Sun’s Up, Guns Up – Journal 6/25/17

One thing about summer in Washington is that the entire place is ill-equipped. People’s reactions tend to be a little overstated. Somehow, every single year, the hardware stores of the Pierce and King counties sell out of fans. Every year? Where the fuck are the ones from last year going?

Anyways, the hot weather is in full swing here. 96 degrees today after some pretty damn temperate weeks. It hit all at once this time, and I’m struck with nostalgia of camping trips from last year as well as the occasional hike. I hope I can find a group to go with this season now that I have some proper gear and a good camera to snap things with. I have someone that’s willing to go up Mount Si with me, thankfully. I shall definitely come back from that trip with some damn good photos.

It’s been really interesting lately as I experience some grief with that mentioned nostalgia as well as the nostalgia for everything long since past. For example, in my last journal (maybe the one before) I mention how, stylistically and symbolically, the seasons represent different stages of life/maturity/wisdom. Autumn has a lot of value to me, and in autumn I always feel very free and alive, in stark contrast to its classical meaning in literature. Summer is supposed to be a time of freedom and innocence, for lack of a better term, yet this time I’m not feeling it yet.

Hot weather brings it back a little bit. And as I come off of some waves of grief from this weekend about pathways I’ll never be able to step another foot on, resisting all the while temptation to step back and see if some pathways are still there, the heat has finally arrived.

Today I’m listening to Kauf’s “Pacify”. Highly recommended to check that one out. It reminds me of this time, this kind of heat. Similarly to how I have ties to Xilent’s “Kill Me” when I’m thinking about Mount Si, I think of “Pacify” in nearly the exact same way. I believe it was the same place I discovered them, North Bend. There’s a lot of webs, and that’s part of the intrinsic value of music.

A piece of art doesn’t have to mean anything in particular. There is no one correct meaning to it, that’s why it exists. It’s whatever it means to you. Subjective, some pricks like to say. Me, I think it’s just in taking what you need from it.

Listening to “Pacify” on the 96 degree drive from work today, I got goosebumps. That’s what art is supposed to do.

This would be the second time in a while that I’ve rambled with not much prompting. I fear in this wave of grief I’m vulnerable again, which would mean looking back at those pathways now (I like to think) gone. There’s always some pain in that nostalgia. Summer means we look ahead.

In the spirit of that, I’m writing for a website now! https://ageofshitlords.com has now been graced with the presence of myself! That should be a lot of fun. Large audience, content I like to consume and talk about, so that should be quite fitting.

As for writing creatively these days, my taps haven’t run dry but I haven’t been able to come up with a lot lately. Seattle didn’t urge a lot out of me, but in its stead that grief wave crashed into me. This always prompts me writing and gushing out some bullshit into a format anyone else would care about. So I have that poem “Brave” from being in Seattle, and this journal’s excerpt from a poem called “Illusion”:

“As the knife of fate
Between your fingers
Is cast at the target
Fixed to the wheel

I want you to cut me deep
And reveal that this is what’s real”

In which the poem is about what in these relationships is real, hence the title. Seeing through the white lies and all that stuff. Relationship poetry tends to be my strong suit, unless we’re talking about abstract stuff. In that case, I’m your damn man.

Tonight I’ve resolved myself to the downstairs of my house where it’s cooler, putting on some music videos on the TV, with the intention to do that whole “be inspired” thing that people who do NANOWRIMO can fucking do so well. See what muses and demons I can summon and make happen on the page.

More and more I find myself vexed by horror. I think I need to do something with that very soon or else I’ll go crazy.

That’s all I’ve got for now. I’ll be updating here when I get articles onto Age of Shitlords, as well, because that’s pretty exciting! More photos incoming, always more poetry, and meanwhile I’ll try to expand the site a little more in terms of the content I put out. I keep trying to find ways to make the journal side here a little better. Maybe less rambly? What do you think? I’d love to hear it.

Happy reading, Radio Reality. City-ers! All 202 of you! This is only ever going to get better!

Death6ish

We planned out harvest
In August
And we knew what we
Were doing

Blue skies
Rich soil
Hills like
Gold foil

Yet this doesn’t feel like home
To us
This endless sunshine and white
Clouds in the ocean blue

We work with what we’ve wrought

When the weather rots
And clouds enrage
At the prospect
Of having not rained

These are the seeds we’ve got
Growing relicous vines and fruit
With a taste that makes cheeks hot
Against an autummnal chill

These seeds that grip and root
Entrench and shoot
Through the dirt
And cobble rocks

We work with what we’ve wrought

Cherry plot ploughshares
Beaten into swords to defend
Our fields from thieves
Looking to steal our bounty

The fields are our quarry
In September it’s us and no worry
Some fruits are for harvest
Ripe already

Skies tint a poppy hue
Days are shorn and more rouge
Seeds sprout everywhere
In bloom the dirt’s deluged

This is our joyous spring
Our warm summer
And our jolly winter
All in this fallish weather

Meadows in infras and yellows
And fierce copper fields
Rife with ripe-wroughts
Shimmering in somber breeze

We work with what we’ve wrought
Into October
Still

When the wind cannot still
And our ploughs
Beaten back again will
Work the ground now colored
Charred and hazel

November and

Swords stand like gargoyles
In the eroding chill
Above a bounty of copper crops
Bearing delicious hot fruit

Our livelihood and sustenance
Our
Brave vermillion
And
Valiant harvest

No matter what
Come bad crops
Or storms nonstop
Hell or high water

We
Work
With
What
We’ve
Wrought

So Cal Lunar

I earnestly
Miss the moon

As it was more
Commonly called
Luna in
So Cal skies

How it looked new
As a dialated pupil

And when it was full
So jeweled and bold

Waxing demelting
Waning and fading

But now I can’t
See it anymore

In cloudy, rainy
Washington

Skies still have
A great allure

Yet the crystal eye
No longer burns

Chroma Snow Blossom

Chroma Snow Blossom

A snowbound mountain
Painted on a canvas
Of white trees and
Indigo ice
Against
Zodiac pyrites

Deep dream
Chromashifting

Down the slopes
Black rocks
And white snow with
Waves of
Staining color
Rushing down

Mountain
Colorsufing

Like how debasers tailor
Snowflake cells
Distorting them
Metamorphosis
Blossom in this
Snow pollen’s fell

Snowflake’s
Feathery wings

The marring blossom
Colors infecting
In orange and blue
And pink and green
Arms of ice
In symmetry

Deep dream
Chromashifting

Overgrown

Overgrown

On the roofs of houses
In a suburb
A mossy overgrown
Sentimental pipeline

Crossing from
Home to home
Shoots with the
Arrow of time

Christmas lights
And tiny fir trees
Fortresses, bastions,
And snowy top days

Moss is the turret
On a tower of a home
Ropes like rigging are
Beacons polychrome

Cast magic like
You read it
In ancient
Spell tomes

Snowflakes drifting down
Polychroma sound

Lights like the beacons
Of spotlights shining
Clouds like the puffy flak
Of a cold morning

Moss on the shingles of
A cozy little house
Glittery tinseling
Glowing like magma

Chilly air like egg nog
In a glass on a table
Broiled breath in the air
Vapor everywhere

Warsxzaw

Warsxzaw

There was always the
Wet blacktop.

There was always grey
Warsaw clouds
Threatening to drain
Onto the small world.

From heavy nebulas
In the heavensya
Where mist rolls
In webs
To aerosol ticks
Jumping.

Falling.
Falling

Through open sky,
Past trees and
Telephone poles,
The ticks land
On wet blacktop,
Crawling in cracks
Under car tires
Driving over roads.

Droplets of glass
Grey land, and
Run into gutters.

All taking place under warxaw clouds
On oily, wet black top

In sun, in rain,
In midnight,
In black ice day,
In fograys,

In awe,

In
Warzaw.

31-Degree Pseudo Date

31-Degree Pseudo Date

It was cold that morning
When I picked you up

And I first saw you
Dressed for cold weather

When you stepped
Onto the porch

Locking up as
I watched and thought

My ribcage opened up
And relieved the tension

My jeep idling in
The driveway

Freezing with cold
When you open the door

The wasps have cold stingers
And number in the thousands

Smile on your face
Saying “hello”

Ready to go
To the diner

To sit and have
A pair of BLTs

With some soda
Before noon

Where we talked
About everything

Day and night
For only an hour

Coming outside
In the daylight again

The same clouds floated
Grey as war saws

Like Poland’s days
When they stay and hang

There as we walked out
Of the diner

It wasn’t day
But it was grey

Looking Up

Looking Up

Spider’s spun spindly
Cobwebs cauterize
Wounds of a gash
Mass over skies stretch

Gathering dust
Old cocoons
Caught in silk
Clandestine roads

Forest overpass
Freeways below
Footfalls pedestrian
Foraging for food

Old monsoons
Bringing the flake
To worm’s mulch
Soil slaked

Decomposing in the shadow
Of a spider web hollowed
Ivory crossroads
Hung from bough to bough