29 November, 2006

post turkey-day thoughts

leftovers are dangerous. this, i learned in rather embarassing fashion last night. perse had very kindly made me a turkey & cheddar sandwich, which i unfortunately faild to finish. why, you may ask? turkey is delicious, even as leftovers from the great feast day. some might argue that thanksgiving leftovers is the real joy of the holiday. usually, i would chime in with agreement.

not today though. all because i scraped my lip on the toast enveloping said delectable turkey (and cheddar!). yes, you heard me. i injured myself with toast.

what this means in respect to my manhood, or even in regard to my status as a compentent member of the human race is, at this time, unclear. it could be argued that, well, lips are sensitive and (mine, at least) prone to chapping. if a bit of wind can injure your lips, well why not hardened bread as well? people cut themselves on paper all the time and no one (well, mostly no one) thinks less of them.

still, i cannot shake this feeling of deep, dark, horrific shame. i mean, it's toast! how could i hurt myself with toast? what sort of graceless creature could do such a thing? yet i find the answer is: me.

oh yeah, christmas carols are everywhere now. was going to write more on this, but i've got to go cut some eyeholes in a paper bag...

27 November, 2006

Gulf Coast

rough draft

Gulf Coast

The wind in the palm leaves
whispers of rain. Not just
of imminence, nor only of memory.
But all: a song of deep green
longing for days where grey
washes blue from the skies.

With rustling fronds they speak
of shaping clouds and conspire,
with rooted will, to seed
them with the idea of water.

Barefooted, listening, basking
in the yellowed blaze; I sink
my toes beneath the moist
flesh of the earth
and am inclined to agree.

17 November, 2006



The jungle has eaten the city.
Only roots are left behind,
crossed with pathless trails all
leading beyond this shore.
This slim sandy green spit, stretched
into a dock over cleared blue.

These planks, rough-hewn, uneven
move under my feet. They feel
grey, bleached by sun and time.
I walked past time to get here:
crumbling in places, grown tall
in others, stumbling into now.
This spot where time stills
into a salted breeze
playing the marsh reeds

I long to dip my toes
and wonder if night brings mist.



The dewed cool of the morn and I,
with my fingernails
under the dirt, sowed them as children.

Months long have I exhaled small clouds,
whispers of water;
held the sun still to shine them.

And now.

Walk slow in the shade between
the rows and let them
bend yellow heads low, to kiss you.



In Sunday school, they taught
me with allegory. How the wise
men built homes upon the rise
and ridge of solid rock;
how the foolish staked their claim
below, and on the plain
made treacherous homes.
The shifting silt and sand
was unfit for those who thought
beyond having water close at hand.

So, the story sings
that stony perch is where
our soul should sit. Firm
on the rock where the Word
was first writ.

I learned something, though
not the lesson they sought.

Sand was stone, stone will
be sand and sand again
will return to rock.



They were mountains, once,
jagged with the arrogance
of youth. Then time came
with wind and water: ice, rain
wore the striving peaks
to smoothed hills, rounded,
hoar with winter, ground
still finer still into silt,
soil, sand, dust, dirt.
All return as Adam, bound
by rivers, went back to clay
and in the sea's abyss they lay.
For the ocean owns us all.

Snowfall and Moonlight

Snowfall and Moonlight

Most others keep inside, nights like this.
We know the secret though, to staying warm.
So these nights seem made for us alone.

A night like this, the first you woke me.
You'd been dreaming of the daylong storm,
heavy flakes piling thick on branches groaning

the weight in the wind, like at this midnight.
Waking you padded soft to the windowpane,
unveiled the moon as you wiped away your breath

and, like this night, roused me from sleep.
Eyes alight, your smile begged our footsteps
be first to fall upon the fresh snowfall.

In this moonlight on snowfall, at midnight
again, I follow you across shadow trees
the world glinted sapphire as your eyes.

We melted angels into the snow, a night like this.

Jack O'Lantern

Jack O'Lantern

through the hollowed
shelled out hull
the knife-blade slashes,
cleaves the skull

sideways rends a
terrible grin
flashing cross the
wrinkled skin

cat-slit glinting
eyes afright
with flickering, eerie
shadowed light

jack beheaded
waits alone
as ghoulish welcome
to your home.

In the Morning

In the Morning

Dawn reminds me I forgot
to close the blinds.
Slipping out of bed a
warm steel grip grasps my
wrist, attached to half-dozing,
questioning eyes, a
mischievious grin peeking
out beneath the sheets.

In my defense
I only wished to make
blueberry pancakes.

still you insist on
convincing me brunch is
far the better meal.
slowly our debating
builds in tempo, finds a
rhythm of point and counter
till we reach a mutually
satisfactory conclusion
that breakfast can wait.

Ghost Hands

ghost hands

beneath your words
lies a quiver my ears
alone are tuned to.

your ache is mine,
not a pain alone.

across the miles
my ghost hands slip
into your breast,
cradle, caress, hold
your heart together.

let me stand a
shield, absorb
the buffeting blows.
i do not bruise;
my bones refuse
to break; my skin
a cloth to soak
time and tears away.

First Snow

First Snow

Even when you expect it, it's still a surprise.
Snow clouds never hold the same warning pain
as storms that make the summer skies cry.

Walking through memories in Central Park.
The growing wind unwinds your scarf;
my fingertips graze your neck as I wrap it again.
We kissed on that bench, under that tree
and everywhere between. A spring day,
the first our hands met.

Fresh snowflakes land in your lowered lashes.
You stick out your tongue with childish delight
to catch another, your lips still warm
as a spring day past.



sleep deep wrapped warm
blanketed in dreams
long desires tasted.


the fire burns low
in the hearth. from
the ashes i rise
phoenix-like bared
skin and soul before
your eyes striding
across the room to
open the box you
kept hid from pandora.


low vibrations your
breath'd voice floats
between locked eyes
speaking a vision;
land greened twined
with blued seas, waves
unmatched power pull
on the shores swell
break through stone
walls helpless to resist
the spring-tide. rhythm.


wake to memory. touch.
sense kept alive, light
in fingertipped skin.

Cold Front

Cold Front

Just after sunrise you can see the line.
Straight smooth stratus clouds
riding over the lower layer:
dark rolling nimbus, edges torn, tattered
by the battering breath of the north wind.
A widening blue cuts the sky, clearing.

Perhaps it will rain again today.
They said it might return. Even now
the road is still dark with wet.

Later this week I'll lean, sore-armed,
on a well used rake, pulling cold air in,
silently cursing the stubboness of oak trees.

For now I walk,
an unneeded scarf kept to my throat
by the soon bitter wind. A change.
They say tonight it may snow.

Coffee Break

coffee break

smudge-grey skies,
the kind that blend
and blur concrete
lines, cast over
my footsteps on
puddle-pocked sidewalks.
a light drizzle, whispering
of just passed rain
still waiting around
the corner, mists
my breath, mingled with
caffiene steam floating
from my clasped cup.
phantoms both, just as
your step beside my
stride; your held
hand in my pocket.
i turn my collar up
against the wind and
walk into november.

Untitled 2

Early morning brings
the whispering
of your breath upon my neck

I collect this peace
as memory
to face the days between us.

Early morning finds,
still lingering,
your fingers twined in mine.


In the early morning, I
suspect my socks are blue.
Still, I will not wake you,
for I love to watch you
smile at your dreams.

Bang My Whimper

Bang my Whimper

Soft, loud or silently mouthed
the circle still completes.
And as the world shudders,
implodes in contracting
convulsions, shatters and ends,
the beginning thrusts itself
forth, again. Slow, swift,
the rhythm of life returns,
the circle still completes.

At the Beach

At the Beach

Barefoot and bareheaded you
wander up, over and down the dunes
wondering where the wind
hid your loose-brimmed straw hat.

The warmth you feel caressing
your shoulders and lingering
where your hair bares your neck
is not late August sunshine.

Following your footsteps
feeling the same grass blades,
sand grains beneath my feet
I know I've found my paradise.

Something so simple as skin.

And the Heart Grows Fonder

And the Heart Grows Fonder

Absence sleeps in the middle
of a bed too large for one,
huddled under two blankets more
than needed. With light,
I can fill darkened rooms;
with smoke I can still
rapid blood; with drink
I can quench all thirst
but this. No skin will
sate but the touch of you.

But look, the moon
tonight has left me too,
and being absent, is becoming new.

After Dinner

After Dinner

You open yourself as
uncorked wine, pour out
that subtle, supple, sensual
secret stuff inside; passion
bottled fluid, flowing, enfolding
the shrunken space between
us. Two tongues linger, languorous
wrapping together, tasting

I lay drunk with you.

14 November, 2006

thoughts on shapes

i'm looking at a (more accurately, the) demitasse cup i made earlier this year. it was an afterthought, as far as creation goes. just a way to use up clay left over on the wheelhead from throwing teapot spouts. yet it came out well, and now i drink coffee from it most mornings. this, naturally, means i need to make more (having only one). not only for my own use, but i need to practice throwing off the stack (or hump, depending on who you ask).

so, an examination of the shape is in order. how to improve it. two flaws in the existing piece: the foot and the handle. as far as the cup itself, the size is near perfect, as is the weight. the foot, however, is about a quarter inch too wide. as for the handle, it's too large and has consequently is a shape more fitting a larger cup.

i think about shapes often. bowls, plates, cups, pitchers, etc.. the taper of a bowl edge, whether it should be steep and narrow or wide and shallow. what uses are best suited by what shapes? where should a handle go? all of these things are important in the design of a piece. whether i think about them because of my love of pottery, or i love pottery because i think of these things is unclear. likely a mixture. no matter. i still find it important. so much so, that i'll pick up nearly every piece of dinnerware or vase, etc. in a housewares store.

shape defines not only look and use, but how a thing should feel in the hand. feel and fit. this is what i'm striving for: something that feels like a part of your hand. to accomplish this, what is essential to keep in mind is how you hold things. cups, for instance, are round for two reasons: the first is that wheel-thrown ceramics and blown glass produce round shapes. yet, those shapes are easy to alter (i square off bowls often). the second it the natural curve of our hands. this makes round shapes more pleasing to hold. try it yourself. i'm certain you'll agree. even with a handle on a cup or mug, we still often want to hold the actual cup. i know i'm not the only one who will wrap his hands around a mug, fingers slipped through the handle.

with a cup for a hot beverage though, handles are essential. after all, burns suck. so, back to my demitasse cup. because it's small and light (only should hold about 2oz.) i find i can only comfortably fit one finger through the handle. herein lies the flaw. the shape is better suited to accomadate two fingers, though scaled down a bit. i hold it, though, with one through the handle and one directly under it, supporting. however, the curve is not well designed for this. what i need to do, then, is create the handle with this method of holding it in mind. this will allow my natural inclination as to how to hold it feel, well, natural. the next step in my learning of this craft: how to alter the basic forms to suit function.

13 November, 2006

pulling handles

i've noticed my handles tend to skew to the left. now, considering that i'm right-handed, this isn't a problem so far as function goes. actually a bit more comfortable, as they conform to the curve of my fingers. aesthetically, though, this is bothersome. mostly because i'm unsure why. i'll have to ask in class this week. not sure if it's something in my pulling technique or when i attach the handle to the cup. something do to with shrinkage? likely not, because it seems fairly consistant. so i'm guessing it's my technique.

going to play with copper oxide this week too. didn't put the iron oxide on my ginko leaf impressions thickly enough last round, so they don't show through the glaze. but, light matte blue accent on the shaner clear is a very nice combonation. will likely try that again. should have two pieces finished this week; my first use of the shino glazes. need to find which of the available glazes is a good green. not as many earth tones available to me at this new place, but i'll find stuff the i like. eventually.

feels good to be back in tune with the wheel. took a little bit, but i feel i'm back at the level i was before moving. practice, practice. going to try my hand at tea pots again after turkey day. they're a pain, but i like the challenge.

10 November, 2006

buncha poems

these have been kicking around on my hard drive. you may have read some of them. thought about giving each a seperate post, but, well, i'm lazy. enjoy (or don't):

EDIT: 11/17 apparently, i should break these up. so i shall.

[poof! they're gone!]

07 November, 2006

how come this never happens to me?

now that's some special sauce. apparently, two cops in NM got pot on their burgers. this is not a topping option i've noticed at any burger king around here. maybe you have to ask for it?

03 November, 2006

but i didn't inhale!

remember that bullshit line from clinton? sure you didn't inhale bill, we believe you.

well, sad to say, bill's line is far more believable than this bullshit: Evangelical leader says he bought meth but 'never used it'. this is laughably stupid. it's one thing to claim that you just pretended to inhale when someone passed you a joint at a party, to look "cool". we know it's bullshit, but there is at least a scant bit of plausibility to the lie.

this, however...i mean, come the fuck on. who buys drugs and then throws them away? was he just curious as to what meth looked like? got enough of a high from the illicit thrill of buying meth? was going to smoke it (crap, do you smoke meth? i stay away from this sort of thing) but then had a change of heart? bought it for a friend?

really. i mean, when you get caught, fess up. people will forgive fucking up; they are less inclined to forgive blatant lies about fucking up.

yet another work rant

can you sense a trend?

okay...so you want to have your name and address fields to be variable length. fine. that's nice, and thanks for putting a delimiter in there for me. however, you stupid fuckwits, if you then put the data into a fixed length table, you have done NOTHING but make coding more complex.

look at this shit:

fine, fine. but, you see, if you want a variable length table in cobol, you need to write: OCCURS 1 TO 156 TIMES DEPENDING ON NAME-ADDR-AREA-LEN. or somthing akin to that. otherwise, you have a fixed length table. such as above. in which case, you'd have been better off just defining the fucking field names so i could do simple moves, instead of having to write a routine to unstring the fucking name from the address. more over, if you and moving variable length data into fixed fields, there is no point. a variable table takes up the maximum defined size in memory when you run the program. you aren't saving any space in working memory. you certainly aren't saving space in the database. the only time variable length tables are useful in cobol is when you have a variable length OUTPUT. otherwise, it's just a pain in the ass.

i hate these morons.

01 November, 2006

stupid fucktards

so, i just got off the phone with comcast. why? because they were still billing me for service in CT. i moved to MD in the middle of august. i cancelled my service. they were supposed to turn it off.

why did they not turn it off? because, apparently, i wasn't home. of course i wasn't home, i'd moved to a different fucking state. in fact, i told this to the person i scheduled the service cancellation with, when i asked i could return the cable box in maryland. and mentioned that I WASN'T GOING TO BE THERE BECAUSE I WAS MOVING OUT OF STATE.

fucking morons.