I've been nominated!

Just a quick post to let my loyal readers (all 5 if you) know- I've been nominated as 1 of 5 finalists for the Naked Girls Reading Literary Honors Prize! 

http://tinyurl.com/lxubztn

What's better than having your work judged as an honorary finalist by an organization with great literary taste? Having your work judged as an honorary finalist by an organization with great literary taste... that happens to be comprised of beautiful women that read their authors' work on-stage in the buff! 

All kidding aside, this is a great organization that  promotes literature and performance art in a totally fun and unique way. I've been following for a while, and it's an honor to be accepted as one of the 5 finalists. Wish me luck!

Telling Time 4

The orange spot of dawn,

first incandescent flashlight circle,

sneaks past blinds and curtains

each morning

striking the wall

a little more to the right

a little more away from the darkened fish tank

and its oblivious silver-colored sparks.

Summer ends.  Fall comes on

a little more to the right each morning

before changing from orange to white,

before sliding to the floor

where my cat

can lie in fascination of the dust flecks

and skin cells

that float

suddenly exposed.

Telling Time 3

Maybe it's just what the radio keeps telling me is "low-T", but I can remember times with girlfriends when I couldn't wait to go shopping on the off chance that I'd get to go into a Victoria's Secret with them. Today I go into these places with my wife, and the perfume, the emaciated models that look like teenagers, the thumping music... It's all so false, and its only goal is to sell me something. I just have to wait outside. I'd rather hit the cookie stand, or wait in the parking lot and watch the distant lightning. 

Telling Time 2

It's the size of my wallet.  No, slimmer; shiny silver like something out of Ray Bradbury.  I plug it into my USB port, and I can back up my life: everything I've collected over the past ten years.  10 years of photographs (what a different person I was then- looking over, I only recognize parts of him.  Or I just recognize parts of him that have been added to to form the weird amalgamation I am now).  10 years of music: the songs that used to mean so much, that I barely listen to anymore because I now think they're corny.  10 years of poems- no, even more than that.  And they all go into this little silver box.  They could go three times over into this little silver box.  Life through a USB cord.

I know it sounds like one of those "new technology moves so fast" things, but I have these memories of big, boxy monitors with only 2 colors...  My family's first PC...

Telling Time 1

Tonight, I was driving.  Some music came randomly onto my stereo that I grew up with- music that really helped me at a moment of transition in my youth.  And I noticed something that I have been noticing more and more lately: that much of this music, while still full of meaning and despair, triumph and heart, is gaining another level in my mind.  It is becoming cemented; inextricably tied to the time period it came from.  The song retains some of its effect on me- but through memory, not directly.  It sounds like a '90s song.  

In my case, it's the '90s, but I'm sure this is what Dr. Gonzo felt sitting in a Vegas casino in the mid-'70s, after his revolution had fizzled and sputtered out and some "rat bastard" put "Mr. Tambourine Man" on the PA.  

Does this mean that I've changed?  That the world has moved on?  Or both?

I think I'll start a new series...

I've been thinking a lot about time, recently, and how we mark it.  Yes, there are days, weeks, and months... seconds tick on the watch my wife gave me for our anniversary; hours loom large and ominous like shadows or pass in quick, silent groups like Fall geese.  But those of us who think about these things (namely, everyone) know that time is subjective.  The calendar is decidedly not.  So how do I mark time?  Change, probably.  I am not the same person I was 10 years ago, 1 year ago, or yesterday.  Change is not, as I once thought, an accumulative process.  Some things are added to, but others are replaced.  Other things fill previously unknown holes like quicksand traps, and others still are switched out.  Harrison Ford with his bag of sand eyeballing the idol.

I want to keep thinking about this.  I propose to start a new series- to think each day about at least one way in which I mark the passage of time.  At least a sentence.  We'll see how long I can keep it up before my capriciousness (read: horrible ADD mated with incredible, Dude-ian level laziness) distracts my attention to the next, nearest shiny bauble.

When You Get Home

V.

Disengage. 

For now, cars pass beyond. 

A child and his friend shout in the distance. 

The birds make their chatter:

the sounds of a late afternoon in summer.