably true.

It's like that mid 90's movie with that kid that got a drug problem or started proselytizing in his 20's, in the nowsies. You know, that one movie. That one that probably exists. Oh, I'm doing it again:
Being right without trying.

So, I've amassed quite the twitter following. And this is my real voice now, not the ravings of madman or madmin. I went to high school with Malcolm Madmin; Swell fellow, but unfortunately exceeding racist. Unprecedentedly racist. Racists looked at him and thought, "I don't know man, Santa's alright with me."

Below you'll find my slapshot to victory. My shots on goal that posted world wide have gained me acclaim. A place to rest my words when my mouth just can't be trusted. A sanctuary for the misguided thoughts of an eleven year old twenty-six year old. Read on and trust the stitchery of a noted seamer (the masculized form of seamstress).

I've made a mask out of the skin of our past, like the zeitgeist. Like I killed a bunch of zeitgeists and made a mask of out their skin, but it's a sort of ghost skin, so you can't tell I'm wearing it. It's not creepy. It's a metaphor. It's a creepy metaphor.

Twit:

they full of sour piss and ice cream and

impocompetance

i want you to know that i 've eaten all of the cheese that could be had at this of all hours.

Never begin an ending with Chet Pasternak.

one more year has passed like a turd from an ass.

The wires are visible even from 100 yards.

the science of Cerberus.

surf city.

I had one of those mid-winter bikini adventure dreams.

what do people do in offices all day long.

It's a phone brosanne, it's going to work.

Reason number a hindered why I hate naps!

I will eat your family and crap up your living room.

in hell it was acres of breasts and boobs of every sort as far as the eye could see; heaven, awash with the foreskins of young children.

love is for people who don't pay attention to the messes they make.

Poor child actors will be the death of me.

it's just me n the catslcoatl.

i hope about supermans.

I don't care when famous people die. It's like quoting. I hate quoting.

A question can be a statement if it's an insult.

And onward:

Our mediums have changed, and there's perhaps too much power given to paper. Perhaps too little. I've always thought that if you didn't want someone to destroy something you've created, you should build it so that they can't. Like, I could write my message on the moon, but I can't get a coherent message coalesced out of the coal. It's like were hunting for diamonds in a mine, and the mine collapses, and we survive just long enough to adapt due to radiation and a bunch of food and growth hormones in that food that nobody knew about, and so like six hours later we don't need to breathe oxygen.

Lucky us, our metaphor changes from luxury resource to adaptation. But a metaphor needs to have a point. One thing I'll never do is be the type of person who hides inside of anxiety in what I say and do.

Wring my hands. Shit, they dry as bone. I have eczema. But seriously, who doesn't these days.

-DMK

A strange and unusual feeling.

Something happened to me recently.
My brain turned back on,
But I have some worries:
Why was it off?
How long has it been?
Where's the switch and why was it flipped?

I feel like I'm 12 again.
It used to feel like I was smartest when I was in Fourth Grade.
It was a sharp decline.

And I had this issue;
It's that I don't feel the need to write when I'm feeling good.
There's no need to exhale.
Just one long breath that never runs out.

So now, I embark on a new task.
How am I,
When I'm feeling happy.
I think I can use that word now.
I'm boldly going.

1

I'm worried about how happy I am.
I used that word in the way there are different shades of white.
I'm eggshell.
Then there's bleach white.
I guess, it's like science.