my worksheet 5-7-20

im trying to write lists
my problem is whenever i attempt this
its easier to write it out
like a poem
that isnt a poem
and most list ideas
never connect
directly with me

make a plan to decrease the clutter what can i sell or give away
this isnt difficult to do
all my jewelry tools
my little table
my wheeled cart
i want it to all go away
i don’t need the space
i want the space
i want to see lots of empty space
in my writing room
for some reason
i think it will make me a better
i want the chair from the van
i think it would nice to sit on in my writing room

now i want to write a poem about
my writing room
how many lives it lived before
i now sit in here and write
nothing old but new
retaining the old rug
stained in paint hues
we are to focused on saving our money
then to spend it
to buy a new carpet
i like seeing where ive been before
in my past
but moving forward.

-my writing desk

shy of 28 inches deep.
60 inches long.
4 legs at each corner.
minimalistic open design.
29 inches high.
in the corner of my writing room.
a modem/wi-fi router.
1 40 inch smart tv as a monitor
dangles 4 post-it notes on the bottom edge
acting like a hanger.
1 back scratcher.
1 box of tissues.
1 box of G-2 pilot bold blue refills.
1 small plastic bottle of eyeglass cleaner.
1 small black stapler.
1 crossed-hatched metal pen and pencil holder.
1 glacier-point, red water bottle.
1 thirstystone slice-of-a-slab water sucking coaster.
the remote and my dish hopper.
3 to-do lists
printed on vertically-folded-in-half-paper.
variable strengths of dark chocolate opened
in hanging tinfoil wrangled wrappers.
1 opened round tin of book darts darting.
1 4 inch square lint-free cloth cleaner.
1 orange glo highlighter.
2 pilot g-2 bold blue pens extended.
1 normal sized sharpie marker.
a photographers lens brush and blower.
clear ‘scotch’ tape in its own dispenser.
my cell phone wrapped up in the ottobox defender.
1 5″ x 7″ notebook opened.
1 black fake 3″ x 3-1/2″ field-notes lay ruffled.
more pale yellow post-it notes
stuck on top like sticky suckers.
on the right side corner
another water wicking stone coaster.
2 piles of 8 books of poetry by other authors.
some scrap paper.
at the back right edge lie
2 recipes that i plan to make sometime.
1 computer keyboard lies
slanted on top of it all
besides my thin rubberized pad
where a mouse on top, nervously nibbles.

my keyboard shelf
    slips out from below 
    and there sits
    1 royal typewriter 
    where I can ignore screen glow.

and this
is where i have the daily privilege
of being a word blacksmith
hammering miniature letters into paper

(personal notes on the poem above.
now that i have written something like this
i have no desire to write a short story.
i know now where i have landed.)

there is this old strange creepy wierd guy in the neighborhood who is a tinkerer and inventer/wierd scientist, etc some younger kids in the neighborhood think hes from the future. the kids break or sneak into to his workshop behind his house – no they discover a tunnel in the bushes/trees by this guys old house and it leads to his secret lab/work shop and the find this old machine there that have several seats in it. they all hope in and turn it on but nothing happens. they see this strange like bird device with two seats in it and they think its a lame attempt at making a plane but when they get in and turn it on, nothing happens until that activate the lever that flaps the wings and they barley move it and they begin to rise off the ground. they don’t know it but they just discovered an anti-gravity machine. the wings are made of material that reflect the forces of gravity. this is a great idea because i get to do the dungeon crawl/tunnell thing along with the anti-gravity machine thing.
what goes wrong?
they almost get found out
they crash./ruin the machine
or maybe nothing: they just have a fun time just flying around one night under a bright full moon.

opposite of watered down; as in:
my coffee was watered down
opposite is not strong coffee but:
my coffee was milked down

so the opposite of a watered down coffee
is a milked down coffee

i like my coffee weak with milk
i like the sound of that line
maybe i need to work on a poem about coffee.

maybe making it more poetic:
i like my coffee weak with cow juice
that’s just stupid
remember above all is write it clean, clear and simple

i want a typewriter

I had six or maybe seven or eight of them at one time. When I used to collect them. Slowly I got rid of them, something today i regret.

I was fine with my word processor except it’s to easy to fix and patch broken sentences and wrecked words. I want a typewriter so I get only one shot at writing and that’s it. What you type is what you get unless you re-type everything over again.

i have been workin’…

i have been cooking up a sci-fi or fantasy or maybe one of each, story.
Here are the WIP’s of poems I’m working on, very rough and they all need to be expanded and trimmed along with better words chosen.

-old tractor
old tall frail skinny farmer
riding a tall rusty red tractor
thin hard tires
going along
as if asthmatic
tractor coughing up black lung
poor black woman
soaked of silent remorse
sweat soaked
clothes across
the clothes board grinding out all
hot sunned
works of days past

-ice cream
white vanilla
sweet n creamy
silky sweet
creamy & cold
as shivering skin
and loud as
chattering teeth

I love the sound of paper
i think there should be an
instrument made of this

feeling the cool
breeze across
a freshly mowed

-Boyd & Wurthman

-leaky roof
drips in my bucket
natures metronome
as i sit
and tap out a rythym
on the dinning room table.

my bad work i did on monday

Monday, an hour before noon
and this is when I begin?
I know I need to read
but I also need to write
writing is the most important
but I want to write about
happy things
ice cream
I want to write
or maybe a black out poem
I need newspapers
with a good Tombow marker
and go to town
and start redacting
all the good stuff
that should be left in
lots of money
it can’t buy happiness
it sure can rent a lot of it
is it impossible to write
something pretty?
why do we end up
writing about the
the down trodden
we are supposed to write
something bad
do some work that is
and sad
and down and depressed
but i don’t want to
i want to write what is
and full of grace
and love
and yet it all
escapes me
I’m supposed to write something
horrible, something bad
do bad art
that sounds liberating
i like the concept
of bad
bad work
it feels like it’s sitting
next to me
starring over my shoulder
bad art
it’s to easy
no not easy enough
just words
that aren’t
not that it matters
just write the stuff
and leave it behind
and then forget it
this is my goal today
to do what Sol Lewitt
wrote in his letter to
Eva Hesse
i will sum it
abreviate it for you
do bad art
so bad that all
that is left
is nothing but
cleanse yourself
of all the bad crap
and just write
i love writing like this
roaming like a wild tiger
munching the daises
i feel like i have to
share everything with
my dad and that i
shouldn’t have to
but he wants to know
what i was reading
he wants to read the
but i know he won’t like it
no matter what
then he’ll turn around and
judge me
i told you so
i said
but by then it won’t matter
no matter how hard i try
to justify it for myself
it’s easier just to keep
it all to


and keep going
instead of trying to
block out
all of the negative words
of judgement
and yes i know we all
can have our opinion
and i can ignore
and take action
about it
about the ignoring
and the snoring
of everyone sleeping
through this
not that any of this matters

i like everything in verse
everything short
to the point
like i always have
and i’m always so
ti red
it’s no wonder i can’t write
so bad writing i shall
and do it well then
it will stop being
bad art and be
something worthwhile reading
something great
everyone can write bad
if they put enough of effort
into it
even i can and it doesn’t
matter one way or the other
but deep down i wish it
would matter

dad is here now
to check his email
and use my internet
talking about finding
another Starbucks
at the university
he thinks it’s open
to the public
but we could never
find it
because it’s inside
the buildings and
you can’t get inside
we never could
we: my wife and I
but that’s just us
and I’ll see if it’s only
because we don’t
have the credentials
about what is going on around us
and maybe i need to get this
out of my system
i will see if i can get to
any good stuff down the road
in another path
i think dad will be in
for a rude awakening
i think it’s only for the students
but we will see if it is
don’t really care
one way or the other
right now.
it’s good I ate what I
did, i think he is trying
to get some free lunch
and i’ll have to prop
my head up
and pretend i’m writing
again. making up works
no matter how hard i have
to fake this i have to get t
through this.

loud clickity typewriter sound
for my computer keyboard
like a miniature woodpecker
plastic clicks echo the work
louder the clicks
larger the words
hearing more letters
project from the screen

i find i get ideas for
my poems by reading
other poems by
charles bukowski
skipping most of his
potty mouthed foul words
in search of better ones
lost in the crossword
in my keyboard.
maybe i do like my
it is writing in stealth mode
instead of something loud
and obnoxious in the 1980’s
where everyone heard
your word count out loud

quiet keyboard
allows me to be
the spy
i never was
my childhood dream
of being the spy i never was
quietly typing
the words
that will expose
everyone i mention
the crooks who
almost got away

-a poem about spring

yellow limy glowing tree leaves
baby leaves

fresh cool air
low humidity

sounds of birds chirping
cardinals (red wings dot my lawn)

budding flowers; not yet open
smell of sugar

soft quiet rain


low humidity air
filtered by the misty rain
glowing green
baby leaves sprouting
flower buds smell
of sweet sugar cane

red cardinals chirping
bouncing on a branch near by

i have this blog so i might as well use it

i wanted to ignore this
to move on and not use this
blog of mine
but then i realized
i have this so i might as well
use it
if for nothing else
than to write words in it
at least show up and
i was motivated to really get
back to writing
after i read the letter
Sol Lewitt wrote to
Eva Hesse
way back then
about doing bad art
and not worrying about anything else
but doing bad art
not impressing anyone
not even yourself
but to make something bad
enjoy it because it will
bre ak
up your inability to create
when you have no care in the world
about what you make
you must come to grips
that it won’t matter either way
to press on to
to make bad words
that do not fit
no matter how hard you try
to put the tractor into the
pickle jar
don’t you know silly
you first have to eat all the
then the jar will be void
of all things pickles
except the smell
of tractor grease and dill
oh the thrill
of knowing what you did
to get the tractor mixed in
with the dill
un till
the cows come home
and that’s when you realize
the tractor is in the pickle jar

Old man and his 9 year old

Back, humped
leaning toward the 9-year-old
in the coffee shop.

This morning they are having
communication issues.

9-year-old: rebellious:
doesn’t want to do what the old man asks of him.

Old man insists:
he is not over asking of his 9-year-old.

Old man: circles the ring,
trying different angles.
9-year-old: stiffens
pricks like a thorn in his flesh.

Old man: had ENOUGH.
twisted face stands up
dumps his half-filled coffee in trash
wedges his 9-year-old
in his bag, stomps ou

What I Wrote Today on 2/14/20

1004 It’s Friday and I want to flight sim (flight sim/simming is the act of using flight simulation software on one’s computer to simulate any phases of flying an aircraft.) instead of writing. Why? Because I don’t believe that I’ll ever get paid to write anything. And because of that belief it doesn’t matter what I do any day of the week. So this should be very freeing in the fact that I can do anything I want any day of the week as long as I don’t have to spend money on it. I told my wife happy valentine’s day.
1049 What could I write right now?
Grab a story prompt and go from there.
Write about me being alone for four nights while my wife is gone.
Write about my relationship with my dad. (Do I really want to do this? I don’t think so.)
Write some poetry.
I’m thinking the reason I don’t really WORK at writing is because I don’t want to be a writer. I really want to be an abstract expressionist painter. I just can’t do that now because I don’t have any money. I’m writing because I don’t have any money and it’s very inexpensive to do. Yes, I always want more writing books, but I checked my Kindle this morning and I have tons of books on how to write and a few in physical form on my bookcase. My wife supports me, she’s the one with the 9 to 5 office job so I can write anything I want all day long. Maybe I need to keep reading until I figure out what I want to write about.
1120 I need to be a better person. Don’t get angry about anyone. Quit stewing and fussing about how it didn’t go my way. Be more attentive in conversations unless they are about politics then you can ignore those. Politics does nothing but waste your time unless of course you’re trying to run for office and/or you work in politics then pay attention because that’s your job. Incline to lean toward peace.
I look at the clock and 1130 is approaching and then noon is next and that’s when I get my groceries from Walmart is being delivered. I’m excited because I have goodies coming. I like eating goodies.
1141 Maybe I’m not a writer. I find myself always tired and draggy. I’m probably eating to much sugar. I was awake again  last night from 0200-0430 until I was able to fall asleep until I awoke at 0707. I’m glad I was able to get the extra sleep but as I type I drift off as my head nods down.
1336 I know I need conflict in my stories. I need to read books where conflict is not violent. All I can ever think of when it comes to conflict are vehicle accidents and I hate it! Maybe, the reason why I hate it so much is because it’s a constant fear of mine. I’m tired, so tired of always being afraid. I remember being afraid when I was little and I thought I would just wake up one day, older and over it. One morning I got out of bed and at the time I was in my young thirties and I realized then I’m still afraid of stuff. I’m afraid of the dark. I need to visit a shrink and talk it over. I would, but I don’t want to take the money, money that should be going into my savings and spending it talking to a shrink.
1413 I’m pretty sure I have the world’s most unusual weird job. I listen for alien communications. I’m not making this up. There is an undisclosed location far removed from any trace of humanity. A lone 1000 sq. ft. building with a flat black roof with five large satellites and if that isn’t enough another eight satellites that sit on 100′ towers surrounds the grounds. They do have open elevators in the middle of the A-frame that goes to a tiny railed off platform at the top in case I would need to go out there to fix anything. Let me tell you it’s a bit creepy at 3 a.m. I wish there would be two of us stationed together but that would cost the company to much money. They can only afford one of us. The day job is bad enough but at night, especially when the moon is less than a quarter sliver, it’s a bit unnerving to say the least.

One night after being on the job for only 3 days or in this case nights. I about had a heart attack when I heard a racket like non other. It appeared to be coming from the roof. I grabbed our rubber pellet shotgun and headed for the stairs only to find two of my coworkers banging on trashcans and the door. When they saw the look on my face, they doubled over slapping themselves silly. I thought they were going to pass out due to the uncontrollable fit of laughter. I let them know they almost got their butts full of rubber pellets. I was tempted to shoot them anyway but I didn’t want to get fired, so I let it go.

(notes: we have an infrared drone that sits on the roof, ready to fly at a moment’s notice in case we need “eyes” when were to scared to go out there ourselves.)

I remember now what I’ve been wanting to write: a pick your option/paragraph solo adventure! Now, that’s exciting. Another thing I could write about is for RPG’s. I could write my own no magic fantasy RPG. Nothing where you would have to first “clean up” – it would be family fun out of the box!

The Words I Wrote 021320

I’m frazzled and all I did was get out of bed this morning. I’m fifty-four years old, with the emphasis on old. I don’t sleep well a lot of nights. Let me take that back, I sleep well when I sleep. Most nights I’m wide awake from four to six in the morning. I find myself sleepy, I close my kindle app and put my phone down. It takes another hour for me to fall asleep, only to have my alarm wake me at 7:30 a.m. Why don’t you take a nap? You ask. I would but whenever I do I feel I’m about on the edge of a panic attack for the rest of the day and I feel weird and off until the next day. So I’d rather just fight sleep the whole day and hope for a better night in the future.
I want to write flash fiction again. I need to make an effort and work on this. I want to video game the day away, because I don’t believe in myself enough. I don’t believe that I can make money writing. So why bother? I might as well play video games, both are useless in the long run. Writing feels like the more adult thing to do. There are plenty of gamers out there who make good money playing video games on YouTube and Twitch TV. I don’t have a good enough computer and I don’t want to give up my evenings. I would have to game from about 8 pm to midnight or later. I used to. I streamed on Twitch during the day and I didn’t do well. To be fair I didn’t try it long enough. One of my online gamer friends told me that I would need to do this for a year. I bored myself out of it, in far less than a year. I’m not sure I’m willing to give up my evenings, it’s the only time my wife and I spend time together. I’ve got to find another way. Most flash fiction I hate. It feels like prose poetry.
I’ve read multiple times, if you’re a beginner writer you should write about the things that anger you. I didn’t think I had anything that angered me. Until I saw the new TV show last night, For Life. It went to the top of the list for me. It’s a brilliant piece of work with a powerful cast and writing. I told my wife if I could write one fourth that good I would feel pleased with myself. That show answered my question. What angers me? Injustice! I need to write about injustice. Not sure how to go about it but I feel I’ve got something to focus on.
I won’t be buying any more art supplies unless several conditions are met:
1. I sell art. If that happens I will allow myself to buy other art supplies to continue.
2. Once we get three months of expenses in savings. Then I will budget a set amount of money each month for art supplies. The amount must be agreed upon by my wife and I.
I’m lethargic. I place my elbow on my keyboard’s wrist pad and let my head topple over and rest in my hand. I want to take a nap so bad. I contemplate on lying down on the couch and reading from my Kindle. This text is blurry. I’ve got to do something very soon.
1137 I’ve decided from now on I will time stamp every entry I write something. This will be my local time, east coast. I want to do this in hopes to see a pattern. When do I write the most and the best during the day? And any other information that I may deem to be important to me.
I came back from stretching out on the couch. I dozed for several seconds and now I feel a lot better. Better, to the point of caring about writing and wanting to write again. This feels good. There are some things that came to me while dozing on the couch: photographer Sally Mann, going through my do later web links. I’m very interested in reading more. I must not forget injustice. I admit that wanting to write about injustice overwhelms me a bit. I’m also reminded that I need to believe in myself. I am a writer. I can be a writer. I really do want to be a writer. Actually, I am a writer. I am financially supported.
By the way I’m dyslexic. I like brevity and to the point. I’m fickle to the Nth degree. Because of this, I think I should be a poet. It feels good not playing video games again. Writing give me more self-worth than I care to admit.
1331 She reaches up with her hand, face skyward
car horn honking
tires skidding on gravel
the sound of a tiny thud
a short scream
the girl lies motionless
driver in shock
all was still
except the butterfly who flew away.

This is What I Wrote 021220

The day is almost over and Lillie will be coming home and I’ve got nothing to show for today.

I joined a lot of writing groups on Facebook. I’m hoping that will help but I know I need to show up and do the work. That’s the part that scares me. It’s so difficult to write when you have nothing to write about. Most of my topics and ideas I always talk myself out of because I tell myself no one will care and that probably is correct but I need to not care about that and write about it anyway. If I don’t I’m gaurenteed to never be a writer. I need to press on and keep reading no matter how bored and tired I get.

The thought of collecting typewriters came back to me today. Well, not collecting but buying only one for now to get started and go from there. I’m pretty sure I talked myself out of it again. I do like typewriters but in today’s modern age of the internet you need to get your work out for the option of getting it read by the public and the typewriter creates an extra difficult step: scanning. If you don’t do any OCR conversion then everything you put on your blog is an image. You can’t search on it not that I know of. So it’s better to stay with the computer/wordprocessing and be done with it. I find I can writer better anyway on my wordprocessor than I can a typewriter. The typewriter slows me down to much. I love the feel of my soft touch keyboard attached to my computer. I’m due for a new keyboard soon, some keys are getting stickier by the month. I don’t want to spend any money on typewriters anyway when I’d rather buy art supplies and paint again.

I want to paint small abstracts. Newspaper collage glued on artist paper. I would love to get a sheet of 300 lb 20×30 hot press and cut them up in 5″ x 7″ sheets. I could get sixteen of them out of one sheet. Watercolor on top and just crank these out and sell them for $15 including shipping/packing to anywhere in the lower 48 states.

Writing is more frustrating than gaming all day but it feels like eating high quality food than junk food. That’s ok, right now, neither matters but down the road it’s bound to make a difference. This is what I tell myself anyways.

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