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Tim with the yello scooter - a poem

Take the good with the bad.
10/28/09
By: Will Jackson

Ol' Tim walked with a limp,
said he got if from breaking horses
back in his day.

swearing it was Sinclairs fault, tim said,
son of a bitch didn't tighten my saddle right,
damned horse nearly dragged me a mile.

Tim loved talking about those things.
He lived in the old Hollywood hotel
about three buildings down from mine.

The boys from the Hollywood hotel would
walk all around my parking lot,
with their cups of drink and looks of defeat.

Tim had a gnarly scar beneath his left eye,
real deep, looked like it hurt.
How'd you get that one, I asked,

Oh man, this big boy named Tim too
caught me messing around with his sister,
and well, he beat the life out of me.

He hobbled over to my desk and leaned in
pulling his eyelid down exposing the red, and said,
Tim was a big sucker, real athletic, a delinquent marine.

He beat me down and then told me to get up, he said,
and I did, and then I laid one right on his jaw.
Tim's eyes were wide, I always get mine, he said.

Gotta get it in where you can, I said.
Yea, but you know the crazy thing, Tim said,
that very next morning my income check came it.

Aint that something, I said,
you gotta take the good with the bad I guess,
said Tim, and then he hobbled right out into the sun.

as he was leaving he said, aint been to jail yet,
hope I never have to go either.
Good with the bad, I thought, and waved him out the door.

Meeting up with Christian

Unedited, first draft - for fun.

I felt fucking warm this morning. The rays were shooting through my blinds and onto my naked body as soon as they made their way around the south end of my building. It felt nice as I grabbed handfuls of sheet beneath me and shoved them away. I was warm, for once in a long time.

I think that it may have been the absence of her body beside me. My legs were allowed movement during the night and that felt nice. I could kick and run and flail throughout the darkest times of night and could do so without the slightest or smallest sound or movement aside me. Again, I felt good. Relaxed. Ready.

This morning was to be a grand one and not due souly to my morning greet from warm sun. A true smile slid over my face. I was to be visited by my friend Christian, a gifted sculpture maker and thinker of fine thoughts. We had gone to school together, lived in a myriad of homes and apartments, and grown into the men we are today all due to the experiences we had shared. He was a few years younger than I and had grown into a fine round form over the years. When last I had seen him his dirt blonde hair was scattered in all directions and his cheeks had been much more rosy than I remembered. You see, we don't really get to see each other that ofter, Christian, Clay, Evan, or any of us fine minds of the OTN. Secret. Special. Supreme.

OTN was a group that, in fact, did not fit into the criteria of a group at all. There was no selection or stipulations at all. This group was based on happenstance and the now. We were joined be a common understanding of life and love and happiness and misery and heartache and want and need and grime and grit and rainbows and color and the like. OTN was infamous in life and even more infamous in our minds eyes.

The telephone rang about ten thirty that sun kissed morning and I ran on tip toes clothed only in a simple brown towel to receive the caller

. “Hello, this is William.” my voice crackled in want of a morning cigarette.

“Yea, hey, ummm...Will.” The static sounded and I knew it must be Christian. It seemed that no matter how nice a device he bought his words always found static and hung tightly to it. Classic.

“Brother! How goes it, how far out are you?” I was excited, it had been far too long since the potato gun incident.

“About fifteen, maybe twenty man. Did you get the wine and provisions?” the static soared and I laughed softly to myself.

“Gottem mate. Now get your ass here. Just come in the front, it's unlocked.”

I had the wine and beer and cheese and peanuts and mota and pencils and charcoal and pads of paper and a small can of olives and the last bit of Nejames Basil and Garlic crackers id been saving all laid out for the day. The plates and knives and napkins and smoking devices were already packed neatly into my grandmothers picnic basket that she had left me upon her departure from the living world. What else? I thought as I stood up looking at the array of items in front of me, all laid out on my light green kitchen table; another of my mothers found object furniture creations. Finally I said, fuck it and just crammed it all into the basket and then taking the worn, dark brown handles in hand and pulling them upward towards one another until they clicked, I placed it by the door and waited for my friend.

Christian came barging through my door about an hour later. Always late and always awesome. His heavy body came in with large arms full of booze, scraps of metal, a seemingly heavy-as-hell piece of iron that resembled a loaf of bread, and some other stringy types of things. The sun that was still ruling all things outdoors sparkled behind him and cast a great big shadow of his presence.

“My man!” I shouted at the site. “Drop that shit and get in here.” my arms were already extended and I took bare footed steps towards my old friend.

We gathered all the things he had brought and laid them in front of my fireplace to the right of my television where an old Mark Gonzales video part soared on the television. I believe it was from his days when he was sponsored by Plan B skateboards. The good ol days, I thought.

Christian immediately took his shoes off and followed me into the living room. I had already been smoking and he followed suit with a large toke from the hollow glass siloh donning the coffee table atop a Lillian Bassman photo book.

“So, how was the drive, that old truck of yours still holding to the road?” I asked, carefully examining the metal loaf in my hands.

“Same ol my friend. Although it seems that my struts are giving in the the wear a bit now. Shouldn't be that hard to fix.” His eyes never fixed on me yet flowing over my entire home taking it all in.

“Sounds good man, now, let me get some clothes on.”

I had moved into the old house on Willow Street about three months before he had phoned and said he was going to be swinging through me area. The rent was cheap and the neighbors left me be with my tinkers and writing and music making. It was a quaint little one bedroom two bath which never seemed to make sense to me. But who was I to complain having never taken an architectural course.

The sight of an old friend can do wonders to someone who is working through a massive depression and living on wine and cigarettes as daily sustenance. That was me, over her and over life. Living to write and never finish a thing.

Chilling in Europe

-comprised of statements heard in the background-

Let's just move to Amsterdam.
Tried it, HELL NO!
They just think they are
better than everybody,
because basically half
their country is underwater.
Been there for a while.

10/24/09

GRRRR....

I WANNA JUMP. GET HIGH

SLAP VENUS AND GRAB TITS

LIKE VOLLEYBALLS, OR ORANGES.

BIGGER EN HELL, GOD DAMN.

BUT REALLY, IF WE'RE TALKING

ABOUT REALLY REALLY REALLY

IMPORTANT THINGS, AND OTHERS

THAT AREN'T;

I WAS LISTENING TO THESE KIDS

TALK AND TALK AND TALK

AND SNOT WAS DRIPPING,

DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP.

LIKE, GOD DAMN

THAT SHIT GETS ANNOYING

AFTER A BIT MAN. BUT REALLY

AS LONG AS I CAN JUMP,

EDDIE VAN HALEN JUMP HUMP

GET UP GET UP.

YOU KNOW I'M SAYING?

HOW MANY SHOE STRINGS

CAN HOLD MY FEET TO THE GROUND?



GRAB HOLD.

THIS FLIGHT.

IS BOUT.

TO TAKE.

THE FUCK.

OFF!

On the serious...

Im just curious as to how many times I, we, everyone, checks their email/myspace/facebook a day. It has to be something crazy like 20 or more times a day, on days allotting time for such superfluous checking. This just struck me as odd because I too check my internet homes often and began to notice the daily regulars and their times of self lurkery. Thats right, self lurkery. Our society has deemed it okay to lurk oneself. I think it is necessary for self descovery, but to continually update yourself and your identity souley to attract attention to an otherwise empty life is simply brilliant on our corporate/independent leaders part. We have all easily fallen into the process of becoming digital and diagnosed by our own peers. Check and make sure your status is reflecting the TRUE you, and that your "about me" is actually what you are about. Please do not be vague, interesting, funny, kind, cool, aloof, anything...its more attractive to keep yourself in the box and at arms leangth with the latest trends, it could really bail you out if ever there was a class war; because class, as it used to be, is dead. 

The children out there are growing with their face on the internet from day one. Parents are showing them off on their "space", they are shoving their unknowing children into the den of decadent judgment without the child even being aware of his own toes. This is a slander to the idea of human connection. Sure, we can sit in front of a computer and "connect" with our peers and others at the stroke of a few keys, but can we even imagine the thought of human connections beginning without these boxes we stare into. Its hard I know. 

basically i just cant get into how people drive around here. i mean, i drive a 1997 toyota pick up truck, and yes it does have some trouble kicking it up steeper hills than most cars; but at least i know how to AT LEAST go the fucking speed limit. it just seems like the folks, and i use that word in extreme locational meaning, around here are too preoccupied with whats on their grocery list, or who their cousin is fucking to actually drive their vehicle at a proper speed. its not like there are people living in the same area with actual schedules to uphold. GOD FORBID. Alas, i am where i am and in that am slave to the habitual stupidity that in inherent to the area. FOLKS are just slower here (in ways so much further than their cars), more willing to be late on account of nothing. ahhh, at least there are escapes in life. the little things that get us through the days. skateboarding, art, MUSIC (who knows where i'd be without this one), friends, family, etc. i guess it just pays to be patient and vent when necessary. VENT VENT VENT VENT! so much causes a woe to come down on us, but we must push on, kick the shit out of it, knock some teeth out, and leave that woe down and dirty with it's tighty whities wrenched up and over it's head. YOUR'RE OUTTA HERE! 

But seriously, drive better people. It's ridiculous. 

Every error

It takes time to worry. How about not. How about turning off the "worry" zone and grabbing hold of the "now" zone. What is happening now that is making sense? Where are you? Who exactly are you with? These are all valid areas to explore in thought instead of creating fictional realms where God knows what is happening. Let us not worry as much, a hard statement indeed, yet a even harder action. To worry is programed within us from birth, through experience it is logged and noted by the brain daily, and it jolts involuntarily throughout our mind frame at an unthinkable speed; rather hard to dodge indeed. However, these little moments when we realize what we are festering on, what is making us drudge up these old memories only to allow ourselves to create new, speculative and bothersome, images in our minds can be quickly averted. Simply grab hold, shake your head, spout what words are needed to reach reality and move forward. Simply put, there is just too little time left to worry. Act accordingly based on what it is that surrounds you, truths you can feel, see, and hear for yourself; not those things you can not, and have no control, over. There is where you get yourself in trouble. Isn't it interesting how we allow ourselves to behave differently based solely on these preconceived notions and incomplete information we store within our own mixed up psyche. Allowing oneself to dwell or boil over a "memory" that is fully based on previous experience or heard accounts and statements is ludicrous, it is not a memory it is a worry. And it is made by the human interior. The self. The mind. The insecurity that hides within us all.