The ability to share.

I think the thing that made me come here to write something down tonight was me sitting me here in my den, relaxing. Sitting here in my fine leather chair in the den looking at my bookshelves. They’ve been the same for years and tonight I noticed they are in complete disarray. I don’t know that I’ll do anything about it anytime soon, but the paperbacks are on shelves that are way too tall and the taller books are all cramped. It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t sit right with me, it’s bothersome now that I’ve taken notice. One day I’m going to fix the whole thing and do some alphabetical shit. Right now they are simply categorized into sections like Poetry, Fiction, Shit I Haven’t Read Yet and Books People Sent Me To Read and then smaller things like Native American Wisdom or Misc.

Yesterday I noticed a long part of deer leg stuck in my mulch pile. Maggots and shit were on it. I just left it.

I heard a story about this knife maker that drove a combine all day. Just drove up and down the rows before air conditioning was put in combines. He said he would think of beautiful things like his wife or a beautiful woman or car he’d seen and make little sketches of those things and try to create knives that reminded him of the beauty he’d witnessed in the blowing grains of wheat. Late in the night he’d go and build it.

I also heard that the movie Car Wash was never going to be made unless Richard Pryor agreed to be in the film. Richard played tennis every morning at 7am.

I had to drive out into the country today about 45 minutes for work and I had to seriously fake it. I wasn’t into it, but there’s this 6 foot 7 guy I met a few cities back, maybe in San Diego or Palm Springs, CA who seems to think I’m some type of mentor. He likes to copy my moves at trade shows and I find it very funny. I keep telling him that one day he’ll have to give me a job in trade for all the little tricks I’m teaching him. He says that he’ll never be higher than me but I always say, “I’m happy where I am. I’m never moving any higher in the ranks than where I am.” 6 foot 7 guys are interesting.

When I open the front door a great wind blows in. So far into the house it moves the fresh, canary yellow tulips on the dining room table. I somehow relate this to my ability to carry around mounds of guilt that don’t belong to me. In fact, I must find it somehow inspiring to pile guilt onto myself in order to keep moving.

I have a 7 year old ivy plant that had to be moved recently. It was in a good place for the said ivy, but it was in a bad place for our 18 month old. For the first time, in a long time, the ivy is in transition and out of place.

I guess it was in 2007 or so that I initially became sad. Mostly due to my ability to forecast with info I’ve gathered from the elders I’ve listened to. But it wasn’t a sadness that you wake up with, but that long sort. I remember it as it was underlying. Like a bit of a base. I made an incorrect assumption that it could be music that would keep everyone around, but it was my fault that I quickly grew tired of it. I wasn’t that interested or I lost interest in it as I matured. And I still chide myself on my lack of maturity. Nothing will ever make it like it was and I’m glad with that as I move forward and am most interested in the future. As with most people I work to keep my past behind me. Never have I been most interested in the present, being present in the present and continuing to build, but I decided to focus on something older than even the song. The ability to cut and the ability to share.

I think that’s a pretty good song.





I like this. I may write my own version of the italicized part.

“Far from being the classic period of explosion and tempestuous growth, my adolescence was more or less a period of suspended animation. After the victories of an exuberant and spirited childhood — lived out against the dramatic background of America’s participation in World War II — I was to cool down considerably until I went off to college in 1950. [...] From age 12, when I entered high school, to age 16, when I graduated, I was by and large a good, responsible, well-behaved boy. [...] The best of adolescence was the intense male friendships — not only because of the cozy feelings of camaraderie they afforded boys coming unstuck from their close-knit families, but because of the opportunity they provided for uncensored talk. These marathon conversations, characterized often by raucous discussions of hoped-for sexual adventure and by all sorts of anarchic joking, were typically conducted, however, in the confines of a parked car — two, three, four, or five of us in a single steel enclosure just about the size and shape of a prison cell, and similarly set apart from ordinary human society.” – Phillip Roth

Just sitting at my godamn desk.

When we moved into this new work office it was a fucking shit hole. It still is, but I texted my friend and said, “I think I’m now working in an office above that hair salon you used to work at and do cocaine in all the time.” I included a photo. He replied back, “Yeah, that’s it. I fucked a jew girl in the bathroom up there.”

Months later I was still sitting at my desk and this lady just walks in and says to me and my boss (we happened to be the only people working that day) “Hey guys, our male model just cancelled and we need someone to help us out with a haircut. It’s an emergency! Will one of you help out? Its a free haircut!”

My boss and I look at each other like, “Fuck no. You do it. You wanna do that? I don’t wanna do that.”

My boss says he’s not interested and instantly offers me up as a sacrificial goat, “Yeah Travis… you should do it. You need a haircut.”

“No.” I say, “I don’t need a haircut. I just got my godamn haircut.”

“Oh c’mon Travis.” He says.
“Yeah, c’mon Travis.” The lady says.

Godammit. I’m trying to just sit at my godamn desk with my headphones on and listen to some Shovels and Rope or maybe Terry “P. Terry” Melcher and now I have to go get a haircut. I don’t like getting my haircut, but I’m nice about it and I don’t think it’s going to be a big deal so I agree.

I go downstairs and she says, “I’m going to shampoo your hair and give you a neck massage.” I guess I didn’t realize how involved this was going to be, but while I’m getting my neck massage a bald guy comes over to the lady and says, “Is this the subject?” The lady says yes. He just starts rubbing his hands through my hair real rough like and then says, “He’ll do fine.”

So I ask what is going on and she tells me that he is the person who is going to be cutting my hair. He just flew in from London today and is some famous hair guy and he will be “presenting” me. All this shit is lost on me except I’m getting a bit agitated.

As I continue to ask questions she escorts me into a room full of people. I mean like 30 godamn people sitting in folding chairs and at the top of the room is a hair cutting chair and the London guy is standing behind it with some scissors waiting for me and my hair is wet and I got a half wet towel on my loose neck and I sit down and he says to the crowd, “Welcome to Surface 2014! I’m Anthony, as if you didn’t know, let’s get started!”

And all these people start to clap and they lift glasses of wine up and he says stuff about how he’s about to cut my hair and all this shit about products and how he was once homeless and wandered into a barber salon in London and that changed his life and I’m sitting there going, “What the fuck is happening. Where the fuck am I. Why is this happening to me.” There’s this girl taking video and another person snapping photos and I don’t know where that shit is going. This takes over an hour of complete fucking agony and embarrassment to get fucking through with.

Anyhow, no one ever talked to me again and I got a haircut and they whisked me out and gave me this bag of hair shit and they said thank you, thank you. On the way back up to my office I looked in the bag and inside was some hair spray and some hair taffy and a bunch of other hair shit and a fucking charm pop. I threw it all in the trash out of madness because it was probably the worst time I ever had in my life and I felt tricked.

I told my boss what happened and was pissed at him the rest of the week for talking me into it and he just laughed and laughed and laughed.

I went on vacation that next week, all week and when I got back my co-workers said, “Hey, that haircut lady was up here looking for you.”

Everyone in the room laughed at my free godamn haircut while I was just sitting there… at my godamn desk.

How to end a poem.

I really enjoy the last two stanzas of this poem.

By Amy Gerstler

He fancies his chances are good with her,
unaware that in the years since the war

she has come to prefer women whose cunts
taste like mustard. To pin one’s hopes on

a bark-colored moth, its wings crinkled
like crepe paper, a moth affixed high

on the kitchen wall, frozen for days where
it will likely die in noble clinging mode

just under the cobwebby heating vent,
is to confirm your need for more friends

and a greater daily quota of sunlight.
To raise C.’s hopes that T. can stop

drinking and then to liken those
hopes to fields of undulating grain,

alfalfa perhaps, is to wish C. hip deep
in acres of unscythed denial. The blind

typist hopes she’ll be hired tonight without
her disability becoming an issue. L. said he felt

hope’s rhizomes race throughout his body,
radiating in all directions, like some incipient

disease he’d been fighting since childhood.
Hope, he said, it’s as insidious as bitterness.

If mother earth only knew how much we
loved one another she would creak, shudder,

and split like a macheted melon, releasing
the fiery ball of molten hope at her core.

When I Chop Wood


When I Chop Wood

When I chop wood
I get the axe blade good and oiled up with baby oil and then look at my reflection awhile on the shiny axe.

When I chop wood
I think in cords. Like that truck is about 4 cords. That cloud up there is probably 9. My leg is like 1/8th.

When I chop wood
The blisters on my hands pop, finally, and whiskey comes out and I suck on ‘em.

When I chop wood
My beard grows faster. When I’m done I shave off my 2 foot beard with an oily axe blade while looking in a puddle.

When I chop wood
Forest animals come out and sing a song in perfect rhythm to my chops. They sing a song called, “Man a Choppin’, Man a Choppin’”

When I chop wood
I build great stacks of chopped wood. Art scenes I guess. The scent overcomes the neighborhood and they open their windows to get some chopped wood inside.

When I chop wood
Blood comes out of the tree stump and floods over the grass and onto my boots and I stand hacking in blood up to my laces.

When I chop wood
They close down the farmer’s market and the singer / song writer of the week comes to listen to my song.

When I chop wood
I’m doing a godamn service to mankind so don’t go chattering to me about whats for dinner or whatever.

When I chop wood
I sometimes start chopping other things too. I chopped some floors and some ladders once. If it’s made of wood then I’ll chop it. All I see is wood. And chopping.

When I chop wood
I feel like people in the 1800′s did when they were working. I don’t need clean water or a car. I just need this godamn wood chopped.

When I chop wood
The neighborhood kids gather ’round and say, “I’m gonna chop me some wood one day.” I look up say, “Not like this you won’t.”

When I chop wood
I go over to a boulder when my axe blade gets dull and I rub it on the boulder and get it so sharp that it could cut another couple dozen cords. 7 cords.

When I chop wood
I don’t even bother getting up unless there’s about 10 cords needed. That’s about 10 long beds full. You’re truck will probably break down before I’m done cuttin’. Then I’ll cut your godamn truck up with an axe and get back to my wood choppin’.

When I chop wood
I get real mad and pretend the wood is my old day job. I pretend I’m cutting up my old jobs and then I just start hacking and soon there’s nothing but kindlin’ and just wood dust flying up in the sun rays and on my face.

When I chop wood
It’s like going to church or taking a shower or maybe driving. All the good ideas come when I get to choppin’ and then I know I should be rich because I was the one who thought of the steak sandwich anyhow.

When I chop wood
I think about writing down all the things that happen in my life every day, like when I got in a fist fight inside the Bank of American, but more like a reflection or a memoir or a story on cable starring Sam Elliot.

When I chop wood
There’s no one better. There’s just no one out there who can chop more wood. No one. I welcome all challengers.



At some point, if you’re fortunate, you’ll hit a wall of truth and wonder what you’ve been doing with your life. At that point you’ll feel highly motivated to find out what frees you and helps you to be kinder and more loving, less klesha driven and confused. At that point you’ll actually want to be present—present as you go through a door, present as you take a step, present as you wash your hands or wash a dish, present to being triggered, present to simmering, present to the ebb and flow of your emotions and thoughts. Day in and day out, you’ll find that you notice sooner when you’re hooked, and it will be easier to refrain. If you continue to do this, a kind of shedding happens—a shedding of old habits, a shedding of being run around by pleasure and pain, a shedding of being held hostage by worldly concerns.


I couldn’t mow the grass. I tried to make time. It’s  huge now.

The last several days I’ve been debating a single line about an echo that I’ll never finish that is along the lines of:

The echo is searching for it’s origin, impatiently.

No. The echo is trying to escape it’s origin in order to find a new source.

The echo searches for it’s source, indifferently.

Anyhow, the downtown autopsy is going as planned.

2 liters of nothing but pulp. Pure pulp. Extreme pulp. Nothing but pulp. Just a jug of pulp.

At the Budget Inn my son held a fist of gold fish.

Holla at ya boi if you’ze got Amazon gift cardz on the DL.

I don’t remember the great avocado drought. They just weren’t growing. You couldn’t even buy toothpicks in traditional packaging. People were stealing toothpicks from restaurants. Slowly pretending that some strain of meat had impaired their breathing and/or speech or was tooth sucking in that way and it would go something like, “Waitress… my toothpick broke, it is now unable… would you mind bringing me a few more.” And then taking them home and putting them directly in a well lit sill.

I thought about buying this house today:

I talked to the seller today got him to take off 40k from the asking price in one conversation because he knew my great uncle Adolf. My great grandfather Otto never got involved in town stuff.

Stumblin’ ’round in my autumn mocassins I stumble in a possessive quote. ‘

18 black Trans-Ams gathered around the storage unit to listen to the new Randy Travis album, “The Man I Am”. Each one started the album 3 seconds after the first to create the right feeling for the release. Clothing optional.

You were here.

Remember when I lived in that shed?

Worst landlords ever are the one’s that rent out the shed.

Someone throws you a bible like a set of keys while they crack open a peanut and down them nuts like a shot of whiskey and go right into a story about the fridge bulb burning out and they can’t see the Country Time.

Reeling in a huge perch while stroking your babies soft spot.

Visnu wearing long sleeves to hide the tracks.

How much scrap metal you get in that short bed? Huh? How much scrap you get in that long bed? Shit.

Playing slow jams on the boat, we all got a hickey.

They say when you touch a Mexican flag it’s like putting your hands in a bag of blood weed.

The 9 pears on the table were at as soft as limited sunrise. I died beside the bed holding a pine cone wreath doused in gasoline.

I received a notice that Bundyhill is no longer in the flood zone. Thank god I thought. Thank god the drought has blessed Blackland for once.

I buy makeshift gloves from FingerHut.

Once every decade I’ll walk up to a video game and someone will have just gotten highscore, walked away, wo/ putting in their initials. I get there just in time and take my time to put in ASS. Now you know who ASS is.

Smoking dick pills in a cotton field we prayed to Ichibod Crane.

A mouth full of moth balls in the front porch light someone finds an acorn between the couch cushions we leave a chocolate cake on the hood too long because our pants are stained by champagne.

Learning witchcraft through 10 easy online courses we smoke sherm behind the Golden Chick.

No one has chopped more wood than me.

No one.

A horse sleeps inside you.

The relationship I have with my bird feeder is that of the Mosaic Covenant.

The stray cat cocks it’s pistol at the tiki torch ranch behind a pile of free pallets.

We suspend the telescope with heavy chain.

I’m getting older. I played full court basketball tonight against kids half my age and scored 17 of our 21 points. I’ve always been ashamed about how good I am at sports. I’ve always bragged about how good I am in sports.

I accidentally knocked over the box fan on my way out.

Not that far out.

I let the dandelion grow your wish

Sometimes the grass doesn’t grow. Frozen by the heat it hangs there, slowing into nature’s sad yellow / fallow feel. I mind the front. Late at night, when no one can catch me watering, I’ll awake at 5 in the morning, sleepless and in thought to walk outside and move the sprinkler from section to section. My dick hanging from my boxers peeing freely in the settling dusk dew.

And then all at once it rains. 4 inches in 48 hours. 3 inches in 2 hours. What have you / have you and the grass will suddenly surge back to life, the entire cataclysm that is my acre zooms into focus like a miracle or blessing bestowed by some particular demi-god.

The eucalypts, zinnias, pride of barbados, pink flowering sage, mexican heather, mountain laurel, hibiscus, altheas, lavender, turks cap, bleeding hearts, trumpet vine and so many more that I’ve forgotten. The trees of pecan, pomegranate, peach, pear, lemon and Thai lime all suddenly bloom and reactivate their limbs and life jousting out and into an unaware bird or yellow jackets nest.

It happens so fast. The grass, suddenly growing that at once I sigh… and wait to make my way to the lawn mower.


The Latest News

A Chinese farmer gets a horse, which soon runs away. A neighbor says, “That’s bad news.”

The farmer replies, “Good news, bad news, who can say?”

The horse comes back and brings another horse with him. Good news?

The farmer gives the second horse to his son, who rides it, then is thrown and badly breaks his leg.

“So sorry for your bad news,” says the concerned neighbor.

“Good news, bad news, who can say?” the farmer replies.

The next week, the emperor’s men come and take every able-bodied young man to fight in a war. The farmer’s son is spared.