Wild Poets - Journals

what is the most honest part of the body?

thug rigby — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 07:45:00 +0000

fun exercise idea: d.i.y. character sheet circa 2009
for 2013 cyberpunk

how we looking for 2013?

2020?

(paraphrasing the O a long time ago. back when we were kids.
"the future me is a wiser, older brother. a friend.
life- here, now--
is important.
but... I try to do him favors... set him up, good."

hope

despite everything
i am doing what i love

the tailor
showed me it was important to hang one's clothes in the sunlight

the psychopath
showed me how to accept zero

the tienamen survivor
showed me that one must simply survive sometimes

the killer, the killed
the horribly mutilated
the desecrated
the spit on

showed me

that flowers WILL burst out of the skulls
ARE bursting out of the skulls

always was, always is, always will
but-

we must never become cold to it.

remember
who is the one with a child's ashes locked tight, mixed in a nicotine-tar stew in his lungs?
you have this too. for better or for worse, you have this too.
it is a curse. it is an honor. we are alive.

water drops from a tree into the muddy river
broken bottles, bottle caps, bricks, up-ended floating candles
the stone naga by the river has five heads and a larger head-
it's faces fierce
but, each biting snake- each monster face-

in each snake chest: the heart
etched, gray sandstone flower mandalas

obey the ghosts of the innocents
and everything will be fine

older brother
you are aware

most are not:

THAT is limbo. That is trapped.

you are already free. it is truly, truly all in your head.
but your heart forces you to write
that tells me
you're already free

yes. you have both feet in siberia
and yes. winter is coming.
but hold your children high over your head
show them the sunlight
follow your heart

remember the warmth of the sun
remember your walks alone, your travels through far-flung countrysides.

the sheep far below, echoing up to you, their calls drifting up towards you through the tall grasses
walk
remember the good times

remember that it it your purpose in life now
to show your children those things

even in the coldest winter
to carry one's child on one's shoulders through the woods
maybe another, following, running, exploring--
what a joy! fuck, man...

I may never have that. you lucky, lucky #@$%!!!!

follow *them*
they are the teachers

they play. in the winters. in the snow. on the beaches. in war zones.
ignoring incoming rounds, they play.

so they are the teachers but remember-
they don't know how to fear, incoming. or mines. or night raids from the kr. or the vk.

here--they have to learn those lessons the hard way
so remember your fucking job.

you are a naga. a protector
but your heart- a flower.

love them and protect them even when your soul is at its worst.
when you are a monster, step away. disengage.

look at the trees in the winter. the sky. the water. morning dew. the sounds.
listen to all of the life happening around you.

how to live
how to stay warm in cold times

every word
(btw)
(i write stone sober. morning writing. pushups. sunshine. good music. good coffee.)

when I am drunk
I am angry at the world. angry at ignorance. at the pain. at the stupidity. and yes- I am a monster in those times.

a fucking monster.

but when i am angry, when you are angry: that is someone else.
not you.

the monster
must be trained like a dog

otherwise you will become its slave
pushups. sunshine, as much as possible. remember that you are alpha.

smash your crown.
write. put your hands in the soil at least once a day.

five years of winter gardening
just gotta know the seasons, which plants you can grow from seeds when.

right now, cold weather crops. vegetables. tubors.

$10 worth of perrenials and annuals, just pure seeds-
and a small plot of ground

life
will bloom

winters- my people are masters of winter. sisu, my friend. sisu.

we icemonkeys
have a reputation for being drunks in some parts. but who... who isn't?

it is the sober who scare me. the sober and the blind.
the unaware

everyone is medicating their pain somehow
be wary

watch the feet. the feet never lie. they are the most honest part.

oh and...

if you see a flick of the tongue, they think they have you.

if the hand goes unconsciously to the throat, they are lying
maybe

hand to the back of the head, a pacifying behavior. possibly--containing aggression.

more on that crap later. spent the morning with a poker player.
filled up a page of notes about body language.

good luck. much love.

limbo

Caribou Slim — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 17:59:00 +0000

welcome to the waning of the harvest moon

we're beginning our descent now

time runs faster as the dark grows longer

life measured out

in rabbit heartbeats

shivering in the snowshoe fields

tiny muscle

drumming

beating back the silent cold

november is wrapped in her traditional robes

of razorwire and wet autumn leaves

bone and rust

newts nest like coiled black drakes

in rotting logs

and the stags slice the fingers of fog

with their crowned antlers

this is the time

to walk with the ghosts

you couldn't bury by halloween

to fall into the void

of distance

of love's memory

and to remember

what whispers in fall

sings in spring

and to listen

as the world

...sighs...

this too will pass

oop

thug rigby — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 00:39:00 +0000

researching bilateral stimulation

somatic redirection- water... reflections.

if you could create a kid's game integrating somatic and bilateral-

something as simple as kids throwing rocks into the river, alternating which hand they use to throw

tying it to vocal somehow

could be huge...

boo!

thug rigby — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 14:20:00 +0000

Happy Halloween! Give the children candy!
Somewhere out there in the world, right now, as you are reading this, some kid is digging a mortar round out of the ground so he can trade it for some candy too!

this is not a suicide mission to cambodia

but it *is* do or die
my intention: to grow. to heal. to learn. to fucking grow up and be a man. to write. to hack it. to quit smoking. be healthy. travel the world. share with people. help other people. to accept myself.

win or lose,

quoting gandhi- 'it is not what we accomplish but how we behave'

i want to behave well. live a long life. give back more than i have taken. outlive all of you fuckers and fucking sing your names to the stars because i fucking love you.

i fucking love you
and i fucking miss you

some day
there will just be one of us left
on a hill
looking at the moon
missing the shit out of all of you gize
praying, meditating, whatever- putting their heart out there and hoping that our souls are at peace and are happy
maybe and hopefully
strong
and not mad with sorrow for being the last one
who had to see everyone else go

just singing rocky racoon or the appellachain inbreeding blues

or one of G's songs which he needs to stop keeping to himself because they're fucking beautiful and haunting and strong and powerful
and could be out there in the world, healing people right now

quit fucking around. we all have something to give. life is short.

remember that song- words are weapons, sharper than knives...

but they can also be a scalpel
and if there is an infection, an abcess, an infected, rotting mind...

(yup yup metaphor but hey. after jamming my toe nice and deep, knowing how slowly things heal out here... i took care of it and my foot is now fine. but it takes a steady hand cleaning out your

own wounds and you *have* to keep it dry. don't let moisture get in. clean it and seal it and let time do its thing.)

you can try to use the words western style like the scalpel, the clinical, cold, dispassionate surgeon.
cut around the abcess
pour on the disinfectant--remember--the hydrogen peroxide kills both the bacteria AND your tissues. oxide.

seal it but realize you've just sealed in dead tissue. the body will absorb it back in provided you're not re-injuring it... picking and fiddling with it every day... so on and so forth.

or it can be like how a guy treated the kitten who had a male cat's tooth deep in his neck the other day
absessing. milimeters from the jugular.

day one- i screwed up, tried to do it western style like how i had treated my foot. did a shitty job trying to clean the wound and dumbfuck me tried giving it a bit of a wrap so the kitten wouldn't

scratch at it. *of course* kitten houdini'd the wrapping and the next day, the kitten wasn't any better for it.

but this guy-
he used scissors. (two knives joined by a screw. remember. we're playing with stupid metaphors for 'words as treatment for injury...')

cutting all of the chunky, blood soaked hair
being delicate
petting the kitten
keeping him happy, purring
strong, deliberate hands gently cleaning the wound with betadine/iodine or some shit that doesn't hurt too much

just cleaned it out
gave him some love
let the kitten run wild

did the kitten pick at it? scratch at it? nope. cats are cats out here. they haven't been coddled. they don't pick at their scabs.
they take the pain and move on with their lives.

and now, kitten's totally healed
running around. chasing frogs, moths, crickets, frollicking about in the thorny-weird asian flower gardens (don't know the name of the plant but it's beautiful, thorny, and has bright pink flower petals

and they're all over the place) and fat-leaved banana tree-saplings

killed his first rat the other day.

so anyhow-

me

the hollow eye
a shell of a man
why even capitalize the first letter of my name?

writing while sick, writing while tired.

ah well. es ok. es writing!

my new mantra- 'every act must be done with love'
which
is fucking hard
considering the content I'm working with

because
the words
I use
if read
will fucking hurt people

the stories
are fucking brutal

back home i remember hearing some of my friend's stories and those stories would twist in my soul for years. make me feel physically sick. how my friends have survived some of the shit they've

been through, fuckin' a gize. mad respect.

you're stronger than me.

please don't let it twist your soul too dark. i'll do my best to do the same.

so my mission. the stories. cambodia.

fuck.

so somehow I have to share brutality with love
trying to spread awareness
(whatever the fuck that is.... 'awareness, spreading awareness' cheap, taudry words.)

so somehow
i have to articulate indescribable brutality with love

strangely enough it DOES come from love. but- he who increaseth knowledge also increaseth sorrow and all of that shit. n'est ce pas?

so really all i can do is just fucking say it with love and hope i'm not hurting anyone.
if i'm hurting you hey- sorry.

but this is my job.
'cuz
'slike pedagogical and all that shit, yo.

you learn you grow you read something that hurts you but yup. label me, call me an asshole or whatever you like
crazy?

yup.

but my intention
is using whatever shit skills i have
is to heal
myself and others
cuz
the way things are going... ish. ick. blah.

fuck gize!
we're killing ourselves! snap the fuck out of it and welcome to reality!
fucking heal thyself already!

or just keep on keeping the belly fat and happy.
enjoy destroying the world.
but hey

if you do destroy the world with your hunger, your greed, your imperialism...
hey. at least destroy the world with love.
(saith the hypocrite)

(baby tank is a metaphor for the blindness and and power of the american life--if you didn't catch that, lol. fucking noob. grow up. layers, bitches. layers.)

yesterday i went to the river and sat under a naga
stared at the water
pinpricks of sunlight
stars blinking in and out

every day i lose my shit
this morning

no bravery
fuck brave
sisu, maybe.
food poisoning always

I stick with buckley, cash, allegri misere mei and 'young scoundrel's tear'
hold it to my chest some mornings
watching the butterflies in the trees
losing my shit
the sunrises are beautiful. yes. i'm up before. sometimes.
watching the town wind up. below, people sweeping the leaves from the walkways.
molten skies

wretching on morning coffee. more pushups.

more stories more pain i can handle sometimes

it
can only go through me
channel
with compassion
glinting images running through the jungle barefoot eyes cold no taller than your own gun and fucking killing like easy
to torture, to kill
to be tortured, to be killed

the old ghosts
proheil kroobongreun (maybe teacher)
proheil jaincan (maybe gangster)
proheil naga (maybe guardian)

sponge it absorb it use my craft to try to sort this shit out and not let it fucking kill me.

but fuck, man... fuck! fuck! fuck i say it with tears in my eyes subvocal typing this shit man.

who are we? what am I? fucking nothing, man!

mountain children with soft hearts
kids who can run those old trails
no moon to guide us

our parents- wickedly intelligent. brutal and compassionate.
we apples did not fall far from the tree.

we are what they are
whether we like it or not
whether we love it or not

they gave us life

and
they gave us
tough skin

tougher than we ever pretend.
so far... somehow magically resilient and lucky

we are lucky to be alive in this moment.
breathing.
your parents gave you that

they were just trying to do their best
if you want to be a souless machine full of nothing but histrionics, the mind a needle scratching down deeper and deeper over bad shit well,
wake up. listen to the birds.

you're alive. right now. breathing.
try it.
give it a smile.

I am here alive right now. blinking. breathing. listening to the birds, thanking my parents for the breath, for the life they gave me.

are you?

right now i am sitting on a hard tile floor on a red bathtowel
back propped against the bed
typing into a borrowed computer. using a red plastic chair as a desk. there's a little sticker of a happy blue dolphin, flippers upcurled, a little, happy yin or yang with no opposite.

laundry hanging in a jumble of fishing line.

beer-can ashtray in the corner where i spit
water bottles all around. a fucking mess.
books everywhere. equipment everywhere. recorder. camera.
my soap,toothpaste,q-tips hanging in a plastic bag from a piece of hard wire wrapped around some red steel framing.

sitting. listening through bird chirps through rattan walls.
hot air blowing down from the fan above me. the ceiling, just a latticework or bamboo.
my little cell. my little cubicle. flimsy wooden-frame door, rattan paneling.

it like sitting in a big, wicker basket with cold, hard tile for a bottom.

above above
hard concrete, steel and tin roof built tough for monsoon
a cobwebbed cathedral
once in a while
i have to gingerly flick bat shit off of my blue mosquito net

when you look at someone do you feel their pain?
if not, fucking fix it.

fix it or you are disposable.

that said,
we are all disposable.

we all come from zero we all go back to zero.

perhaps life, awareness, compassion--it's just the void's game
pinpricks of light, of life
a' la alan watts: the universe looking at itself. briefly. a man's life.
now mix and match with quantum physics and it's kaleidoscopic. multiple universes and all of that shit.
or if you want to play it the hindu way we are just shards of brahma. shattered pieces of the mirror. this is god playing with his wife, maya. (illusion)
i.e., life, pain, everything is illusion. we are momentary constructs just dancing a dance before going back into the soil.

tough skin, tougher than we ever pretend. somehow magically resilient and lucky and here alive right now.
i take a break from typing this.

remember some things. vomit coffee, shit, take a shower, do some push ups.

two years ago i walked the killing fields
looked into the empty pits
the pagoda full of skulls
like a tourist idiot took a macro close up shot of someone's jaw and teeth lying in the soil

the tree
where they grab by the feet
swing by the ankles
smash the babys heads
toss into the pit

still stands... and i wonder why they don't cut it... because...

something you wont learn in the guidebooks
a secret.
no not a secret but common local spiritual beliefs:

when someone hangs from a tree
or is buried under a tree
their soul is trapped within the tree
so it cannot come back
and seek vengeance

so during the genocide
the killers
were doing things in such a way
so that the souls
wouldn't come back

only
well
now
they've been dug up
their skulls behind glass every day
watch the sunrise, watch the sunsets

their faces
long since gone
google S-21
if you like.

so it's weird--still trying to figure out the spirituality here

back to the tree stuff:

it depends. if the body is left hanging for a few days, the soul goes into the tree.
same with water out here. someone drowns,
if they're left in the water for a while, their soul goes into the water.
then they wait in the water
and you have to be careful

because
for them to be free
they can trick you
and trade places with you

and then it's you trapped under the water.

to free the soul you have to cut the tree
have the stump sealed and blessed or some shit.

only monks should be buried under trees. then it's a good tree, or something.

but why don't they fucking cut the baby-killing tree?
don't know. sadly... will probably find out why sooner or later.

yesterday i went to the river and sat under a naga
sat like khmai
losing my shit
just watching the water

dangerous ones passing behind me
sometimes, one would just stand there
feet behind me

sniffing me like dogs
minds blown
but they knew to stay away

eyes on the water
they knew not to fuck with me

yes i am foreigner yes i am barang and no i don't belong here but
never start something that you know you can't finish and me--
a well dressed foreigner sitting under a naga who is using alpha khmer body language...
who doesn't twitch one muscle, who can sit still looking at the water--

why pick a fight with the unknown?

just sniffing me out
no
i'm not a mark
move along

one
and all
and all of us
were there, were not there.

you were with me sitting under the naga
i was there with you when you were... dunno. not psychic. maybe pooping?

doesn't matter what you believe.

shit happened, is happening, will happen. on it goes... 2 babies born every second.

the particles in our little biosphere are swapping around all the fucking time. look up the fucking science.
doesn't fucking matter.

i don't care how imperical you get with it. we all came from the same singularity. big bang. n'est ce pas? bong yool? own yool?
we are all eating, shitting, sleeping in the same water.

the hindus would say molecules have memory. baraka. i dunno.

you say dream a river?
i haven't remembered my dreams for three months. but when you wrote that quite possibly, i was looking at the river. sitting under the naga. who knows?

writing this has been fun. a fun little rant.
those who know craft understand what i'm doing
unloading content
not hitting the backspace

throwing the material down, crazy as it sounds.

the first draft is always madness. play.
the real work begins draft three or four. that's when the party really begins. revision. line editing. woop woop!

this?

not even work. practice. hitting the keys for the sake of hitting the keys and hoping that you see through the adhd and mental exhaustion and knowing that despite all appearances

doing fine.
love you. miss you. i gotta go get something to eat and then go do some real work. hard shit tough shit. real writing. concise, precise, professional, etc... gameface and all that shit.

how are you?

if no time, no worries. halloween and all.

boat racing today

thug rigby — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 23:55:00 +0000

have to get some work done but hopefully will go

funny how

in the same moment people are knocking on your door

or while you're out in the neighborhood taking your kids around in their costumes

jack o lanterns

ahh

miss that stuff

here

they're cleaning up the river. last two days, painting the boats. spraypaint, stencils. actually hmm... so while you're going to sleep after a long, hopefully beautiful halloween

throwing candy

in the same moment

boat rowers are pumping up in the morning sun, getting ready

the trash from the wedding party, being cleaned up

somewhere

not here but somewhere

a kid is scrounging around for munitions

for a piece of candy

belly never full-- never.

i always try to order too much

the rest is take out

easy

a plastic bag of soup. pork, noodles, fat. black, stubbly hairs sticking out of the skin.

you get used it it.

it's good food.

me and the soup bag part company pretty quickly in these parts

no shortage of outstretched hands

ah well

better that than nothing though

better that than money

or the 'milk' scam

grifters and cons, all of us

in our own way

grift with love

con with love

Fled

Alael Rose — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 22:29:00 +0000

A quicksilver ache

slipped in, through, then out of reindeer games

scathed wings and sharpened eyes ahead

fixed on nothing.

A violet's bruises healing

amid rubble.

Being what's seen through mirrored eyes,

judged by a judge's guilt

rooted.

On an open sky spanning

unobstructed view between moments,

other chances at safe distance.

Left without leaving.

Cupidity

Caribou Slim — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 19:33:00 +0000

Could you dream me a river today?

The mountaintops are wrapped in autmn
and the harvest lays as rows of golden chains
and burgundy leaves
cast across the valley floor
fat purple bunches hung
and dark with swollen nectar

A message in a bottle

Eyes that stutter the heart
that you could exist
renders breath impossible
Too bright for possibility
the unwound anticipation
curled like a scorpion tail
ready to poison possibility
with haste

Next month, I'll face the south when the cold comes

Faithless hope
in the end of winter, Texas
Bacchus is well bound here
in the moss and rain
and fog wrapped cliffs
woven into smoke and spirits
tending a faithless hearth
spitting his unwanted seed
into the mud

Could you catch a comet tonight?

Of course, there's no cure for the common comet
spaceball twirling mad
tumbling icicles
in my twisting wake
as I richocet
around the walls of my rubber room

Did you design it yourself?

Why yes
or no?
Answers available upon request
at the bequest of the inheritors
all further inquiries should be directed to the publisher
of the Weekly World News
we suggest you use the phrase "Bat Boy" in conversation
to help them find the file

Why would you hide from me?

So I won't have to watch
you hide from me.

Call it a gift, kiddo
I've done this dance before
and unless you're willing to lead
I think I'll sit this one out

silently

wondering

what you are

Repast

David Wright — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 01:17:00 +0000

The Brave say things.

The Brave action-think things.

The Brave stand under the tops of things.

Home really is just a word.

Words may fail, betray things, or steal away tied tight conceptions of rights, privileges and sugary entree;

The Brave brave slippery crushed margins to kiss just thugs.

The Brave deliver a centre to shop from.

The Brave, too, must eat some thing.

one simple thing from a man I would call Teacher.

thug rigby — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 00:14:00 +0000

Who has seen more and done more and now, lives simply. An Italian clothes designer who has lived India healthy for 12 years. A man who came from unspeakable violence at home. Traveled. Saw more. Learned. Survived. Became a man with craft, with discipline, with strength, but with compassion.

Came home, cradled and forgave those who had hurt him when he was young.

A man who can come back home. Cradle the woman who had beat him to the bone as a child. Who he had fled from as a child into the world.

Held her and forgave her with love as she cried and apologized and died. But, she died with peace and forgiveness and love in her heart. For all that she did, she did not die alone. She died forgiven, with peace, in his arms.

That is a man worth listening to. Some paraphrasing, some verbatim:

Every act must be done with love

Those who are unaware, only destroy: thus the necessity for every act to be with love.

If Angry or Inflicting,

Clear your mind and think 'Om' when you touch other people.

Get more sunshine

Quit smoking, quit drinking

Everything is important

Nothing is necessary

Smile at everything

If and when I am ever done with Cambodia, I go to India, to his shop. Buy some nice clothes and have tea with him.

It is a nice thing to hope for, to wish for.

couch chickenbone

thug rigby — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 07:01:00 +0000

too hot for the geckos, bugs, cats, cows,
waterbuffalo, spiders--all of them hide in the shade somewhere

only the moto drivers
boil in the heat

still

in twos and threes, helmets dark
broiling, hungry, shimmering in the hot dust

still

coffee boy serves me with hard eyes
punch dagger scar under the jaw

reading the old zen poems
monkey wails, bamboo cracking, ice in the snow

lonely snowbound cries

the book my brother gave me on the subway in NYC more than ten years ago
white cover now aged. used. a million thumbprint, dust-stains. the gold-leaf title just a faint shimmer

the poems
make me miss the cold countries

a post-it with the name and phone number of a double-amputee journalist
(now with a push-bike, selling books on the street... in *this* heat.)

(he showed me his press pass. sure they can be faked. but here, fake is real, real is fake. soon, pbroheil (maybe) I too will have one.)

the post-it
bookmarking page 158:
Betsugen Enshi: (1294-1364)
                        "old bones jut angularly thin as kindling
                          fame is nothing one can keep for long--
                          A hundred years of light and dark before we reach
                                   the end"

here
under the fan blowing hot
air like sugarcane and sweat

another post-it (Bakang Clinic)
bookmarking page124:
Chen Shidao: (1052-1102)
                            "It is when we are near the end of a book that we enjoy it
                             Guests who we anxiously expect often fail to come
                 So the world always runs contrary to our wishes
       How rarely in a hundred years do we open our hearts!"

there--
a thousand dusty red incense sticks stick from a cup
bloom like broom reeds from cat-bowl stained-old flaked-paint porcelain

the gold and red spirit house
squat
humble

used
on a concrete slab

now back in my room
listening to G's Astrozombies, Artemis, Cloudless, Tatiana
pic of roxy w/ a camel in rajasthan, pics of babyfest '09 up on the rattan next to hanging laundry

the heat fades
leaving only

the cold, hard desire
for snow
for sunsets

strange how one can miss the smell of gunpowder
how
military metal frozen like ice on the screen

yesterday eating loc lak with one of the guys
he sees the tanks on the screen
childlike delight on his face

the television of course is saying something reassuring

'those tanks america? who make?'
'no. those tanks. chinese tanks.'

Tienanmen tanks. same kind. big white numbers on the side.

he exudes pride
as he throws a chickenbone to the pillow
for the kitten
to gnaw on

lost in thought, his eyes lost on the dream of war on the screen
the chickenbone sits abandoned on the pillow
bits of gore/oil
soaking into the green fabric

still