you realize i have abandonment issues...

dear blog,

i really dont think that canker-sores and community-meetings are really any sort of excuse.

have my musing pushed you off the deepend?
have i gone too far in my cornycheesymanner?!

oh dearest blog
i feel lonesome

it seems to me that 'relationships' are a funny funny thing-
this trek to love someone and be with someone and all the funny illogical arrangements that must be made for this.
these 'agreements' in terms of time and space and places and attention to be paid-
these weird exchanges of feelings that seem to be working towards some place or some thing i dont know of

i guess my notions of love are child-like
i guess i just think it should be about adventures and kisses and rolling in grass
and no labels or locations or times in spaces and words,
just feelings of happy and playful
just sunshine and glee and content

So here I am
the sun is coming in
and I'm listening to trains and birds and Him sleeping

I'm watching the morning time make crystallycolory shapes on the ceiling
and contemplating the fact that apparently I am stranded in this town

I watch Him sleeping and curl myself in a ball in layers of blankets
I wonder then if I know what I want
if I know even a little bit like at all

my favorite levi jacket

I was sitting on a newspaper Box ("the stranger") outside the Greyhound station, watching a wedding set-up in the park. Swinging cowboy boots/humming/waiting waiting to be whisked away.

A woman with cigarettes and years in her voice was talking to the pigeons, then she started talking to me, she told me I had the same red hair as her son, its called titian T-I-T-I-A-N after a renaissance painter who painted all his women with gorgeous red-orange hair or something like that. Her name is Ruth. She has three children shes a scientologist she had natural childbirths and thinks their important she coached someone through their problem with premature ejaculation, it all started when he was born and his mother took the drugs and the nurses kept saying Hes Coming Too Early Hes Coming Too Early.

She talked about moving to Olympia just today with her oldest son age 45. They come from Texas. Shes got a drawl and I saw her get off the Aberdeen bus. I start to realize that she seems very familiar. Eventually I remember this titian T-I-T-I-A-N story is one Ive heard before. I met her on a bus once like two years ago. She doesn't remember. She tells me shes working on a yacht at Percival landing and also being a nanny for two lovely children near The Community College. Someones picking her up right now. I watch her things while she uses the payphone. She tells me theyll be their any second, she cant wait to meet the children and the boat.

Another man inside, hes heading to Louisiana some way somehow. Ruth is telling him about her life story and I think its different than before when she told me. They go to the park to watch the wedding. I hope she didn't miss her ride.

#

I love the way the bathroom lights at Union Station make your lips purple and your teeth yellow,
and you could look at yourself looking like a monster all day.

I like the big mahogony bench seats,
and the big marble walls and ceilings,
and how much time and decor went into a space only meant for lulls.

Poem For Dada Day At The Place April 1, 1958

by Jack Spicer

I

The bartender

Has eyes the color of ripe apricots

Easy to please as a cash register he

Enjoys art and good jokes.

Squish

Goes the painting

Squirt

Goes the poem

He

We

Laugh.

II

It is not easy to remember that other people died

besides Dylan Thomas and Charlie Parker

Died looking for beauty in the world of the

bartender

This person, that person, this person, that person

died looking for beauty

Even the bartender died

III

Dante blew his nose

And his nose came off in his hand

Rimbaud broke his throat

Trying to cough

Dada is not funny

It is a serious assault

On art

Because art

Can be enjoyed by the bartender.

IV

The bartender is not the United States

Or the intellectual

Or the bartender

He is every bastard that does not cry

When he reads this poem.

Back in Oly, Gettin' Scully.

So, It was a rather brief escapade but I feel thoroughly refreshed and ready to do it again. I am glad that I came back because I got up early and did some homework that really needed to be addressed, I have been terrible with that this Quarter. The train ride back here last-night was full of Gin and Tonics and laughing at this 12 year olde whining at his father figure a crossed the aisle from us. Today I got coffee at the Daily Grind, 99 cents, What! Cheapest in Town! I am all over the best deals in town. It's the only way to breath. Am'Lee and I are working on a play 'bout our Uncle SKULLY and have started a school that needs developing. Still on the way: Crew Patches. Anyone want to go to the print studio soon?!?!?!?! 

Big Big Gray Day

Sitting in a weird timeless coffee warehouse in Eugene and everything is new and industrial. Lastnight Am'Lee and I stayed in a big big house called the Lorax. it was a manshion and 31 people lived in it and it was an old castle and we slept in the attic and it was full of cold and rats and dust and drums and bottles and stary sky. The moon was to big lastnight and we sat behind a college sign and we drank 2-11 and yelled at college boys walking by who were all tied together, I ran up to them and demanded to know where the beer was at and they said it was a college thing so I went back and hid behind the sig. It was a hard place to pee because bend on my knees and not stand up otherwise the police would've seen. After that we caught a train and here in south oregon we are waiting for a car to take us to Oakland. Things on the inside of my body are hungover and I didn't hardly have no booze lastnight. Must have been that burger basket that Am'Lee and I ate in Salem. It was a T.V. show there, and it was one that I never wanna watch again. The road dogs roll on.