February 5, 2010-February 7, 2010

February 1, 2010-February 4, 2010

January 25, 2010-January 31, 2010

January 22, 2010-January 24, 2010

Ben:  Together in the car we drove, inspired, and listening to all those melodies that came from the radio, pretending each was our own, and dedicated to our happiness. 

(Photo by: Gabby)

Ben:  Haiku of the day:

The blue open sky,

The specs of white that are stars,

In between--we are. 

"Do you ever look up, stare, and figure you know something about the shapes stars make?"  "I figure I know as much as any one.  And there's times, when it's something late, and when I figure everyone in the world is asleep but me, that I think I know a bit more; but never any less."  It was sad then, watching as he paused, looked up towards the sky, took a deep breath, and then shoved his hands deep into his pockets.  He came down and then said, "Some times I see those shapes; especially on those clear nights.  But it's then I realize, they're only planes mistaken for stars.  And it's then I worry for all poets and writers."  "Why's that?"  "Think of all the poetry and little stories written in dedication to the stars and heavens; but only to have been inspired by some hunk of flying metal.  It's sad as hell; I'll tell you that much.  I hate thinking about it; but some days, when it gets real late, I can't help it, and then I lose a whole night over it."  "Try not to think about it."  "It's hard as hell not to.  For god's sake, it's happening as we speak."  There was a bit of me, somewhere deep down and that was probably larger than I'd like to admit, that knew he was right.

Ben:  There, where I stood, and off down the way the sound and fury of no whim, but the shot-gunning of a beater's tailpipe that, when it did, startled me round and in the direction it came; it cried out once more and I jumped a bit.  Its back window was down and from it let loose a grouping of balloons, red, yellow, blue, and the clear kind; they untangled then, separated, and flew off, rising upwards towards the heavens, or a place like it.  One, caught by a taller tree's outstretched limb, wrapped itself tightly round the strained bark, seemed to shiver, and then capitulated and burst outward, exploding into a thousand small, shriveled, rubber puzzle pieces that'll never come together again, and where, if they did, at the foot of that strained tree, they would lay with the discarded cups that came rolling by, dirtied and stained by the coffee that once filled them, and where they'd bump and hop along and over the cobblestone bricks that mingled with plastic bags turning and lifting into the air, oscillating against their will, tumbling in summersaults, dipping, diving, and cart-wheeling amongst the low hanging clouds, and only to later be caught in the grates of some sewer, or the chain-links of a dilapidated barbwire fence.  

January 20, 2010-January 21, 2010

Ben:  It is my worry, and my great concern that lies in and for those who are so incredibly desensitized that they are more appalled by those certain biological acts that (we) are intrinsically compelled to engage in, rather than those apparent evils that occupy presuppositions, those misconceptions that are prevalent and that are running rampant, and the great apathy that seems to plague our youth and the current generation; it is my great concern that we no longer appreciate free-thought, and/or the free-will that lends itself to the freedom of production (whether it be art or any of its derivatives), and no longer have the capacity to empathize.  Amid decay, poverty, and the broken hearted, there is no room for the "blind", or the "deaf". 

Ben: I poured myself out for her, and she looked to me and said, "Do what makes you happy."  The torn and broken manifestation that pulled at my face, and that furrowed my brow, was then  swept away, effortlessly, by her kind and endearing words.  "Do you mean: Dance, and then frolic about before tumbling and then summersaulting amongst a frenzy of stardust and glitter that I so happen to be in possession of, by the handful?"  "Exactly; and I will fully support you in your decisions."

January 01, 2010-January 19, 2010

Ben: Haiku of the day:

There was a heaping,

Strewn multitude of garbage,

Gathered, thrown away.

...And I walked through all that lay by the side of which most like to think as nice, lovely, and inspiring, but wondered then: How is it, so much is wasted, left to decay, left to be picked up later and then thrown some place other, and to waste and decay only in some other forgotten, walked by location, where birds come, bugs too (the type with wings, and the type minus of all presumptions) that then pecked away at, all in the hopes of tasting something better, and which will then sit awhile before conjuring the notions of sour, bitter, and the flavors that bite a bit more than the rest.

Ben: Haiku of the day:

I watched as she left,

Closing the door behind her,

Not before smiling.

"Go back to sleep," she said, "and so you won't make it so hard to leave."

Ben: A man yelled out from the terrace he perched atop, "Hello, neighbor! How are you?" And the woman who, while crossing the street, carried a bag full of assorted groceries, knickknacks, brushes, and paper-towels, replied, "Surviving; and you?" The man then leaned over the railing and smiled and said, "God is good; and so have no complaints." She then said, "Amen!" He waved as she continued on. "God bless you," he finally said and while he kept a keen eye on her backside and the progress she made down the puddle-ridden street. He spit then from where he was, and all that had come out fell flat that made the sound of a splat. I didn't know much about God, religion, or spitting from high up, but I did have an idea about the way the man watched the lady from where he was, paying close attention to her backside; and it didn't sit right with me, really.

Ben: ...And there was a bird, perched on a branch above, mouthing "tweet-tweet," but nothing came when it did, even so, it kept right on, mouthing that silent "tweet-tweet" song and then shuddering slightly, ruffling its feathers before settling down and taking the branch it had strongly between its feet.

Ben: Haiku of the day:

Through all the hazes,

Through all the fog and rain drops,

I found an Angel.

"When you're left asking, 'How'd litter get there?' You know it was a good birthday."

Ben: On this day of birth I am reminded of something I put down on paper, maybe a year back; and it was something that looked and read like this: A life goal, well, to be honest...to continue populating galaxies of my creation at a faster rate than god, which at first sounds more ambitious than it is. As a judgmental atheist, I should really find some better competition...and every story I finish writing is an accomplishment, not that my fiction is great or anything, but they are little worlds I create on a monthly basis. In that sense, I am populating galaxies, poorly or not, at a faster rate than god." I'm reminded of this, and I'm not sure why, and I'm not sure in what context it was written, but it always amused me; and I enjoy amusement.

Ben: Haiku of the day:

Our bodies as one,

We were lost in each other,

Kissing, breathing hard.

She looked at me and said, not five minutes earlier, "I'll hide beneath the covers, and where you can't find me." I smiled at that, really I did. "What if there's no covers to hide under?" I asked her, and while grinning.

Ben: There's twenty-six letters, some numbers, and other characters of punctuation that I might use here, and which I normally do every other time, but now, no. I'll leave some space.

Ben: With all the things I've forgotten to say, and that are racing through my mind, I'll keep for myself, and so to keep you asking, "What's on your mind; what are you thinking?"

Ben: Onto the streets I stepped. Cars lay wayside, and a small child sat alone, crashing two toy cars into one another, while, beneath his breath, he talked to himself, and where, where there were shadows from the frozen trees above, he and the cars were surrounded by the discarded shards of glass bottles, torn rags, and empty cigarette containers; flattened leaves, too, brown and the whatever colors that emblematized the sullen, and seemingly gray tone the day had taken.

Ben: A church bell rang then, from where I don't know, somewhere in the distance and somewhere behind those houses and cafe across the way where between them were high arching trees that had their limbs outstretched, like wanting hands of children. I imagined then, where the children were, with their wanting hands, outstretched, also, was a small bit of grass, a field, where dandelions sprout, and where those children thought of them as flowers instead of weeds, and how all of that was something sweet and beautiful, them thinking that; and yet, then, all I thought of was how they were only bits of yellow pedals growing between bits of green blades; that's it. (That's a bit I might have wrote earlier, sometime ago when I didn't have much to see in things; but, now, well, I see those flowers as they are.)

Ben: The outside came like age or a sneeze or some great itch, something undeniable, and that kicks you hard and you're left to rub at it wondering how at first it was slow coming and then all of a sudden.

Ben: Haiku of the day:

"Hey, look who it is."

Becky said. And then Neil turned.

I waved, and they, too.

Ben: We woke this morning, after being stirred by the piercing sunbeams that came through the pear tree limbs and through the window panes and blinds, to the both of us smiling back at the other, our eyes meeting and softly blinking. We drew each other closer, and so our bodies met. We kissed tenderly, and I brushed what hair fell loose behind her ear and then whispered, "Good morning." "You too," she said.

Ben: I lowered my head and lit a cigarette while watching, in the cup of my hands, the incandescent glow that flickered between them. And I thought how it was like a fiery flower, that glow, and how I had it there between my cupped hand and just past the tip of my nose and where my lips puckered, all red, orange, and brilliant like. And after taking a pull and sucking in on my cheeks, gathering the smoke inside and drawing it down further into my lungs, I dropped those hands, and when I did all that red and orange went out. A church bell rang then, and I looked up.

Ben: The door stuck a bit before giving completely, and with it a gust of wind rushed by, sucked in by the house's inside, and where it then, if only for a short while, cooled the front, giving it the crisp scent of a chapped sapling's surrender to the cold and dryness of the waning season, and where its bark chipped and then cracked in the places that then would separate entirely and then flake as if shedding its skin, like snakes do, and so to breathe again, easier, and in a way that says: This is the way things work, where first there's death and then life again, and a room or house that once was white and sickly looking and feeling would then burst outwardly with color. I took a lungful of it and pushed my way through that doorway, allowing the door to freely swing shut.

Ben: It was where the shadows drew lines in the sand and dirt that mingled, and where the sand was once rock, but now, where the lines are, the sand is only sand and a million tiny pebbles laid together, hugging up on each other--the tan, the peppering black, and the white too. It was where, if you looked off a bit, the sky turned from those hazes of grey and pail blue to the best good kind of amber. It was the kind that perfectly sits, all settled on top, right where it's the furthers from you, and where there's that line that separates it, but barely, from the ground of shards and broken emerald bottles that caught the sun shinning in reflection, like jagged kaleidoscopes, sharp, and shimmering--luminous in its spectrum of color. And I thought, if there were grass, the long type--green at parts, and yellow too, and then came a gust of wind, or even a beating breeze, it would dance and beat at the foot of those permanent trees, tapping at their trunks; everything would be on fire.

Ben: ...It was the sort that left a person to sit back while watching two dragonflies make love to the barely there undulations of a slow moving river, with the small ripples and wakes, and to the swaying that came when the wind did too, and where most everything, when together and when all became one, is plainly beautiful and all thoughts of pain and suffering dissipated, as if none of it mattered then or ever. It was beautiful, and that's it.

Ben: "Take me out tonight, where there's music and there's people and they're young and alive. Take me out tonight because I want to see people and I want to see life." And I had the prettiest girl in the room in my arms, and we kissed when the ball dropped, when the hour turned twelve and when the lights seemed to dim and all that mattered was Her and I.