A changing time brings a wave of disturbing newness.

When we've made a plan we can't recount. It is essential to stick to plans and to follow through, or we'll lose all legitimacy to ourselves and to others.

And that's where I find myself. Unaware of the future, but surely at contempt for the prospect of failure. But, while failure seems all but impossible in this world of second and third chances, I can't convince myself that everything will be fine. Perhaps it's an acquired attitude. Regret for past failures.

No.

It's the feeling that little has been accomplished with the tools and talents acquired and blessed by God. I've yet to publish a story, or a book of poetry. And, in my undying ability to create words of thought, to lance the fat from the crap rivals sow, I've not been able to use my own whit to hunker down and establish what I'm meant to do.

Perhaps, all else shall fail if I lay, head back in a canoe, on the river of my dreams. For, when a man finds his voice, all will try to quiet him. But he must not let them. All things seems impossible, until the man takes hold and discovers what it is he is meant to be. And, I've done that. But do I have the know-how and the angst to follow through with producing what I should?

I must, or fear will continue to conquer and life with become more drab.

Fear has become my life. I live in fear, moment to moment, and it is reality, which has become the true fiction. I’m afraid of everyone and regret pours over me. There are no fancy words and/or phrases to describe its clutch upon my heart and soul. I’ve made big plans and must stick to them, but I’m afraid I’m destined to fail amidst my inability to be productive due to the dread. I can’t keep people close, because I’m at fear of my affect on them, deepening my regret and their angst for departure. Anxiety for daily activities I seemingly can’t perform, leads to overwhelming regret and depression within, to fear of the future and of the past; killing hope and reckoning my life to tattered shreds of contempt for myself.

I wish I knew the way to hope. I’ve tried God and when I disagree or can’t decide what I believe, I feed my furnace of regret. I have tried to keep friends, but can’t because, my dread has spread to them. Music has no ring, colors are grey and the prospect of new adventures brings nothing, but anxious worry.

I want out of this nightmare, to a place where things are easy and can be completed. Where I feel as if I matter. And where I feel smart again, and able to stand on my own two feet. To be a champion of the day, happy with whatever successes are attainable and not greedy to be the best in all fields, just good enough for someone else and for myself.

I've told people, and yet I fail myself: don't try to like something you don't.

It just doesn't make sense to the inner most reaches of whatever it is that we have which decides what works and what doesn't to the inner most reaches of whatever it is that we have.

I'm also learning to keep as little attachment to things as possible, psychoanalyze situations before they happen, prep for them and you'll be free to do what you want to do with your life.

Attachments are misguiding and they retort nothing in regard to happiness. Let your mind wander, create and you'll find guidance in all you need.

Saltine crackers and budweiser make a good lunch, especially when the cup on the patio - trapped by the wind and the flanking fence - won't stop it's rolling about.

Seeing Nothing and Saying Nothing

So, it goes like this:

These guys come up to us on the street; we're smoking cigarette after cigarette, talking about Middle East peace resolution and why things are named what they're named, like Kentucky blue grass, for instance.

We're just talking and they approach and the one guy, kind of short and square-eyed; you know what I mean, right? Square-eyed? Almost, like a cartoon character, the short guy, dressed in a blue turtle neck, dark-blue-faded-at-the-knee blue jeans and a worn red toboggan, opens his palm and says: "take a look."

So I say: "Look at what," to him, peering down and then looking at both the short guy and his friend, a fiendish looking bloke with a square head, black-rimmed glasses and an itch to be somewhere.

And I meant it, to what? There was nothing there.

So, he said look again and so I did. Still nothing.

I turned to my friend and I said, nothing.

I guess some people see somethin', but I don't when there's nothin'. And, even worse, some people talk about nothin' when it's just that.

Cormier Plage

We took time to see the city of Cap Haiten and the rural areas outside the city. To the entertainment of everyone else - and myself - I opted to ride in the bed of the truck most the time, to both snap photos and take advantage of something not allowed in our over-lawed society.

Two Fridays ago, Fr. Andre took the three of us, as well as Bob and Ann; a couple from Montreal, staying at the orphanage simultaneously, to the beach. Taking the high road - and the bumpy one - we etched our way through the northern stretches of Cap Haiten, into the highlands and further and further from the 'somewhat' paved streets of the bustling city. Climbing into the mountains, we snaked our way passed 'tap-taps' and motorbikes, down and out of ravines within the road, sculpted by the rain water draining down the cliffs.

We passed and people stared; mainly at me, villages and streams where women washed clothes before setting them on the cactus bushes nearby in the morning sun to dry. Nearing the apex of the climb, I noticed a break in the mango, spruce and banana trees and then, the immense blue. The next turn brought full view of the Caribbean sea and a lone sailboat, beat by the waves, some of which crashing and spraying the rocky coast.

We made our descent, very slow now on the increasingly windy and thin road. As we got closer two trucks loaded with 10 people in each bed were closing in to our bumper. Turning the corner - a clear blind spot - Fr. Andre honked and as he did the two trucks passed us, missing motorcycles by mere feet and another truck, which in passing bumped driver-side mirrors with ours.

We soon arrived at Cormier Plage, a resort of sorts. We spent the day at the beach, in the warm sea and I got sunburned to the point I'm dealing with it as I write.

Days have passed and I have yet to make a concrete assumption as to what my trip to Haiti meant; to me and to my mission for the betterment of those I feel charged to help.

The details are immense of dissimilarity to the conditions we find as norms in this country, to the landscape of Haiti. But oddly I found myself mere hours into the adventure sympathizing not with the lack-of, which Haiti is victim, but to the access-to that I find so paralyzing, for which the people of this country fall victim.

The children, desperate for love and starved for parents having either died of natural causes, lost in the mix or in the 2010 earthquake, could grasp the heart of any person for which they came in contact. I found myself pitying them, but thankful their conditions are as they have been placed.

Father Andre; a gentle, caring but enthusiastically intelligent man has started two schools, the orphanage of the children I am speaking, is pushing evermore to give back, as he was given as one of Haiti's own lost children. Raised by nuns, educated in Haiti and the United States, Fr. Andre came back to Haiti only to return to the streets, pulling children from the dusty and poorly-paved roads of Cap Haiten and starting an orphanage to house those not much unlike him as a child.

I watched in their eyes as they played, as we gave treats - a single Oreo to each, in one case - and I saw something lost in the eyes of many. While we have found ways to destroy the bonds we are blessed and/or lucky enough to have, depending on your perspective and/or assumption, these children truly hold each other close; brothers and sister's not of birth, but of a common upbringing. One night I watched the oldest, with a plate of the leftover rice and beans from lunch, systematically scoop and allocate even portions to his 19 'brothers' and 'sisters', taking care not to miss anyone. As he did, one of the smallest girls did her best to mouth the scoop of food, while I cupped my hand under her mouth to catch the bits that fell.

The children were not shy, but boisterous and assured in their need to be held, holding our hearts at the same time. The first night, we sat at the picnic-style tables in the living room, watching the fuzzy 12-inch television, as one sat on my knee, his legs rapped around my right leg locking in and holding on, surely to take advantage of closeness of which he is starved.

We would play to exhaustion, while the children became more energized as the mid-80s heat and sun beat down on my back in their small play yard. And then we'd stop, I'd sit and five or six of them would pile on my lap and shoulders and back, pulling my hair rubbing my whiskered face and asking me questions in their native Creole, I'd try best to understand.

I learned to love them without a curriculum of understanding or without trying.

One particular boy, his parents having died in the catastrophic earthquake last year, attached to my hip and every time I'd come down the steps from our quarters, his eyes would lock into mine and his arms would shoot to the sky, begging for me to pick him up, hold him and sometimes toss him in the air. I spent hours watching him, when I didn't hold him as he etched on a magnadoodle, and in my moleskin. "Ecris, Ecris," he say softly to me when I'd bring my notebook to scribble down observations. I'd let him draw and oftentimes, he'd be practicing cursive figures of vowels, i noticed the teacher had left on the broken chalk board in the rudimentary classroom/play area.

Yes, my time in Haiti was not for me, but for the children. But it was a rejuvenation of sorts and a time to see, as I've already assumed, that there are innumerable perspectives to experience.

I'm

a ways from home. but, will be further soon.

a bit of jerk, sometimes.

hungry, most all the time.

a slob, but only when i'm alone.

radical in my beliefs and style.

not trying to be anyone but myself; whoever that is.

searching for answers to questions i can't read or write down.

not looking for help.

institutionalized in grief.

fed well by societies requirement.

taught in Thoreau and believe in nothing.

trying to disappear when i don't answer your calls.

155 pounds of uncompromised uncertainty.

disgusted with the way of life of others.

no relation to you, though.

moving to California

in May

and

u

I watched the circus roll through town.

I saw it through my dining room window, the circus I mean. On wheels, they were, moving quickly in line, down the street. And then, they were gone. Out of the sight of my dining-room window.

So, I looked down at the snow. And the house across the shared-apartment yard with the neighbors dogs shit everywhere. i don't really mind it, I just noticed it was there. Just because I acknowledged it, doesn't mean I mind it. I don't mind very much; I should be easy to get along with, but I'm not because people don't know that I don't mind much.

I thought about going to the store to buy groceries and didn't. I don't like buying groceries. Food costs too much and I can eat what food I have. I don't like paying as much as they ask for food. I'd steal it if I could, but I'd get caught. I'm terrible at stealing food.

Seeing things is hard when you're locked inside all day long. Well, not really locked, but closed in all day long. I don't mind it though. But I mind not writing. And you have to see things outside to write about them. Don't write about things if you haven't seen them. I need to see things, so I can write about them. I can't be locked inside all day long, well, not locked but closed inside...all day long.

Where'd the day go?

There’s a hippie in a dead shirt and red toboggan, smoking a cigarette and talking to himself, strolling anxiously through the melting snow, down College avenue.

And that’s the problem with people; they’re always looking down at their feet when they’re walking, disregarding what they should be looking at. So what if you slip and fall down; you’ll see more that way. Feel more.

Is is creek or a river. I don’t really know. Some people say a creek. Some people say a river. I don’t really know.

I’m not waiting on the red light to turn, they are. I’m walking. I don’t wait for lights to change when I’m walking. I just walk.

I get caught looking at my feet when I’m taking a walk as well. I catch myself looking at them, as they are getting more and more soaked. I need shoes with better soles, but I don’t care about better soles. I only care about fashion. That’s why I wear sneakers. They aren’t fashionable. I hate fashionable shoes.

Running homeward to write down my thoughts, I fear I will lose them. I run like I’m going to lose them. I get in the door, peel off my soaked shoes and I’ve lost them.

There’s a blue shopping cart down there in the river or creek, whatever you want to call it, you can call it. I call it a shopping cart.

I take walks to see things. I want to move to see things so I can have more to write about. That’s where the writing comes from, from seeing things. They say I haven’t looked enough and should stay here, see things and write about them. I say, you haven’t looked either, or you’d see that there’s nothing to see. That’s why I’m moving, because I’ve looked and there’s things to see there. I need things to see, to write about.

People seem to be smiling a bit more today. People always smile when something is changing. It feels good to change. I like to see change. Stagnancy is scary. Humans are scary. Humans are, for the most part, stagnant.

I can be whatever I wish to be. The possibilities are endless. You should have endless possibilities, as well. But you choose not to. That’s why I’m leaving to see things.

To decide if it’s a river or a creek.

To not wait on the lights to change.

To not have to have soaked feet on a slush-covered sidewalk.

To wear my dead shirt and my red toboggan.

To make it home, not have to run and not forget things I want to write about.

To not be stagnant.

To not be human.

a rocked gut
fly-over without displacement and/or acknowledgment

a nasty disputation and a violent wind sweeping under a dress

a rustling rodent, striving for warmth and we have much
settling in alone or
not.

come now, pray the prayer they've taught you to pray

of all is understanding and faith in reason
when there is none.

The news seems dead as does the surrounding landscape
but we press on into the darkness ahead

no one really knowing what's lying in our way.

Why is it our way, I ask myself
don't ask so many questions, he said once

You'll be much happier with the answers if you don't ask for them
they come easy
painless
and free.

They said you'd be here, you said
I say 'no' but, she said
that i was coming and I haven't made my mind up
because I don't care.

Deliberate actions speak enough and the children run, even when told not to.
into the street and to the neighbors porch, you don't trust.

What are you going to do now, they ask
my indecision scraped on my forhead like a scaring wound emblazoned by choice and not
experience.

I don't answer but let the actions fortold of, do the talking
while they keep
asking.

Chicago night wind

I run to the subway but,
it waits anyway for me and everyone else.

I sit amongst strangers, either too tired to smile or not caring
to

A young man stumbles in soiled pants and tattered camouflaged jacket, asking for a nickel
when i'm sure he wants much more.
As i do.

We take the red-line 15 stops to Howard, exit and start all over again, running
and yet, the train still waits.

I step outside to the uninvited cold wind and the snow starts falling.
I've got a mile and a half to walk and no one is around but the fleeting train and passing cars.
I pass the cars as I walk, or they pass me
They see me but I hardly see them; smoking a cigarette one honks and I say 'thank you.'

The snow is cold and I don't wear proper shoes, as the ice seeps through the cracks in my worn soles and my soul aches with the thought of it all. I
step back down onto the highway and make headfall toward my destination
before another round of cars coming streaming by unseen and hardly heard.

I'm here for that one, I tell the man and he throws me a key.

I miss it, but I don't miss the chance to feel bitter on a blustery night.

Finding the Time

When Alvin asked me to pick up his 'billfold' from the iced-over drive way, i thought: "A literal move!"

Never properly prepared for life on the ice, the human race invented slip-on shoes and I have embraced them. They wear more quickly, but they only cost $10.

Alvin greeted me again today: "Young man, thank you for getting my billfold," as he chipped with a spade at the 3 inches of death at his feet.

"You're welcome, sir," I said.

Mr. Mays (names have been changed to protect the homeless) then started talking about how he'd climbed over the fence - in his apparent feeble state - only to slip drop the wallet in hand, err, rather, billfold; before slipping and leaving it. Luckily I was there to help him out or he would have had to call the fire department.

I have walked around the block twice, spent countless hours searching for cars and talked to people in all places not here amongst the Siberian-esque conditions. Or is there just a lot of snow and chilly temps in Northern Russia?

I'm afraid my music has annoyed the neighbors due to its inconsistency. But we all know when a song hits you right, you have to peck at the volume button to raise it past the point you already know doesn't exist.

The only thing that has remained the same is that I've listened to Modest Mouse's 'Dramamine' and Radio Dept's 'Clinging to a Scheme' album about 27 times.

At present The Knife greets those in Suites A and C.

However, amongst the anxious upheavals, airplanes flying overhead and my kicking the chair-frozen to the ground, perhaps spraining my largest toe on my right foot, not to mention nearly slipping and breaking my own feeble body, I've gotten quite a bit of nonsensical writing done.

I try to be happy with it, but what fills moleskins is 'for no one' and is literal illustration of that which attempts to seep, sometimes does, but mostly remains locked up in the inner clutches of the soul.

As the sun sets, i take note of the strange color of Alvin's house and the birds that aren't present upon his red roof.

An pink (faded red) piece of tape tied upon the top of an electric-metered stick, flies with the cold wind as if someone running to battle, flag in hand, got trapped under the ice.

The lights are off and the furnace kicks in, though I keep it low because who needs heat anyway?

I think as I slid a few feet, readjusted, slid again and then tip toed in my black Urban Outfitter slip-ons, that this could be my final few days stuck within the clutching of the aftermath with blizzard-like conditions. Warmer weather is on the horizon, and though I don't complain as those who choose to live here forever, I will say I don't like the inability to sit outside whenever I want and read or jot things into said moleskin.

I mused about driving to the store to buy some more food, salt for the sidewalks and cheeto's but thought better of it.

I do need to cook something, eat and take out the trash - risking my neck and my warm feet - so I must go.

Have a good night everyone.

In two days

I've scraped for hours
eaten things
inedible

drank heavy
and left thoughts
of you in the snow

I see
out my bedroom window

Days and Nights

'So, where does the story end,' she asked?
When the nights come cold
an answer is waiting
for how the
sun sets on the days
it precedes
and
follows

I've seen all this country has to see
and I've
seen naught, but
you.
And you don't see
me
but, look away when i approach.

'Don't be an ass,' you say.

We wind the streets unfolded and down until we reach the
top.

Where'd the year go, so fast and slow as the rain falls where it's
not meant. The time has come for slow cars and even slower minds.

And, you're neither, but a dream unescapable in the daylight.

afternoon naps and restless nights; we're meant for neither.

every writer has one good novel in them is bullshit and you know it
focus is waning
and this cigarette is too short and too long.

they had it in for me and you never will.
Oh baby can't you see.

and, but knows nothing
falsehood in the life of saints
truth in the lives of manics
kiss the death goodbye and arise to the truth
no
one knows.

A hairy belly

Lift your shirt and do you have a hairy belly?

A small pooch is nothing if it's not a leaping gestation.

Are you ready for rejection, non madame

Finish your tea and get out! East we'll go if we can stave the cold. West we'll go if we're not ready.

You're down and I am too, why not shoot for the moon?

kiss death goodbye and live.

A man paces, in anxiety of brilliance, but doesn't know what to seek. Feed that itch, young man
and
let it
stop.

Eating he goes out, and not knowing why.

Why then, he asks himself. To find what you're looking for is nothing but an overarched struggle of resistent to truth and you're gone.

If only for a moment and their we
are
and neither knows what to make of it.