phoenix is a mosaic

i flew over phoenix today. i noticed the houses. the designer neighborhoods, curvy, arching, or spiraling streets, which are distinct to the particular development. each community of cookie cutter houses with with their own shade of roof color. suburbia pieced together by swirling arrangements of squares, like an abstract mosaic framed in desert mountains.

throw ice on the streets to watch it shatter

soon i go home for christmas. its been two years since i've been home for christmas. the older i get the more disinterested i get in our nations most elaborate holiday. its the one time of the year i don't feel very much like a kid. every other day of the year i operate with a very child-like fascination for life. i count down hours till volleyball practice and fishing trips. i stop and look at icicles and throw ice chunks out on the road to watch them shatter. i day dream a lot.

somehow christmas makes me snap out of it. and im not sure why. it seems opposite for most people. at this time of year it seems many take a break from their mature lifestyles to engage childhood traditions. i wonder if it is because since entering college i have never had any surplus cash to buy the gifts that i really wanted to get my family. but is it really a lack of money? children don't mind doing their shopping at the dollar store. i wonder if it has anything to do with the disconnect i feel with the church. but then again most americans don't emphasize the Jesus part of christmas anyway.

so what is it? i wonder. what has caused me to grow up at this time of year and find christmas stale? what has caused me to lose my fascination for religious and pagan tradition? i don't know. but i get to see my family. and i can't wait.

growing dim

you moved your glass to the top shelf

stomach your dinner and disguise the smell

hand me plastic wish me well

offer me your flip flops for my trek to hell

you broke my last few ribs

the ones that keep my skin from caving in

you feed the darkness in my head

the monsters that I tamed you now have bred

now they are wilder than before

and more blood thirsty than their parents were

the lowest thunder is our growl

I begin to stomp my feet and howl

I'm an animal but to no avail

and though I try to love, I always fail

while my hair is fierce my instinct is trim

the hopes I hide are growing dim

I've wandered to far to the west

too close to the setting sun tends to depress

you should feel the choking in my chest

the knotting in my veins may soon be my rest

give me the vision or a healthy bail

this faith seems like an escape for the ill-prepared

and now I'm wilder than before

though no more lost than my parents were

the smoke i breath is foul

I begin to stomp my feet and howl

I'm an animal but to no avail

though I try to love I always fail

while my hair if fierce my instinct is trim

and the hopes I hide are growing dim

the hopes I hide are growing dim

a shopping cart

i found a shopping cart out by the street. i looked to see if anyone was watching, then pushed it down the alley and lifted it inside our back door. it sits in our kitchen now. it makes a good recycle bin, but i think it could be more useful. last night on the eve of my bi-weekly laundry day, i had a revelation. we live less than a block from a local coin laundry. every other week i make a trip hauling an enormous army duffel full of dirty laundry. yet i own a shopping cart...

as i packed my duffel bag full of laundry, i realized that i was avoiding the shopping cart.

it would be easier, to move three large loads on four wheels. but i wouldn't do it. somehow i am embarrassed to push a shopping cart down the street for a block. i feel much cooler when i skateboard to the laundry mat army duffel on my shoulder. i am ashamed of myself.

messy hair, smokey clothes, bad breath, extreme hunger, uncanny optimism.

probably the best day of the summer.

weatherizing for winter

the laundry mat has become a new favorite place.

it has a trickle of internet which provides the necessary connection

for email and work schedules.

and acoustics, that sound like a concert hall.

so i bring my guitar and sing to rows of wash machines and dryers,

under the watchful eye of security cameras.

i am waiting for the big brother of those fisheye lenses to catch on

to the fact that i do laundry every two weeks,

but inhabit the space every other day with my computer and guitar.

a homeless man came in today with a dirty tattered quilt.

edges were tattered and the stuffing was falling out.

i watched the man circle the machines, just milling about.

soon his eye caught a rack in the corner outside the janitors closet.

two rolls of sheet plastic hung there.

for a few minutes the man just looked at the plastic,

then he began pulling it from the rack, cutting four large squares.

he went outside for a brief moment

and came back with a roll of duct tape.

laying the tattered blanket over one of the folding tables

he proceeded to attach each sheet of plastic over a portion of the quilt.

hemming it with duct tape.

so while the boats at the local marinas were being weatherized

for their millionare owners. this man was weatherizing his quilt

for the cold, snowy, Salt Lake City winter.

poaching

i am sitting on a tile floor. hooded.

in my biggest sweat shirt and pants.

i am poaching internet. from a laundry mat.

in which i do not have any clothes.

more

i am happier when i remember.

i love more truly when i reflect.

i hope more deeply when i focus on others.

i wonder more often when i look around me.

i pray more earnestly in the cold.

i smile more often when i visit friends.

i think more clearly when i fail.

i breath more deeply when i run.

i live more freely when i realize sacrifice.

i feel more peace when i write.

i will write, more.

patio furniture in winter

is cold.

surprisingly wise

when you are a bachelor.

simple things have the ability to change your life.

like delicious food and letters from your home state. and radiohead.

and true words from drunks, who are surprisingly wise.

ten miles down parleys

i drove into the salt lake valley at sunset yesterday.

after coasting ten miles down parleys.

antelope island, the west valley mountains, and the salt lake itself

reigned in the edges of suburbia.

the sky faded from blue to clementine,

defining the mountains' almost black peaks.

the whole valley sparkled with lights,

like a starry dew.

one reason i like living here.

just smiling.

i spent most of this morning sleeping.

drifting in and out, like seaweed suspended in a tide.

in the darkness of my basement room, noon is black.

most mornings, waking up is a process of stretching some stiffness,

shaking shadows from my eyes, begging consciousness to take over.

this morning was good. I woke early.

I woke up smiling without knowing why. just smiling.

then i kept sleeping. and woke up smiling again.

then fell asleep again because i wanted to,

not because my body demanded it.

finally i woke up again, smiling in the dark. and i couldn't shake it.

and it stayed until the shower washed it from my face.

but it wasn't gone. it seeped through me slowly and turned to peace.

it made my day before it began.

seven quarters

i would like to drive somewhere

somewhere far away. maybe home.

but in an empty car so that i won't stay too long.

its amazing how the economy affects people's generosity

and how people's generosity, my ability to pay rent.

i woke up to the sound of rain.

the cold air seeking gaps in my blankets.

the mountiantops have turned a whitish-gray with the first snow

and look wiser because of it.

chamomile tea covers a multitude of troubles. it costs seven quarters,

but its worth it.

deep cycle summer

summer is losing strength, slowly

like a deep cycle battery.

fading predictably, unwinding like a rubberband powered airplane.

the mountains are blushing in anticipation of the snow,

the brush is turning red.

i enjoy the air in the evening,

flannel covering my arms.

i miss home this fall. this is my first fall in the west.

and i miss soccer games in the evening. frigid bleachers.

but the mountains are good to me. and utah.

i enjoy every minute i get to spend exploring their heights and valleys.

and if i can continue without committing to a monotone life of 40hr weeks,

then i will.

make ends meet by serving. teaching people about rivers and fish.

singing, writing, and dreaming for the future.

the worst

the worst feelings are...

cutting down a very old tree...

getting tired of a favorite album...

killing a trophy fish...

accidently keying your own car...

scaring a baby...

staining a favorite shirt...

being locked out...

losing your wallet in a new city...

all of which i have done unintentionally.

all of which i hope never to do again.

Battle Hymn

Mine eyes have seen the horror of the coming of the war

The wrath of god persuaded by a Government that swore

It hath loosed the fateful lightning on the innocent and poor

his truth is marching on.

I have seen the shells descending on a million hopeful hands

We build altars out of bodies that are lost in foreign lands

His righteous words on lips that scream - "the enemy be damned!"

his day is marching on.

I have heard a fiery gospel writ with ashes and with zeal

We have learned a faith thats penitent a brutal grace that's real

Let the hero born of woman crush his brother with his heal

Since god is marching on.

He has sounded forth a trumpet for the human soul in need

He is sifting out the hearts of men who claim his judgment seat

Be swift my soul to answer him be militant in peace

Our God, our God is marching on!

Loosely strung to the tune of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. In response to the original (written during the civil war). Because the original disgusts me. Because the original misconstrues the God I hope in.

Because I couldn't let words like those fall un-questioned. The first 3 verses are satire. The last, something hopeful.

It is hard enough for me to swallow the words religion puts in the mouth of God regarding faith, let alone war.

the river winks

the river winks at me, I'm pretty sure no one else sees it.
water stirs me. it eddies and churns the gravel of my soul.
if it weren't for dusk, and its grand decrescendo -
wind that is like grace blowing cool to my nostrils -
and the promise of music that is freed from my diaphragm.
then i might not try to be a brother and a friend, or at least not as hard.
i might fail more miserably at being a lover.
and maybe even stop. cease my wondering. cease my hoping.
but then the river winks. the ripples lick my ankles.
like a little dog who reminds me that life was meant to romp through.
like waist high fields and shining puddles.
someone finds the flat stones and skips them over pools between rapids.
everyday tucked perfectly behind the horizon, fading as they leave.
the freshness of grace filling my lungs, and i must return the favor.
so I look for seeds and kisses to blow.
I feel a promise, sometimes in myself, often in others.
I wait for it, anticipating the words and its melody.
I continue wondering and hoping. I watch for winks from the river.

holy water

oh my holy daughter

did you drink the holy water

from the bowl at san pablo's catedral

holy priest why do you bother

to let us always call you father

when Jesus bore the crosses that you wear

look up, look up, sing praise

call stones from their graves

sit up, sit up, get faith

stained windows illustrate

step up, step up, say grace

practice your solemn face

curious on tip toes

you reached up and then dipped your

fingers in the water bowl of stone

then your mother motioned

you cross your chest shoulders forehead

you kneel before you're buried in a pew

look up, look up, sing praise

call stones from their graves

sit up, sit up, get faith

stained windows illustrate

step up, step up, say grace

practice your solemn face

silly old grandfather

did you curse and then not bother

to repent before the crackers and the wine

Sunday candles thrill me

but this house just might distill me

harp then organ and the chorus year around

last day

we fished with our ears.

we fought with rods.

we wrestled scales in currents.

flaming gorge

the river was green.

green with envy.

so it withheld its fish.

the rocks were red.

red in embarrassment.

laying fully exposed in the sunlight.

the trees were charred.

charred by the flames. on the banks of the gorge.

oliver goes west.

its the last crusade. four weeks till he's hitched.

we're gonna bleed it for a week. on rivers in canyons.

pal around like old times. days when we were little. chasing trout.

we aren't small anymore, or on the Yellow Breeches creek.

we're taking time off work for this. not school. it feels just as good though. rivers flow stronger and colder. mountains are bigger and more rocky. lakes saltier.

such is life.

keep askin the Lord

keep askin the Lord to buy me

keep askin the Lord to buy me

i keep askin the Lord to buy me, my own Harley and a Benz.

been askin the Lord to find me

been askin the Lord to find me

i've been askin the Lord to find me, give me peace inside my head.

keep tellin the Lord he needs me

keep tellin the Lord he needs me

i keep tellin the Lord he needs me, cause i'm good at setting trends.

keep hoping the Lord will feed me

keep hoping the Lord will feed me

i keep hoping the Lord will feed me, till i can find more friends.

been begging the Lord to free me

been begging the Lord to free me

i been begging the Lord to free me, cause i'm scared of being dead.

Adalaid

It kills me like a mid-april freeze

To know you somehow still believe

If I sleep, I sleep with anger

Even then my dreams are plagued with danger.

I try to climb a hill every day

Till I can much more strongly say

That I'm lost and I'm falling

This engine is cold and its stalling.

I find the sun still shines through your eyelids

When hell draws close your lashes singe

While you raise prayers for the jaded

and for souls beat-down and faded.

When you ride the river you'll feel the wind

The peace you claim will fill your skin

But we've all been deflated

By jagged rocks you've evaded.

You're a down-trod angel Adalaid

Who's scarcely sinned or been afraid

If you should say a prayer

Use your innocence and share.

You must know, we're all groping.

Mere heathens, hoping.

That your God, is there.

23

Today is my twenty third birthday. Oddly enough it reminds me of a birthday I had almost a decade ago. The only thing I planned is fishing. By myself. Not because I don't have friends, or because I don't like the ones I have; but merely because it is summer. The sun is hot, the river is cold and there are trout, so the river beckons. I remember turning fourteen and begging for a ride to Boiling Springs and the special regulations waters below the spring fed lake. I don't need to ask for a ride now, just a day off work. Its my first birthday away from home. The annual beat of family tradition, carrot cake and cream cheese frosting will not be had. I doubt there will be any candles or shredded coconut, to extinguish and scatter. Probably very little wrapping paper today, but maybe a few pale ales paid for by the brothers I have found here in the west. I still fish today.

This western river the Provo is bigger and stronger than my home-waters back east and in many ways more alive. I am careful as I walk the bank to look up frequently and scan the brush that crowds the riverbank. This is moose country. Lord knows I don't want a stand-off with a moose. Especially not on my birthday. I never wanted to die on by birthday. I've heard people romanticize it as a bookend way to pass (dying on your birthday, not by moose antler). By now, if my Mom is reading this then she is going worry about me and my fishing trips, and for that I am sorry.

Alas I did not meet a moose today. Just trout. Trout on dry flies in the tail-out of a pool, where fast water meets slow. Up against far bank, where pale morning duns were made dizzy in the swirling currents of the seam. Twenty inches, finned and spotted. Dialed in on the emerging mayflies, rising, shoulder swirling, nose and tailing, driving me mad for over an hour. Until I drew from my box, the comparadun, oh deadly pattern. This fly has history. That particular fly, the week before, had caught fifteen rising trout while the fisherman across the stream (throwing a dry fly as well) hooked one. So sure, the comparadun was arrogant but so was the rising fish - not 35 feet from where I was standing. They deserved eachother. Six casts later the great fish interrupted the fly's drift and my rod tip went up instinctually. The river was saying happy birthday.

for pop

this week i heard both Roberto Carlos and Leo Dan multiple times on the radio in the restaurant kitchen. i can sing along to parts of the songs while i tray up food. its funny, and people wonder how i know those songs. it brings back memories. wearing work boots. sister joy's house. attic crawl spaces. rotting airborne insulation. the old blue ford van. or maybe even the green one. cutting roof antennas like timber. laura warfel. state street. being proud of my tool belt. cat pee. plaster falling on my head. breaking trim and yelling. enjoying demolition and sledgehammers. being unable to find a tool in the messy van and not wanting to go inside and tell you. scary pit bulls in the neighbors yard. avocados in the lunchbox. no silverware. black people who got black because of roof tar. "mi hijo." joint compound and screw holes. boring long waits at Fager's on cushy stools. eating chinese food instead of mom's packed lunch. sanding into the night. failing to hold the flashlight still. muffins. hot chocolate. diners. noo-ah, noah. noo-ah, noah. "pichón." wearing dust masks to keep our faces warm. sleeping on the way home. no a/c. bowmansdale. eating mom's packed lunch in the van on Second St. before going inside. guilty. walking inside feeling manly after a good day's work. whispering to Ollie about chinese food. 20min. in the side yard with small goals. shirt grabbing and fouls. big creek or little creek.

i think about you often, miss you as much, brag about you when i can. love you.

owen

most leave

Look over the sea and there's a sun

who hasn't won, who hasn't won.

Scour the coast when there's a storm

see where its from, see where its from.

Look over the cliff and there are bones

among the stones, among the stones.

Throw dust to the air let it blow

see where it goes, see where it goes

Search through the hills for what you need

you'll find it steep, you'll find it steep

Ask of the trees what they believe

you'll find they breath, you'll find they breath.

Ask of the gods if they'll compete.

You'll find most leave, you'll find most leave.

heaven.

cool mornings. warm afternoons. cold moving water. trout. grass. peace.

before the sack. before i leave.

my feet hurt. from the slippery rocks in the river.

and ninety minutes running on a grassy pitch.

bug bites itch, but the day on the river is worth it.

i cast my 4 and 5 weights on the city park lawn today.

then conversed with an old mormon fellow for a bit.

we talked about life.

i climbed a small mountain and watched the moon rise over the rockies.

i have never seen the moon actually make its way over the horizon before.

the exact opposite of a sunset. a completely new experience.

when i see something like that for the first time,

it shames me to realize that i never sought it out before.

i'm gonna climb mount olympus before i leave and

paddle to antelope island in a canoe.

finish an EP, and play some shows.

serve a lot of soup and salad to a lot of ungrateful people.

and meet a precious few.

In a boat with no one

My story is told by, those who hate

if they want my heart, like hell, they'll wait

for a clear blue sky, an un-obstructed sun

on a vacant sea with no one.

My blood flows fine, inside my veins

until the last chorus, and its refrain

when you lift your hands, as if in praise

but you suffer your week, as always

you suffer. and you're weak. as always.

I hear in your town, you all have guns

you shoot for fun, and then some

i can't believe, in a faith that pleas

pleas for justice, with weapons.

If you expect to understand, just how i breath

smoke fifty years of cigarettes, and then you'll know with ease

because the sea was never this kind,

if you judge my life by this, you'd say its fine

there is something wrong with how you're freed

when you fortune is wrapped up, and guaranteed.

My story is old, I feel its fate

it drags me down, so I sit and wait

under a clear blue sky, an un-obstructed sun

on a vacant sea in a boat with no one.

for Jerry - friend, nam-vet, co-worker.

to chico

i listened to "things we said today" in my car tonight.  i thought about you. i hope you are still practicing your guitar.  when i get back we are going to skate in york.  and cast fly rods.  for sure. take care of orianna for me.  give her a kissy.

-wild west

swimming holes

i need to find more swimming holes

good ones. with cold water.

no chlorine. or salt. or people with radios.

and swim. instead showers.

skinny like a shorn sheep. my hair is short 

my beard is gone. and i look a little more boyish.

closer to how i feel.

i'm trying to figure a way to leave the country. and things that make me feel comfortable.

things like language and familiar faith/hypocrisy. familiar license plates.

and the shackles? the car. possessions. loans.

2 months and a 2000 mile drive separate me from.

marriage. my little brother. my longest lived pal. is getting married.

feels like a bookend to childhood.

i miss the yellow breeches and the LeTort. its crickets and its trout. 

the west is big. sometimes too big.

the city in this valley is small, and too much of a sprawl.

the culture this city supports doesn't justify the smog.

skateparks help.

i miss trees and pennsylvania summer.