Old Dixon Ticonderoga

 This is about pencils and wanting to get away from screens and draw shitty cartoons.

Old Dixon Ticonderoga #2

It’s raining out the window

and my eyes are pixelating

Staring at computer screens.

I just want to pick up my

Old Dixon Ticonderoga

and draw shitty pictures of my

            Dreams.

My iPhone is buzzing

To say I’m 10 minutes late,

My eyes are heavy,

and my give-a-damn is waning.

I just want to pick up my

Old Dixon Ticonderoga

and draw shitty pictures of my

            Dreams.

I’ve been up and running

for what seems like 47 hours,

but it’s only been 129 minutes.

Don’t know why I’m counting down,

when there’s no rocket to launch. 

I just want to pick up my

Old Dixon Ticonderoga

and draw shitty pictures of my

            Dreams.

My mind is ruminating

on all the stupid shit I wish

I’d never done

Sometimes I think I’ve

just forgotten what it’s

like to simply have some fun.

Life needs a giant eraser

I’d just wipe some

mis-(or missed)-adventures away,

and start over again

with a relatively clean page.

I just want to pick up my

Old Dixon Ticonderoga

and draw shitty pictures of my

            Dreams.

I’m a terrible artist so

this metaphor is lame,

I don’t care because I’m

drawing superheroes

flying through outer space.

My mind is like 2-year old

scattered all over the place.

I just want to pick up my

Old Dixon Ticonderoga

And draw shitty pictures of my

            Dreams.

Dr. Who and the Orthodic Alien Burrito

A Doctor Who Short story Written as my wife's mothers day card.  Picture the 11th doctor (Matt Pond)

Dr. Who and the Orthodic Alien Burrito

On a random Sunday at an unspecified relatively unimportant moment in the history of the Universe, an antique, blue, and extremely British Police Box Apperated (the official Harry Potter word for disappearing from one location and appearing elsewhere as a method of transportation) in front of a decidedly weird and busy pink doughnut shop in what appeared to be a city of some sort.  Despite a slight rain, a large line of people were lined up outside. 

            “OOOO, Shock, awe, well, this isn’t Andy Warhol’s Factory in the 1970s,” said the Doctor quite loudly to no one in particular.  He confidently stepped out of the box in a bowtie and tattered suit.  “Excuse me, Flannel-Beard-Guy and Pierced-Tattooed-High-Wasted-Bike-Short Woman, where and when am I?”

           

            “Portland, Mother’s Day, 2015,” said Beard Guy as the doughnut line continued to snake around the newly present Police Box without stopping or moving at all in response to the new arrival. 

            “No response, no shock, no surprise.  Come on people, random man, British accent, appearing a Pacific Northwest Street,” said the exasperated time-traveler with a hint of disappointment.

            “The Time Based art event is in a few months but that effect was pretty cool,” said Pierced-Tattooed-High-Wasted-Bike-Short Woman.  “you should totally enter it.”

            “Well, um yes, that’s why I’m here.  Art installation on the impact of emergency medical communication with a British accent.  Carry on…or first…”

Fifteen Minutes later, the Doctor was riding down the Portland streets in the rain on a fixed gear bicycle, loudly singing Oasis songs for no apparent reason, eating a doughnut made of bacon and maple syrup. 

            The Doctor road around the town for a while getting soaked by the slow, constant downpour but didn’t appear bothered, “the traffic’s better than London, but the weather’s the same…” he said again to no one in particular. 

 It must’ve been around 5pm when the doctor heard someone yell, “nice bow-tie” from the sidewalk.  It was an overweight man with impressive sideburns pushing a stroller near what could only be a delicious Mexican Restaurant.  Inside was a small and loquacious human around 2- years-old or approximately 2/968ths of the Doctor’s age.  The Doctor thought this was as good of a place to stop as any.  His travel companions were visiting family and there was no Dalek invasion, so a burrito sounded fantastic. 

As the Doctor tried to stop, he realized the bike he had found in a long lost Tardis closet had no functioning breaks, so he frantically waved the sonic screwdriver at the wheel as he slammed the curb toppled over.  “Are you ok” said the side-burned man as he reached down to help the doctor off of the bike. 

“Ok” parroted the small human, followed by, “gah do wahh bah noon p.”

“Right as rain little one, Peri right.  Sir, your daughter here is a very important person.  I believe I just met the greatest novelist of the 21^st century and founder of the Human/Alien Art Exchange.  It’ll make more sense in, oh 30 years or so.  Sorry, spoilers, must’ve hit my head.  I speak baby.  Time to have burrito,” rambled the doctor.

As he adjusted his suit and straightend his wet bowtie, the sideburned man, waved down an approaching well-dressed woman.  “Honey,” he said, “this man who just crashed his bike, says our daughter is going to be a novelist and share art with aliens.”

“By the way, what is your name, I’m Bob and this is my wife Morgan, and daughter who’s name your creepily know.”

“Sir, we will call the cops,” said the wife.  In this couple, thought the Doctor, this woman is the one who means business.

“Sorry, I’m the Doctor, a time-traveling alien.  I think I’m here to buy you dinner and give you some advice.  Bob, judging from you Star Wars shoes, this may be your perfect evening.  Shall we.”

“Go ahead Bob,” said Morgan, “might as well see where this leads, besides, Pablo at the bar will take care of him if he tries anything fishy.  Don’t forget your daughter.”

Bob grabbed the toddler who was nearly out of the stroller and pushed through the door behind the Doctor and Morgan who were already at the bar ordering Margaritas and Burritos. 

“Well, you aren’t surprised to be talking to me.  No one in this town seems to care.  So disappointing.  I like making and entrance,” said the doctor while he and Morgan waited for Bob to order.  Peri ran and gave her mother a giant hug.  “Seriously, it’s like this is common place.”

“Doctor, Portland is weird.  There’s a unicycling bagpiper and multiple adult marching bands that can sell out concerts.  I think at this point we all just take things as they come,” explained Morgan.

They all sat down around a table.  Peri slid from her mother and climbed on the Doctor’s lap.  Bob seemed anxious but Morgan seemed not to mind at all.  “Babies like me,” said the Doctor, “but I think this one pooped.”  Bob grabbed the small one from the Doctor and headed towards the bathroom.

“Morgan,” said the Doctor, “you’re the one I’m actually here to see.  In about  20 years from now on a linear timeline , I travel with your daughter.  She asked that I come back here and tell you that you’re amazing and you do an amazing job.  Peri told me to tell you that you taught her how to be strong and sensitive and human and that it might help for you to hear it from a well-dressed stranger.”  As he said this a tear came to Morgan’s eye.  “Also, spoilers, enjoy the Cirque de Solei.”

            “Of course, I’m also here to stop the alien monster living inside your foot from taking over the world…the creature in the orthotic.  Kind of forgot about that fact when I grabbed my doughnut.”

            Morgan’s foot began to twitch.  She fell on her back but her leg was whipping around in the air.  “Bartender, Pablo right, can you get me a Gin and Tequila in a diet coke with a maraschino garnish, quickly please.  Kind of wrestling a possessed leg here.”  The patrons in the restaurant barely looked up.  Their food was good and they didn’t want to disturb this dinner theater that they would blog cynically about later. 

            Pablo brought the doctor the drink as a double tall in a pint glass.  The doctor quickly dumped it on the Morgan’s shoe.  Her leg stopped shaking as her shoe slipped itself of her foot, wiggled its way to the corner and began snoring.  Pablo and the doctor helped Morgan up and sat her down shaking.  “Morgan, I have to take this shoe back to it’s home planet, NIKEA but don’t forget my message, and thanks for dinner.  Peri says happy Mother’s Day, from the future”  The Doctor left just as Bob and Peri came out of the bathroom.  Peri was in new pants. 

            Morgan walked over, picked up Peri and gave her a big hug.  Bob was confused, but that was his normal state of being.  Peri knowingly looked out the window and waved to the raggedy bow-tied man getting in a blue box outside.  The Doctor gave her a wink and mouthed, “call me!” and disappeared.

Short Poems on Anxiety.

Time to get vaguely confessional.  Throughout life, I've struggled a lot with anxiety and mental health issues.  Recently, I feel I've made some changes that have helped a lot and am feeling pretty damn good.  That said, here are some short poems that are reflections on anxiety.  This is a common topic for me, so I've also put 2 of my favorite songs about anxiety in here too: Jeff Rosenstock's Nausea and Green Days Brainstew. Enjoy and please don't look at these with concern, but as some reflection.

Short Anxiety Poems

I will crush you

Said  the creature in the hole

To the man.

Crush you from the inside.

____

Mid-30s angst poetry

Is complaining about taxes

And traffic

And a lack of sleep.

______

My Ipod is breaking

They don’t make them any more

Can you imagine getting phone call on your

Discman in 1999?

Sometimes I want to rip my phone

Back into it’s components,

When I just want to relax

And listen to songs about

Zoning out and anxiety.

_________

Wine

Is

Great

But

It breaks

Down

My

Well

Designed

Barriers

That

Hold back

The Incredible Hulk

Of anxiety

You wouldn’t  like me

When I’m spiraling.

_________

I can’t sit through

A tv show

Because I get so

Worried about

What the characters

Think about me.

 _____________

I am Petrified 

of a simple phone call

to anyone anywhere.

Thanks and keep rocking!

Kids (that's not) Music

More rant than poem and very unproofread.  Before reading, note that I own my own bullshit on the topic of kids music and music taste.  This isn't about most kids music or playing it on occasion, it's about awful and insulting kids music that teaches baby talking instead of how to enjoy a song.  This could also be because I'm a bad parent and refuse to let my kid control my stereo!  That's my stereo, hands off the dial!!!

Stream of Conciousness Rant.

Kids (that's not) Music

There is no bigger insult

Than academic music made for kids.

It’s terrible.

No Good, Very Bad

Shit pile bad.

Bleeding ears

Nails on chalk board bad.

Now I’m not talking

About the best of Disney,

Or an old punk rockers decision

To grow up and write songs for 7 year olds.

Not even Sesame Street

Or Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger.

I’m talking about God Awful

Dumbed down,

Fake Americana

Horse crap.

Baby talking,

Insulting.

Songs designed for kids

By people, I’m convinced have never actually

Enjoyed a song.

Kids music is the Ramones,

The Mighty Mighty Bosstones,

Green Day, REM, Beatles, Iron Maiden …

…Public Enemy, Beastie Boys, Run DMC,

Run the Jewels and B.I.G.

Or any other number of things

You’d like to get hyped about.

Whatever can get you jumping

Up and down,

Singing into a hairbrush

And swiveling your hips

In the comfort of

Your living room at 545 am

Is probably the best songs for you kid.

…but no judgment…

if you get down and jumping,

to a condescending old man

and fake group of kids

singing about barn animals,

then get as stoked as you can,

and own it, and rock it out.

Kids feed on your rocking.

…not my crotchety hipster parent

music opinions.

Spaceman, Spacewoman and the Hero's Journey

I've had this poem in my head for a while.  The Star Wars the Force Awakens trailer yesterday actually ended up helping me finish it up.  Old grey Han Solo!

Spaceman, Spacewoman and the Hero's Journey

Spaceman, Spacewoman

Speaking in laser sounds

And mouthed explosions

In my bed

Looking out my window

Dreaming of

Jedi and saving the day.

There’s not a day

since my youth

when I haven’t imagined

Being the star

of a hero’s journey,

from overweight,

unmotivated

anti-social nerd

To intergalactic space knight

in the span of a montage

and unlikely coincidence.

Spaceman, Spacewoman

Speaking in laser sounds

And mouthed explosions

In my bed

Looking out my window

Dreaming of

Jedi and saving the day.

And I know

As I age,

The number of chances

to be whisked away

get fewer and fewer.

I’m a dad

and a husband,

The hero’s journey now

amounts to neglect of

people who love me. 

I can’t be

the bored kid,

who finds out that

he is the chosen one.

Spaceman, Spacewoman

Speaking in laser sounds

And mouthed explosions

In my bed

Looking out my window

Dreaming of

Jedi and saving the day.

But I know,

My journey’s changing.

instead of flying away

to do battle

in a galaxy far way,

I’ll defend my home.

and raise my daughter

to look up the stars and

Out across the horizon

Because the time will come

when she has the chance

to become

a force to be respected

and strike a blow

against

the empire

Spaceman, Spacewoman

Speaking in laser sounds

And mouthed explosions

In my bed

Looking out my window

Dreaming of

Jedi and saving the day.

There’s not a day,

in my thirties,

when I don’t imagine

Being the star

of the hero’s journey,

even if I play the old man,

Who gives the hero

the courage to carry on.

I am old Han Solo

telling stories

at bedtime

Before saving

the day.

Spaceman, Spacewoman

Speaking in laser sounds

And mouthed explosions

In my bed

Looking out my window

Dreaming of

Jedi and saving the day.

Sugar Sugar Sugar Sugar

I am treating the next few months like a new day. I have to change some of my own bad habits.  One of which is eating way too much sugar as candy.  Food Addiction is a real thing.

Sugar Sugar Sugar Sugar

Getting a migraine

Getting a twitch,

I feel myself quickly needing a fix.

A bag of gummi bears

A can of Dr. Pepper,

Quickly followed by another

And the flow of relief

When I eat a hand full

Of sweet

Sugar Sugar Sugar Sugar

I can’t walk by

A 7/11

Without say thank heavens

For something artificially colored.

I fill up the second drawer

Of my night stand with more

So I can get cavities

And diabetes in the middle of the night.

Sugar Sugar Sugar Sugar

…yes I see the hypocrisy.

I give nutrition advice

While I can’t get control

Of my own life,

Leading by bad example.

The cravings come from childhood

And deep set memories

Weak willpower

And low self esteem

But today is a new day

With new aches and pains

And I just have to sweat it out

And cut it out

Sugar Sugar Sugar Sugar

Can no longer be all that I am about.

Suburbs, bacon, Kosher wine, and my daughter.

Here's some Haiku thoughts I had visiting friends in Baltimore for the last week and some inspired by Peri.  

Suburban Sprawl

1950s happy homes

Didn’t seem so bad.

Eat Eggs and Bacon

Every Morning to live

The only true life

Kosher wine , Kosher Candy,

But only one brand of gluten free brownies

Honey, we’re not in Portland.

There is nothing like

Seeing my daughter try to walk through

A heavy wind on the pier.

After months of eating

Just bread and cheese and crackers

She devoured fresh clams

Easter Sunday is

A bogus excuse to enjoy friends

And eat good food.

Channel the excitement

Of a 2-year-old watching

A plane take off at sunset.

This is a Toast

So, this is a poem I hand wrote Morgan and left on the seat of the car for her to find after a particularly trying set of days.  I am including the original preface here for context sake...

     When I was in high school and college I would write toast poems, usually dedicated to being alone and doing whatever I wanted while listening to cds in my underwear and drinking diet coke or grape soda.  A few key details in my life have changed since then...


As I sit with a cup of tea
black as a cloud Portland Night
       after a drunk takes out the power lines,
       answering the question
       of how hard a bike can hit a pole....
              Don't worry, he's ok. 
              He jumped off
              and landed on a stray cat
              who he will take home
               and walk on a leash.
       Doesn't matter...
      It's just a metaphor for how dark my tea is.
As I sit with said tea
I make a silent toast
because the tea house
 is crowded with people
inhabiting overlapping universes.

This is a toast to digressions
and finding it impossible to focus

This is a toast to us catching
the mental capacity and maturity
of a 2-year-old as if these things were
childhood disease,
just when it comes time to make dinner.

This is a toast to never appreciating
my pillow so much.

A toast to impatience and impulse
and attempting to plan ahead.

This is a toast to lazy dogs
dirty cats, hardwood floors,
good wine, buckets, choo choos,
owning a laundry machine,
and being a toddler rosetta stone.

This is a toast to you and me and the monster
that sleeps in the room next door and the endless number
of possibilities
but being content with just a hand squeeze,
a beer,
a song,
and falling the fuck asleep.

Cheers.

Haiku on crappy books and My Daughter Likes Dio

I am working on one really inappropriate poem, but wanted to continue to post things more regularly, so more Haiku and a poem that plays to why this blog is named what it is.  The first haiku is in reference to a terrible book that I had to finish for some reason.

Haiku:

I finished that book

8 months later than planned,

no satisfaction and the wine is gone

and in that moment I said

Cheese knives are in the back of the drawer…

I was an adult.

She fell off of the playground

Four feet off the ground and pooped

I had to stifle laughter.

My Daughter Likes Dio

 

Last night,

At rush hour

As the sun set

Slowly over the

Pacific Northwest,

I drove my toddler home

While belting out my best

Completely off key renditions of

Metal ballads and punk rock songs

Dio and Bad Religion.

Under no illusion that I have

The slightest iota of talent,

But for that singular

Moment, I have my

First and possibly

Only adoring

Audience

Who cries when I stop.

Haikus.

I've written about these before...and often planned on writing more of them.  I have them strewn accross every notebook in my house and on random documents on my computer.  My goals is to, if nothing else, share a few relatively often on here.  

Note that my view of the Haiku is that it is an expression of a moment.  To that end, I really don't care about the 5-7-5 structure though I try to stay close.  These are thoughts that were in my mind that needed to get out, but not necessarily in a longer or larger way.  Moments of frustration or people you see that need to be noted.  I think if I make posting these a habit, a lot of them are going to be about doctor things and baby things.




 

I Don’t want to be

a doctor anymore.

I just want to be a dad.

Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah

I should start but there’s a wall.

So I’ll sit and wait.

Elementary school kid

In a pea coat and turtle shell backpack

My vision of adulating.

I’ve been trying to finish

The same book for eight months

I’ve gone to far to not like it.

I will never get

when I play them a new record,

No one else gets pumped

The Church of Competition

I have seldom if at all written over the last year and a half.  This idea came to me, and this poem didn't quite get to exactly how I felt so I'll try again, but here it is, something...fresh off the brain.  This one is about how no matter how hard we try we end up comparing ourselves to others and competing when cooperation would be so much more pleasant.  I think everything in our society is set to train us this way and have us worship competition. 

 

The Church of Competition

Give an offering, sacrifice and say a prayer,

Used to wear shirts that said No Fear,

And now I should be wearing a pressed collar

And a well tied tie.

No Pain No Gain

            But no one seems to be Gaining much

Light candles, light candles,

We’ll sit in a circle,

And listen to Bible verses set to acoustic guitars

As we worship at the church of Competition.

There are trophy stores on every corner

To award God’s plan,

There’s one for the winners

And mysterious ways for all the rest.

Luck be a lady,

God and Uncle Sam are men.

Jesus and the Lombardi trophy. 

So reheat this country’s best delivery pizza,

Delivered faster than the competition,

In car and driver 1993’s safest vehicle.   

And

Light candles, light candles,

We’ll sit in a circle

And listen to Bible verses set to acoustic guitar

As we worship at the Church of Competition.

Pull ourselves up by our bootstraps,

It’s about how hard you work. 

And the cream always rises to the top

Like the foam on a 12$ cappuccino.

Best coffee in town.

Along with the best food carts

And best restaurants located within gas stations

Who compete to see who has the most gas.

To avoid the pump, I’d like to ride my bike,

But I don’t ride fast enough,

My shoulders slouch in an unattractive way.

But there’s always a great spot

Open to lock my bike,

With number one brand U-Lock

Outside,

And

Light candles, light candles,

We’ll sit in a circle

And listen to Bible verses set to acoustic guitar

As we worship at the church of competition.

So turning away

From an artificial shared condition,

To the mirror that tells me

I started this whole race with

Wealthy white male lead.

I still want my opinions to be yours too

To make a living,

I have to be the best.

Convince people,

I’m better.

So I guess I need to open my Bible

And read Revelations,

Where God rigged the game,

Cheated to win,

Mirror that mindset

And

Light candles, light candles,

We’ll sit in a circle

And listen to Bible verses set to acoustic guitar

As we worship at the church of competition.

It’s just business but it’s not.

I’m raising my daughter the best I can,

To be the best she can be,

I can only rate my performance by comparison.

Comparison to friends and acquaintances

            And with less euphemisms, strangers.

I gave up on praying a long time ago,

But I pray to be the best,

And the only way to be the best

Is to beat the best

And to stand towering

            Over,

The corpse of their lesser approach to life.

And

Unbeknownst

Unintentionally,

I wonder into a shiny storefront

On the strip mall that is decision making

Only to stumble into,

And prostrate myself to…

Light candles, light candles,

I sit in the circle

And listen to Bible verses set to acoustic guitar

As I worship at the Church of Competition.

New Year, New Goal to Write Stuff.


End.