Nightstand Artifacts: 2.18.2014
       
     
avoiding notice.
       
     
on the days all around it and all the other days that aren't.
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.12.2014
       
     
Commingling – fills me with longing.
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.11.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.9.2014
       
     
upon arriving.
       
     
drawing lines around our language.
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.7.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifact: 1.24.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifact: 1.23.2014
       
     
I know what everyone is screaming.
       
     
Nightstand Artifact: 1.19.2014
       
     
where it lives in you.
       
     
We live in a world of broken things.
       
     
on getting tired.
       
     
lack of follow-through
       
     
Artifacts: 1.14.2014
       
     
what's worth keeping?
       
     
the incongruity
       
     
 then it was us, first, who  began to show our age.  And how do we make this appear, glamorous?  When not a single thing in the world is.  p. shaw    
       
     
third.
       
     
from the long bus ride : observations.
       
     
best laid plans OR an argument for decay
       
     
Building on White.
       
     
when
       
     
Scribbling under cover of night.
       
     
Most often though measured in days.
       
     
Photographs Run.
       
     
Within New Eras of Transmission
       
     
Too much poetry comes at the expense of variations.
       
     
supposition
       
     
from Measuring My Advance.
       
     
In tandem grief.
       
     
after a few...
       
     
Blueprint or puzzle.
       
     
 I'm afraid to touch my hand.   p. shaw
       
     
 I am filled with answers to questions no one will ever bother to ask. Not a single one  their  truth.   p. shaw
       
     
Mr. Rogers called it Make Believe.
       
     
Cleanser of Sleep.
       
     
An Inherent Mistake in Human Communication.
       
     
I didn't believe.
       
     
which trope?
       
     
Learn to use your tools.
       
     
didn't watch
       
     
when you look around... you just don't know.
       
     
Too Loud a Voice (after Hrabal)
       
     
for a man I know becoming his dreams.
       
     
He never did less than he could.
       
     
Death of Childhood.
       
     
a little from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S. pt.1
       
     
a little from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S. pt.2
       
     
More than we are given.
       
     
blank!
       
     
sticktoitness.
       
     
You look like your words.
       
     
A dedication.
       
     
About Friends.
       
     
Indirect defiance
       
     
How my dyslexia impacts my relationship with time.
       
     
How Can You Fuck a Genius?
       
     
conjunction
       
     
Another Nostalgic Metaphor
       
     
Fluffer
       
     
Our Defeat
       
     
test the limits of the world's hatred
       
     
Refuse.
       
     
Ephemera
       
     
Asking machines.
       
     
I'm always wondering what your eyes mean.
       
     
All of it is here.
       
     
Vanity
       
     
Immigrants Smoke
       
     
on Purpose
       
     
It has happened to me.
       
     
You can't own the words.
       
     
Resist the Algorithm.
       
     
 I want yours to live forever. I don't mind if mine don't. In fact, if I have to give mine up for that, myself even, I will.  p .shaw
       
     
The message is not a thing.
       
     
What you can't change is that you were undecided.
       
     
on the tips
       
     
checkout line.
       
     
checkout line. (cont.)
       
     
checkout line (cont.) Part 3
       
     
the nose.
       
     
Once on the porte cochere of the Grand Hyatt
       
     
All truth changes.
       
     
Chaos
       
     
the most important line of my CV.
       
     
Oblique Strategy for Metaphor
       
     
Dreams are the Houses of Guilt.
       
     
Duties.
       
     
Cast away your pleasantries.
       
     
Single face.
       
     
in our hearts...
       
     
Illusory.
       
     
Mynahs of Sayulita's Construction
       
     
in room full of high school jocks.
       
     
when the wish
       
     
Memorial Day
       
     
 ​More like music than writing.  Another dedication to a construct.  –p.shaw
       
     
Spit.
       
     
Proper Nouns
       
     
The Overshare...
       
     
from D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.
       
     
Let Her.
       
     
from D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.
       
     
Where to begin...
       
     
The eye follows...
       
     
Dilly Dally
       
     
After.
       
     
Mash-Up from Memory's Vault
       
     
On Me: & Why it took so long.
       
     
Smelling from here.
       
     
Weeping Willow
       
     
Korakia Pensione 2012
       
     
Driving away the customer.
       
     
Ones and Zeroes
       
     
Sick
       
     
Exterior Artifacts, Filthy & Contrary
       
     
land line
       
     
Birth of Facebook
       
     
from The Etymons
       
     
28515097-Photo.jpg
       
     
Caked on Coagulates: If a suicide had a wish.
       
     
Rising. Guising.
       
     
Olympic Peninsula in 3s
       
     
The new Your Past
       
     
Considerations that occur in my OCD.
       
     
Dirt > Olives.
       
     
Founding is not about finding.
       
     
asking to be asked.
       
     
 We are all just here laying our subjective claims.​  p .shaw
       
     
 I wonder about all I have forgotten.  I wonder if you still remember.   p. shaw    
       
     
 I love the way a good transit system cuts short a conversation. The hustle to the tunnel, or stop. The day's water-cooler version of a walk, then: "my train is this one," and the banal is left hanging in the air. Even when our shuttle's the same, close quarters are not the right environment.  p. shaw
       
     
Get-Well Schemes
       
     
 There are five of me and none of you. If we are coming to a point when we will want to make some changes, to make up for lost time, we should get started now.  p. shaw
       
     
Intimacy and Answer
       
     
Too much rush to ownership.
       
     
everything within itself.
       
     
If then they are gone what will be left to waste.​
       
     
On time.
       
     
From Sea Moon.
       
     
Thirty one of twelve, two zero, one, two:
       
     
from The Mayans Invented Quaint.
       
     
to myself.
       
     
What do you mean she's playing games?
       
     
a portion of a love letter to everyone.
       
     
 Move not toward replacing antonyms with synonyms but toward not needing to hide behind sameness.  p. shaw
       
     
after a morning of struggle.
       
     
profiting from a will.
       
     
on the occasion of a death signifying the last of a family generation.
       
     
everyone learned to keep the debilitating crying private.
       
     
synonyms for the self.
       
     
 and always the one's who were barren recommending my future hand in marriage to their nearest neighbor's young daughter, each and everyone the ugly duckling of the county.  I was no catch either mind you, most certainly not in my J.C. Penny Sunday's best that I loathed to wear and especially in the self-conscious state of glowing-red-pinch-bruised face and my shameful 70's Kansas Farmer hair cut.  Before we get to this thing I noticed about girls let me tell you two other things I am sure of, first. One I recognized at that early age and the other something that only comes in hindsight.  The first, being a son of a Baptist Minister, I knew Christians to be extremely adept liars. Especially on the subject of situations that could pave their way to the Pearly Gates. I was an ugly boy, I suspected it then and know it now. Although by comparison I may not have been too hard to look upon. Kansas, the Midwest is in general a very ugly place, full of very ugly people. Perhaps not by design, but by environment. The Heartland of America, where all bad Popular Vote policies are bred.  The term ugly American, is sadly enough used to describe our country's Aristocracy and Tourist contingent lucky enough to make it off this continent. None of which, or very few of whom ever come from Kansas. It's a sorry state of affairs that most Americans judged in this negative light are the privileged. If Europe and the world could catch a glimpse of Kansans, the term Ugly American would be lifted to new heights.   But I digress, I was ugly and so were they and my low self-esteem was my lowly state of honesty to myself and their Good Christian lying abilities were their ticket to heaven and a way of self denial.  I might have hid from my ugliness behind little self-confidence...  p. shaw
       
     
Not a Christian, not a Liar, not a K-Mart Shopper..
       
     
Variability.
       
     
Full attack!
       
     
Line Edit on The Mayans Invented Quaint
       
     
another line edit on The Mayans Invented Quaint
       
     
Gathering our ground. Laying claims.
       
     
said with cynicism: "nice piece."
       
     
run because i never did.
       
     
for Primeau: Taking notes.
       
     
the meaning.
       
     
Hoe Down!
       
     
for Maha: When the things you immerse yourself in seem too little to be living.
       
     
You can't take a vacation from yourself.
       
     
A mixed-up mediation of memory.
       
     
 I touch those words    like: pain.   I make myself remember things I know and make myself see things I was  absent for.   I am sick of absence.  p .shaw    
       
     
the nature of racist euphemisms.
       
     
 Loosen the jaw with drink  Open the craw  with think many things are easier.  p. shaw
       
     
the beginnings of nothing special.
       
     
Announcements you have to accept like a summons.
       
     
 I like to get drunk and pass out still wearing my jeans shirtless I awake feeling sexy, despite a dead animal • lying on my tongue as if I ran wild in a fantasy World.  p. shaw
       
     
 and then I have these strange little moments where I wonder if this could be my life.  p. shaw
       
     
where o' were.
       
     
On the occasion of caring little for anything other than words.
       
     
assigning values.
       
     
on the occasion of remembering (which is always) or Why Anniversaries Do Little to Assuage the Moments You Remember that Have Nothing to Do With Anything.
       
     
an another on the subject while we are at it.
       
     
An Applied Science:
       
     
from when you give yourself a special gift.
       
     
Friday is a day of vulnerability.
       
     
What's Not Left.
       
     
Can Dance pt.1
       
     
Can Dance. pt.2
       
     
Can Dance. pt.3
       
     
Lies at the expense of the self for the benefit of the others.
       
     
what I miss about my father:
       
     
 When I was a kid, I used to think about taking rocks out of circulation. When I saw one I needed to have, I would pocket it. Then later wonder where it had been and why; how it got to me; where would it go when I'm gone; and how does it feel taking a break with me?  p .shaw
       
     
of these dreams.
       
     
Getting past yesterday to get to now.
       
     
The irony of time and lack of it.
       
     
sometimes what you want is nothing.
       
     
 Because we made you uncomfortable, you are now missing who we are. That we change, and that truth to you exists in that past moment you hold onto, you will not see us. But for how you pretend we are.  p. shaw
       
     
How you fucked me up:
       
     
a report for our Mayor Mike McGinn, just in case he was wondering.​
       
     
based on a time before cellphones
       
     
Numbing the crying.
       
     
The last occurrence.
       
     
looking back...
       
     
pretty.
       
     
pretty. (cont.)2
       
     
pretty. (cont.)3
       
     
pretty. (cont.)4
       
     
always remembering a lie my friend told just to hurt me under the guise of humor.
       
     
​Until we reclaim the symbols...
       
     
it looks like so much work you make us tired just watching...
       
     
41007690-Photo.jpg
       
     
You wink well @ me...
       
     
all the deaths get mixed up and the hauntings do not correlate to a logic of time or nostalgia.
       
     
do any of you know her?
       
     
was You now Me
       
     
 Since it really isn't: Why do we try to convince one another, or ourselves, that it is easier than it really is?     p. shaw
       
     
Between the coherent pain and bliss.
       
     
 What are you doing today? Is the doing all gone or is it all doing just no difference between any days left. What is left?  p. shaw
       
     
I know enough to know.
       
     
Swing Swaying in the Breeze.
       
     
argument that leads to the arrangement.
       
     
 He could and did walk away from it, like a man leaving a horrible, ugly film that he refused to commit to memory.  p. shaw
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.17.2014
       
     
Fear and love so closely tied together.
       
     
on: not writing poetry.
       
     
I remember Belltown.
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.13.2014
       
     
 Beyond the stomach I feel I clothe my eyes and See.  She makes me see the world with more senses  beyond the stomach I feel. I can see a set of double glass doors lit with rich tungsten it's a lobby, with a gargoyle who watches who enters. His eyes glow red.  Beyond the stomach I feel there is stairs.  p. shaw    
       
     
Crossovers.
       
     
Homage to Before.
       
     
leave myself at the floor.
       
     
I have a necktie. Pt.1
       
     
some truth is:
       
     
I have a necktie. Pt.2
       
     
on the occasion of 'finishing' something years in the making.
       
     
when we began building...
       
     
I have a necktie. Pt.3
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 6.10.2014
       
     
18 miles.
       
     
but in what those words will stir within me.
       
     
 The essence defined in other's experiences who have made it to the page shaking down and out my essence before it has been truly defined.  p. shaw
       
     
Four Parts of Accepting a Past.
       
     
Where I would hide. Part 1
       
     
Where I would hide. Part 2
       
     
knowing exactly where the ring is.
       
     
Once.
       
     
doing time with Industrial Supply & Majick!
       
     
on all the hurts we never admit aloud.
       
     
ARD_8.28.2015.jpg
       
     
 I stare and envy even as other women fill my thoughts. A woman reciting a poem to me is incredible. This is a night I can live for. Does she realize how her silhouette makes me feel? The words she shares with me I hope aren't empty. And the silhouette is merely extra in her seduction.  p. shaw
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.18.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.18.2014

4:42am

I always dream of you without consequences.

p.shaw

 

avoiding notice.
       
     
avoiding notice.

I found a hair in my Chicken Fried Steak. I tried to pull it out. The more I pulled the more I could see it, that it was coursing through a large amount, a whole corner of the pounded meat slab. I pulled that corner of the steak off and wrapped it in a paper napkin The kind of thing you'd do if you were spitting something out of your mouth. I wasn't. It had never found its way to my mouth. I had been slicing it when the "serration" of the butter knife had caught the hair and brought it to my notice. Damn butter knife could crush its way through the chicken-fried steak but couldn't separate that hair. A blessing, actually. Otherwise I would have for sure put that hair in my mouth. Instead I caught it and made the wad of napkin I'd hide behind the ketchup bottle. That was as far as it would go. I don't open my mouth to discuss or explain about such things anymore.

p.shaw

on the days all around it and all the other days that aren't.
       
     
on the days all around it and all the other days that aren't.

p.shaw

Nightstand Artifacts: 2.12.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.12.2014

12:07am:
In your haste to improve be eyes-wide open on what you will lose. There is a broken that is absolutely beautiful.

2:12am:
The worse you can do is take something people love, but can use your help with, and make it better. So much better, in fact, that people hate it.

p.shaw

Commingling – fills me with longing.
       
     
Commingling – fills me with longing.

Listen.
the fading beat
a part of the
world
a symbol
for a thing.
to know not to
speak
I'm blind
I'm drunk
with stones.

Nothing happens here.
It's in our blood    anything
that moves or breathes
washed up unnamed
never to sing    we are told.

as though praying,
as though a woman.
her occasional man
he pushes motionless
the heart of things
like a storm.

Don't tell me
before I die
I am home.
don't talke to me
the way a few among place
say:    It is enough.
Let me look up
at the end.

after Sam Hamill

from Memory's Vault: 2.2.2014
p.shaw

Nightstand Artifacts: 2.11.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.11.2014

12:59am

I kept from going mad for appearance sake.

p.shaw

Nightstand Artifacts: 2.9.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.9.2014

5:31am

How do you know what those little marks tell you to play? And and different than little marks tell you to wonder, to think, more than you would have without me.

p.shaw

upon arriving.
       
     
upon arriving.

I spent the whole weekend drunk, on my back, on a sunken couch and sketching line drawings of the pubic hair that surrounds imagined female genitalia. And I won't regret a moment of it.

p.shaw

drawing lines around our language.
       
     
drawing lines around our language.

When we started to use other words, made up constructions: jargon, to replace the simplest of words and ideas. That is when we no longer had a desire to communicate.

p.shaw

Nightstand Artifacts: 2.7.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.7.2014

5:23am

There is just so much. How can we tell what is left? I want to take back relentless pursuits from the undeserving. I want to protect a whole list of adjectives.

p.shaw

Nightstand Artifact: 1.24.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifact: 1.24.2014

3:37am

There is not an acceptable method of turning off what I know.

p.shaw

 

Nightstand Artifact: 1.23.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifact: 1.23.2014

4:06am

When was the last time you were kissed? Has it been long enough to get confused with never?

p.shaw

I know what everyone is screaming.
       
     
I know what everyone is screaming.

p.shaw

Nightstand Artifact: 1.19.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifact: 1.19.2014

11:42pm

The simplest way to complete the equation is to accept the answer will not result in any more than marks on a page, no different than these – for if the assignment is theoretical there will be no machine, no outcome, to a brilliance of will.

p.shaw


 

 

where it lives in you.
       
     
where it lives in you.

I have fear and the cause is lodged around the heart.

p.shaw

We live in a world of broken things.
       
     
We live in a world of broken things.

What are we setting out to improve or maintain?

p.shaw

on getting tired.
       
     
on getting tired.

Creation.  >  Fabrication.  >  Proliferation.

Nightstand Artifact: 5:17am
Part of everything I write is about ownership. America has taught me this.

Part of everything I write is about unlearning. No one teaches this.

I get tired of learning.

I get tired of forgetting.

p.shaw

lack of follow-through
       
     
lack of follow-through

And why must, in each moment of time, we feel like the time for action has past or is yet to be: If only I had done ______. If only I had applied myself to______.

Certainly these are always based in a rationality, of a kind, except not truly rational. We never have good answers that stand to scrutiny, so we answer ourselves with: Someday, I will _______!

That someday will never come. But a someday always will. Our shrinking middle class, squeezed by privilege and criminals, has also made our beds in complicity. Contributed to our lack of follow-through. Not on the expectations of others, or our own social contract, but of our very own hopes, dreams, and wishes.

p.shaw

 

Artifacts: 1.14.2014
       
     
Artifacts: 1.14.2014

1:00am:
Determine where your everything can lose the conscience of itself. From there you can move it forward with much less concern.

2:00am:
(attempting to catalogue the words I mumble aloud in my sleep)
Apply pressure liberally to your opponent for she is a cucumber sandwich. 
Kell awoke from the sound of my pen on the paper and asked what I was writing. I recited it to her.
She then said, "No. No. It's cucumber sandwich. Not tuna fish sandwich" 

"What?"
"Trust me, it's cucumber sandwich. I've had to listen to you for weeks now."

5:10am:
I'm just not finding the time to be human.

p.shaw
 


 

what's worth keeping?
       
     
what's worth keeping?

And as we enter our thoughts into the catalogue, through our machine designed specifically to catalogue, catalogue for us in ways we have even yet to consider – to keep our thoughts as both data and potential data – we seem surprised that our thoughts are usable. We are taken aback by the fact they were being kept for any use whatsoever. 

p.shaw

the incongruity
       
     
the incongruity

the things I really want to do will never be for you.

the things I am really doing will never be for you.

taking nothing away from your hardship – but I am willing to say it:
"Being here is the hardest thing I can imagine."

p.shaw

 then it was us, first, who  began to show our age.  And how do we make this appear, glamorous?  When not a single thing in the world is.  p. shaw    
       
     

then it was
us, first, who 
began to show
our age.

And how do we make this appear, glamorous?

When not a single thing in the world is.

p.shaw

 

third.
       
     
third.

You are nervous. You can't speak as intelligent as you are. You laugh, not giggle, you laugh. You mean it and it also means you are nervous.

You will (won't) be happy. You will be fortunate. You can sing. You might even become famous but not for your words.

You will get whatever you want. You don't know what you want. Your only blemish is remarkably striking. You flaunt it. It is easier for some to look at this rather than your eyes.

p.shaw

 

from the long bus ride : observations.
       
     
from the long bus ride : observations.

p.shaw

best laid plans OR an argument for decay
       
     
best laid plans OR an argument for decay

By the time we fix it, it will be broken again. It will be broken before we even have the plan to fix it ready. It will always be broken. So, let's keep talking about it like it will never happen.

p.shaw

Building on White.
       
     
Building on White.

Our generation of citizen storytellers, the ones who do not wear the moniker, but simply sit and string as long as someone will listen, are frauds.

I strongly suspect that the majority of those who use the dialectal: "I says to him (or her), 'blah, blah, blah, etc.,' I says..." are liars.

These are the things they thought of saying, much later, after the fact. They now want to display their wit and wry. Or compensate for their complete lack of it.

p.shaw

when
       
     
when

I will like it when you

will be 

silent.

but NOT

Dead.

-p.shaw

Scribbling under cover of night.
       
     
Scribbling under cover of night.

It would have made us feel even when we were right across the hall. What it sounds like is all of the silence that stood in all the loudness. That's how we wanted so much more of so much more. Of so much today. Of so much more of today.
Variety.  

Variety and the Indianapolis. What is the Indianapolis? 

p.shaw

Most often though measured in days.
       
     
Most often though measured in days.

...then it was over and I became practical and I have punctuated the practicality with drinking. 

Today was a first since the beginning of the fall. I ate my breakfast bar, cranked out meaningless advertising, sweat my ass off on a stationary bike for the first time in weeks and chose a pen over a pint. 

Only the end of the day being different than the days gone past. But it is lonelier than a drink or being drunk when I get home. I figure though, if I don't be lonely soon, I may never get around to it. 

p.shaw

Photographs Run.
       
     
Photographs Run.

I lived in a cell, the size of a backyard so large you have never before seen the likes of. So small it fit only me. It could have fit more, it reached fire code standards to maintain a cast of thousands. For reasons I am about to explore, I never opened business. 

p.shaw

Within New Eras of Transmission
       
     
Within New Eras of Transmission

I am finding a different kind of madness permeating my words (& thoughts.) 

p.shaw

Too much poetry comes at the expense of variations.
       
     
Too much poetry comes at the expense of variations.

And I remember how little I enjoyed what I had when I had it. The sitting and looking out the window when nothing, no words, would come. Because my studio was near the front doors and my shades were only open when I was there to work, I was a curiosity to those who lived in the building. 

As they came and went they stole a quick look or stared at me like an animal at the zoo. The way one hopes to see the animal do something interesting in the moments they are there to observe; not just sleep or sniff about at grasses, but something truly unique to the species. They had heard there was a "writer" occupying the studio. Probably told not for the novelty, but so that no one would think me a squatter in the studio that was typically dark, a storage area before I arrived, unsuitable to rent since the toilets were down the hall in a common area and that sort of thing was frowned upon in this city of conveniences beyond measure. I imagined that regardless of how they knew I was there, or why I was there, that they just wanted to glimpse me actually in the process of writing. Which doesn't look like anything.

Mostly I just sat and stared. That's the majority of what my writing entails, sitting and thinking about what could be done, what should be done, how to fix what had been done, and looking out that lovely little window at dusk – for I mostly wrote at dusk or dawn, the in-between times – wondering where all the words that I needed would come from. 

p.shaw

supposition
       
     
supposition

I suppose we should have taken this all a little
more serious or less
I suppose I could worry for all of this is a little
less than the more
serious we have become too early
and never knowing the right time
I suppose we'll never know a good little
moment of more than we deserved.

p.shaw

from Measuring My Advance.
       
     
from Measuring My Advance.

From a project entitled, Measuring My Advance: Taking Account of an Account of Living.

Skills I Had Gathered by Age Sixteen: 
(things I could be trusted to accomplish with reasonable competency.)

• Driving motorized vehicles that locomoted on two, three or four wheel configurations (or piloting of motorized floating, flat bottomed vessels).

• Lying. As Applies to: Sins; Fakery

• Cunnilingus  

• Execution of Fakies, Nose-Wheelies, Boneless Airs, RailSlides & various grinds and sundry minor acts on a skateboard. 

• Rolling a joint that would not run. 

• Creation if images in silver. 

• Counting & Minor Acts of Mathematics

• Tying of Single & Double Windsors

• Chords C, D, & E

• Riding of Two & Four Legged Creatures

• Talking

• Showing Up

• Fine Art of Dreaming

• List Making

• Mayhem

 

Things I Could NOT Do; That My Peers Could; or Generally What I Wish I Had in My Repertoire at Age Sixteen: 

• The Playing of Piano

• Living without Fear

• Actual Vagaries of Intercourse

• Real Air. As in: leaving the lip of a structure appropriated for the purpose of skateboarding. 

• Enjoy Time with a Family without Being High

• Know what i was doing if found with a ball in my hand in a team activity

• "Slam" or "Bong" a Beer

• Find Someone to Love

• Sing in a Voice Other Than My Own (for I abhorred the sound of my own voice)

• Algebra

• Hate
• Forget
• Leave Well Enough Alone
(this triad still not acquired to this day)

• Know the Difference

• Dance

• Read without Fear

• Cook a Decent Meal

• Earn an Honest Dollar

• Listen with Intent

p.shaw

 

In tandem grief.
       
     
In tandem grief.

It is not just the afterwards of the tragic event – which is explainable, understandable by all except those in the moment – that causes us so much grief and worry. We want to make the loss, their loss, our loss. We want to start that before, during, and continue after. We want to wrestle with the "Why?s". What we won't admit to ourselves, because it hurts too much, is the haunting of the last violent second. Silent exhale or obliteration against immoveable object, both are violent. And their release scars us.

p.shaw

after a few...
       
     
after a few...

After a few drinks the co-workers love to bury hatchets. 

p.shaw

Blueprint or puzzle.
       
     
Blueprint or puzzle.

Off to Centrum for the Port Townsend Writers Conference. Not certain whether this morning's work is crumbs of what will get tackled, or just another puzzle for you. 

p.shaw

 I'm afraid to touch my hand.   p. shaw
       
     

I'm afraid to touch my hand. 

p.shaw

 I am filled with answers to questions no one will ever bother to ask. Not a single one  their  truth.   p. shaw
       
     

I am filled with answers to questions no one will ever bother to ask. Not a single one their truth. 

p.shaw

Mr. Rogers called it Make Believe.
       
     
Mr. Rogers called it Make Believe.

...the fact that my brain did not give to me an imaginary friend in my youth. I conjured some out of necessity, but they were not ever real to me, they never acted in accord with a place inside me that I could not access. They were puppets in my mind. Then they were cows, goats, and the dogs of the farms that surrounded ours. Our dogs, cows and goats were just dogs, cows and goats. But when I snuck under barbwire fences to "explore" : the child's excuse for trespassing, these animals became personalities that at first I pretended not to know. All I did was prescribe upon them, interpreting their movements, facial expressions, the looks in their eyes not being their looks but instead fitting my hypothesis: my story lines. 

They were not my friends. They were either my actors or my subjects of experimentation. I wanted them to have free will but my brain would not allow it. The people whose brains delivered to them imaginary friends as a child are the happiest I have known. Their adult experiences are not full of fake magic, but contentment. They give in to the story lines of their lives. They are neither puppets nor dictators of movements and still their dogs are more than just dogs and to them other dogs are more than just dogs, and to them everything is more than Just.

p.shaw

Cleanser of Sleep.
       
     
Cleanser of Sleep.

The hotel room is a cleanser of sleep, of life, devoid of all those attachments I can splay myself out on the King in little more than boxer briefs, or less, and just be nothing because all I am is somewhere else with just bits of me in a case at the foot of the bed. 

p.shaw

An Inherent Mistake in Human Communication.
       
     
An Inherent Mistake in Human Communication.

There's something about the space between things, two things, or importantly two people. Sometimes it's that space between two people that says a whole lot more about them, than any words. More than any words ever could. Space is one thing made out of two. 

p.shaw

I didn't believe.
       
     
I didn't believe.

From across a room, crowded like a cliche, that some one could hold my attention for years – four years – of wondering if your inspiration from afar would be the same as near. 

Like a testament to nothing, I would become a poet without words, spiders without legs, a small army without guns. 

The man was serious. We couldn't be friends any more. 

The notes fit inside themselves. 

Smell of metal.
Taste of wood. 

p.shaw

which trope?
       
     
which trope?

The writer said, "quiet as a chair."

My experience is: the chair is not quiet. 

The writer said, "as if this all took place outside the atmosphere." 

My experience is: there is no atmosphere. 

The writer said: something that was not like; was not as

Does this mean we have found more success outside the world of metaphor? 

p.shaw

Learn to use your tools.
       
     
Learn to use your tools.

Every year a new compass, a new protractor. I never used them once. What the fuck was wrong with my teachers?

p.shaw

didn't watch
       
     
didn't watch

I didn't watch you die but none of us did. Except that we all sat in the front row – you gave us that row – feeling like your life, that we knew, gave us the right to imagine. 

p.shaw

when you look around... you just don't know.
       
     
when you look around... you just don't know.

There's the guy waving at her, she's pie-eyed, or more correctly pie-faced, beautiful. She has life painted across her face and I wonder if her happiness, contentment come from her personal situation of is it a by-product of this environment. The smile I receive real, or contrived?

p.shaw

Too Loud a Voice (after Hrabal)
       
     
Too Loud a Voice (after Hrabal)

When there's too many to. Only I or only you. It's easy to forget with a bottle as breast tomorrow forgotten as I looked for the rest. You can see as will I look. When there's too many.

p.shaw

for a man I know becoming his dreams.
       
     
for a man I know becoming his dreams.

Being challenged by yourself & by the work isn't enough. You have to let yourself be challenged by others. There's a lot of us humans around and if you are making something at some point it can be for someone other than yourself. 

p.shaw

He never did less than he could.
       
     
He never did less than he could.

My father just worked. Everyday. He woke up, did the work of several and came home to do his best there, as well. He knew that the joy of a job well done, no matter, was the best he could ask for. He told me so on his death bed.

p.shaw

Death of Childhood.
       
     
Death of Childhood.

Google Earth and Bing Maps can destroy you in a second. Just a little research is all it takes to discover that what you want, or needed to imagine, will always be there for you to visit, is now gone. 

I wish I could see those poplars now. They wouldn't be worth the airfare and the hassle but Google Earth can't show me shit about the way the light in July must feel on them at eight or eight-thirty. Only the better machines could, the NSA machines, and maybe not even then. 

They were enormous back then, as a child. Big as poplars go. My father paid extra for the mature ones, more than he had paid for any one thing. They were enormous back then, but I know, as poplars go they had a ways to go. 

Decades happened and I wish I could see them poplars, now. Especially in July. Long light that Google Earth can't do. Only plane rides, expensive travel to places out of the way, to the death of my childhood.

p.shaw

a little from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S. pt.1
       
     
a little from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S. pt.1

This post is a two parter. Advance to see the second part.

My new story I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S. gets ripped directly from the headlines. In this case, the Headlines refers to all the lines that run incessantly through my mind when it suffers. One of the characteristics of my O.C.D. has always been running lists of descriptions when I am struggling with feeling emotions. When confronted with feelings, my mind turns into a thesaurus.

On most things there is ink: smudges, fingerprints, splotches, drips, errant stripes and scrapes across surfaces from the nibs.It comes from walking about with an uncapped pen, too bloated with the ink that will be necessary. There isn't a damn clean or un...

a little from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S. pt.2
       
     
a little from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S. pt.2

 ...marred surface anywhere. I am far too unconscious of this thing I never let go of.

Even on pillowcases and my toothbrush. Fingertips were only the beginning. 

from  I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.

p.shaw

More than we are given.
       
     
More than we are given.

Dreams are given to us so we can live more than we are allotted.

p.shaw

blank!
       
     
blank!

"__________"  spoken neatly as if his remark was a proverb.

p.shaw

sticktoitness.
       
     
sticktoitness.

Somedays all you do is fight it.

I thought that letting go would help
something but the stacked cards are
the stacked cards and they are already
set to fall.
                    announce intention
                   renounce expectation
                      trounce obliteration

lot of help without a pronounce
clouds and rain that isn't rain.
the same club, the same suspension. 
the sea disappears and swallows
us whole like the hand of god.
design is the same as the words.

     their is there. their ink is there.
and somedays it just doesn't happen.
         it just won't happen. 

p.shaw

You look like your words.
       
     
You look like your words.

My writing looks like me. Hers like Her made me notice. Long. Lanky strokes. Slight. Leaning forward, ascenders dangling over the following letter, descenders dipping to scrape the heads on the line below. Sometimes an entire thought.

p.shaw

A dedication.
       
     
A dedication.

The transition from desire to arrogance appears really easy for you, without surprise. 

p.shaw

About Friends.
       
     
About Friends.

He loved the ones you only hear from when they needed you.

When there were no more left and no more needs, the thing he missed the most was the resentment that made him King.

p.shaw

Indirect defiance
       
     
Indirect defiance

Standing, or really more like piling, in indirect defiance to all my wirelessness is the drawer to my left stuffed with all the wires my wirelessness needs to stay alive. 

p.shaw

 

How my dyslexia impacts my relationship with time.
       
     
How my dyslexia impacts my relationship with time.

This dyslexia appears in an acutely different way: the words line up perfectly; I can see the intended pattern of the author; I can relate one word to the next to construct a meaning that maintains the literal and perhaps most of the figurative. All of this works, as it should, if even a little slower than when I have no trouble, no symptom.

The thing that is wrong is the pace. My mine and eyes stop on any suffix that creates a past tense. I particularly get hung up on the (ed). My mind is uncomfortable with what has happen(ed) – not with what will happen. Because I can't imagine a future when this moment is my past, I hesitate. I want to hold on. 

Even when the narrative is not mine, I don't want to read that which happen(ed), which will no longer happen again. If I had paid more attention when I first liv(ed) I could have tak(en) more from that moment and then I would not have miss(ed), still miss, will miss – and my dyslexia would let me read her story as it was intend(ed). 

p.shaw

How Can You Fuck a Genius?
       
     
How Can You Fuck a Genius?

I dated an artist once. Not a celebrity but a real artist. Big, important, institutions called her: Genius. They gave her gifts of money and time for the right to call her: Genius. 

Even though we dated for months we never had intercourse. I ate her pussy, a lot. But I feared fucking her. 

How could I impress a Genius with my dick? 

p.shaw

conjunction
       
     
conjunction

Even something as small as a snowflake must cast its own shadow, if only noticeable for those falling with it.

p.shaw

Another Nostalgic Metaphor
       
     
Another Nostalgic Metaphor

The way a grandmother will lean out over the threshold to wave goodbye at you. 

p.shaw

Fluffer
       
     
Fluffer

Moving the books on my shelves around is much like the act of fluffing pillows.

p.shaw

Our Defeat
       
     
Our Defeat

First we dream, then we scheme, then we kill our dreams. 

p.shaw

test the limits of the world's hatred
       
     
test the limits of the world's hatred

​All the problems I have now
would be gone if the things
I regret, my child-self being
an asshole because no one showed
me how not to be.

There were no consequences
for tiny trespasses
that I worry, still, hurt someone.​

Take back all the horrible things
a child does to test
the limits of the world's hatred.​

When you can't find love
you can always make someone despise you.​

p.shaw

Refuse.
       
     
Refuse.

​Do you ever, just sit and think, concentrate, on how much we refuse?

p.shaw

Ephemera
       
     
Ephemera

We are, each of us, the keepers – responsible for the ephemera others may declare as garbage or fodder for cabinets. Display it well.​

p.shaw

Asking machines.
       
     
Asking machines.

I am sick and I ask
what my phone thinks.
I am sad and I ask
what my phone thinks.
I am lonely and I ask
what my phone thinks.
I need to make a call
and my phone, does, not.

p.shaw

I'm always wondering what your eyes mean.
       
     
I'm always wondering what your eyes mean.

How can you even exist knowing that every look is a judgement? I would be so much better off if we didn't have to look at each other... wait, I like looking at you. It's what you think when you look at me that destroys me.​

from ​I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.

p.shaw

All of it is here.
       
     
All of it is here.

In any moment your last.​

p.shaw

Vanity
       
     
Vanity

Given her vanity, it is only a matter of time until the worse of possible traffic incidents will occur.​

p.shaw ​

Immigrants Smoke
       
     
Immigrants Smoke

Outside every Community College, the immigrants gathered to smoke.​

p.shaw

on Purpose
       
     
on Purpose

​This feels so on purpose.

p.shaw

It has happened to me.
       
     
It has happened to me.
You can't own the words.
       
     
You can't own the words.

Before we ever put a finger to a key let's play with our words on pages and on tongues – see them in our own hand – there is too much rush to COMMAND P. Too much rush to ownership.​

- p.shaw

Resist the Algorithm.
       
     
Resist the Algorithm.

The algorithm is not allowing you to choose.​

- p.shaw

 I want yours to live forever. I don't mind if mine don't. In fact, if I have to give mine up for that, myself even, I will.  p .shaw
       
     

I want yours to live forever. I don't mind if mine don't. In fact, if I have to give mine up for that, myself even, I will.

p.shaw

The message is not a thing.
       
     
The message is not a thing.

This is the way I am talking to you.​

competes with human.​

- p.shaw

What you can't change is that you were undecided.
       
     
What you can't change is that you were undecided.

"You didn't finish your sentence."​

" I know. I think I changed my mind. I don't mean it."​

- p.shaw

on the tips
       
     
on the tips

The smell of my pencil. The smell of iron, or an alloy, from keys in my pocket. The smells of my fingers.​

from the new story:​
I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.

- p.shaw

checkout line.
       
     
checkout line.

"What are you staring at young man?"

"Not staring. Listening," I said, vexed that she would be so aggressive.

"Listening? To what?"

"Two old hags. Making statements on society based on tabloid headlines."

Her face began with tics, she vied for the less ugly one's attention so they could mob this younger, but not young, man.

"So, you think you know it all?

"No. I know that you two think you do."

"We bough this right with our age, our years," the tulle of vined skin around her lips rippled.

"I don't care how old you are. The both of you caw like a mooner in the reeds. Can you just shut up about the magazines and unload your shit and get out of my way."

"Hey ya?," the checker at the druggist counter said, "some respect! You better have some respect."

"For what?"

-p.shaw

From a challenge leveled at me by Kurt Kemmerer. We were on vacation in Palm Springs, playing Scrabble, and posting photos of our games. Kurt challenged me to write a story using the words placed in the Scrabble match we had just completed. That is where the words in the margins are from. The story came from an imagined exchange, that could have occurred that very morning, at the Palm Springs Rite-Aid.

checkout line. (cont.)
       
     
checkout line. (cont.)

​"Because of our age. We bought this right with our years."

The duo could have been twins, only a tad bit of difference between them. Identical in age, in the hair that resembles wigs, that will be replaced by wigs if they make it long enough.​

I hadn't said a thing to them, just stood waiting patiently behind, in line, at the druggist. They could hear my thoughts, my judgement of their judgement. ​

"They're all liars," the uglier one said. ​

I was judging their judgement and their looks – two seniors in line in front of me at the druggist.

She placed the jar on the counter to be counted. The one with too much botox, hair in coils, lofted like a peony that says, "loook at me," not the ugly old face just below, my hair grows from the bag of my face, near the axe of my brows, bowed forward like oh so many mares of prey."​

- p.shaw

From a challenge leveled at me by Kurt Kemmerer. We were on vacation in Palm Springs, playing Scrabble, and posting photos of our games. Kurt challenged me to write a story using the words placed in the Scrabble match we had just completed. That is where the words in the margins are from. The story came from an imagined exchange, that could have occurred that very morning, at the Palm Springs Rite-Aid.

checkout line (cont.) Part 3
       
     
checkout line (cont.) Part 3

"The elderly."

"Oh right. The tokens of respect for age, regardless of bigotry, ignorance, despicability. You get old and you can monopolize the checkout line, say shit you don't know anything about, cast dispersions on magazines like two ol' bitty Faqirs, and I have to sit here in a public place, wasting my life, because of theirs?"

"I jot your name down. We never serve lah likes of you again," the checker threatened.

"En do it." I mocked. "Es okay wit me do never let me in here agin. Just can I but my sack of zitis and go whilst these hags dig around for nickels in their ancient , yet holy, brocaded purses?"

"Gee!," the less ugly one finally spoke up. "You sure don't like us."

The ugly one said, "because of our age!"

"Yes. If your combined age was multiplied by P, and your Q's was as clear as that bottle of gin you're buying. Yes! I still wouldn't like you," I said.

I dropped my pasta, the sunscreen, a six pack of Tecate and left. A good twenty minutes wasted arguing with the almost dead.

p.shaw

From a challenge leveled at me by Kurt Kemmerer. We were on vacation in Palm Springs, playing Scrabble, and posting photos of our games. Kurt challenged me to write a story using the words placed in the Scrabble match we had just completed. That is where the words in the margins are from. The story came from an imagined exchange, that could have occurred that very morning, at the Palm Springs Rite-Aid.

the nose.
       
     
the nose.

...​consensual sex at the very moment by the smells in a room of 350 half drunk, all horny, mostly married woman accountants or lawyers at some such convention in the lobby of The Ritz. I can smell them all but I can find her the one who has enough to care to hide her sweet essence.

-p.shaw

From a collection of unfinished interconnected shorts – first person.

Once on the porte cochere of the Grand Hyatt
       
     
Once on the porte cochere of the Grand Hyatt

The german dog erupts his bark
at de Kooning.​

Think ahead.​

German dog barking at de Kooning
German dog at de Kooning
German dog erupts
     barking viciously
de Kooning's lump.

I love watching Gene Kelley
     dancing movies.​

Think ahead.​

– p.shaw

All truth changes.
       
     
All truth changes.

You can't just say things then expect them to be true. Then you have to just know that all truth will change...

so, go ahead: say things,. Just don't expect a goddamn thing.​

- p.shaw

Chaos
       
     
Chaos

from the short story: I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.​

- p.shaw

the most important line of my CV.
       
     
the most important line of my CV.

Familiar with usability, visibility, punctuality, a whole lot of "ilities," including "possibilities" and "isms" can be supplied on request.​

- p.shaw

Oblique Strategy for Metaphor
       
     
Oblique Strategy for Metaphor
Dreams are the Houses of Guilt.
       
     
Dreams are the Houses of Guilt.

dreams are the houses of guilt

where things unsaid live

missed opportunities at love

things I should have done,​ SAIDXXXX

opportunities gone by

times un-revelled.​

-p.shaw

Duties.
       
     
Duties.

​Our duties got list in
to do lists and buried
in unchecked In-Boxes,
but we all could empathize
so... it would never
get to a point of account-
ability.

– p.shaw

Cast away your pleasantries.
       
     
Cast away your pleasantries.
Single face.
       
     
Single face.

You walk in, my heart walks out.​

everyone I ever lovedXXXX admired

reflected in a single face,​

could you be as good as you look.​

-p.shaw

in our hearts...
       
     
in our hearts...

We were all trying to understand what was going on in our minds. But we could not think past the screams in our hearts.​

–p.shaw

Illusory.
       
     
Illusory.

It always feels like your thing has been for longer and I have been scratching to get there and just show up. Then you let me know it never was.​

p.shaw

Mynahs of Sayulita's Construction
       
     
Mynahs of Sayulita's Construction

...they are virtuosos at playing their national riotous anthem. The Mynahs who have failed to impress their parrot choirs have moved on to the eaves of the school yard. They are forever charging from audition to audition. Where they cannot be heard, a poor rendition of trumpet and drum. Failed songbirds trying to now fit in with the unholy human drum chorus. One Mynah gives up on his tongue which cannot replicate a drum and opts to fly across the calle where he knows he is capable of a flawless rendition of both handsaw and powered circular saw – his mimic like an echo after each carpenter's action. And then, when the cutting is finished, hammering begins and he is once again incapable, just as he was with the drums.​

–p.shaw

in room full of high school jocks.
       
     
in room full of high school jocks.

Looking at them, he said to himself: ​
"You'll be fat, you'll be dead, you'll beat your wife, you will lose."

He didn't assign these particulars to any one in particular, just gazed across the whole and knew statistically it was true and even worse. They all just smacked of owning the world. They didn't even own theirs. Lose the Big Game, you'll be all those things. Win the Big Game, postpone it, but you'll still be all those things.

To name the worse would be like a curse. They were a bunch of little douche bags, but they didn't deserve that.​

–p.shaw

when the wish
       
     
when the wish

It was only
a wish....

    to be a postage
       stamp...​

       but someone
          made it happen

Memorial Day
       
     
Memorial Day

In my family, Memorial Day was considered a fine day to take apart an automobile, whether it needed to be or not.​

–p.shaw

 ​More like music than writing.  Another dedication to a construct.  –p.shaw
       
     

​More like music
than writing.

Another dedication to
a construct.

–p.shaw

Spit.
       
     
Spit.

The brass section of the orchestra are like a better dressed team in a baseball dugout.​

Proper Nouns
       
     
Proper Nouns

Proper Nouns indicated by capitalization and the ownership of apostrophes have stumped my writing for years. Why would that idea belong to the character?​ If they character had a choice he would certainly prefer to own it rather than there simply being more than one of them. And why wouldn't the Cow, the Home, the Sister, the Proposition, the Care all lost in a bad hand in poker not be Proper? They are: The Home and the Sister. What more do they need to be considered proper than the importance of their existence.

– p.shaw

The Overshare...
       
     
The Overshare...

I am good at confessing. I am horrible at telling myself the truth of what my actions say about me.​

Confessing is addictive, and these days socially acceptable. We are all learning to say what it is about ourselves that is most deplorable: then the collective sigh of relief, the nodding of heads in recognition of our mutual folly – as if we all invented it, like right now.​

from D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.
       
     
from D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.

​Tapping my right index finger against my left forearm seventeen times, three times an hour, will keep me from dying this year.

Counting the number of shirts in my closet each morning will keep our family from becoming poor.​

The thirty-two notebooks – so far – I have with hashmarks on each page that account for each time I have masturbated since I was ten years and seven months old will help me get into heaven. I don't want to forget even one. I want a good house where God will let me keep my dog.​

– p.shaw
Philip Shaw

Let Her.
       
     
Let Her.

You simply throw her away. Throw time away. Throw. Ignore her impact and do not cry to keep even the smallest edge. You are not sharp and that came before you. Hard and broken is different than dull, incomplete, invisible. Shape has no meaning to time. She hates the way you ended up. Let her.​

–p.shaw

from D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.
       
     
from D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.

​I need to touch my face instead of thinking. I need to touch my face instead of talking connected to my words are my hands and my thoughts and what I have to do.

I have to touch my face instead of whatever it is you think I have to be doing. You can't stop me. I wouldn't know how.​

– p.shaw

Where to begin...
       
     
Where to begin...

​How do you begin to only talk about the things that need to be spoken of? A deep breath, a counting to ten (they recommend); a consideration of why and whether you are truly willing to take this up: Can I take this up?

You'll want to know more than I am worth sharing. I'll feel defeated because I can't deliver. The outcome: disastrous.​

– Philip Shaw (p.shaw)

The eye follows...
       
     
The eye follows...

I would never find myself drawn to her but for time. Proximity.​

When the word: GOD appears in a text it leaps off the page – even when buried in paragraph five, sentence two, lingering tight up against the gutter of a right facing page and I may have just turned and started at the top of the left, like we all do, and no other mention of God has yet occurred in the text, and even a reason for it wouldn't have seen it coming, and there are plenty of other proper nouns speckled throughout, so, it is not the G that is upper case announcing it from its place near the gutter, and it is not just in this text that this has happened to me. When the word God appears it finds my eyes struggling with their dyslexia and plays on their guilt. It makes me stare at it, interrupting whatever other joys I had been enjoying to announce itself, out of context, its shape as a small word more sever, and I already have enough problems with reading I can only hope my favorite stories leave him/her out of itself.​

Dilly Dally
       
     
Dilly Dally

People love their Angry Birds.​

Their wasting of time.​

After.
       
     
After.

On the Monday morning after, the neighborhood has that sweltering feeling of a dirty weekend. It will be a long recovery. I have to dodge the pollen as I walk.​

Mash-Up from Memory's Vault
       
     
Mash-Up from Memory's Vault
On Me: & Why it took so long.
       
     
On Me: & Why it took so long.

​I finally started to write because I finally started to pay attention.

Smelling from here.
       
     
Smelling from here.

​I smelled the clouds.

When the girls were sitting there having a picnic, "I should be at home cleaning my apartment."​

Weeping Willow
       
     
Weeping Willow
Korakia Pensione 2012
       
     
Korakia Pensione 2012

​How anyone could write in a place like this is beyond me. There is nothing wrong, here. I know how that cannot even remotely be a truth if I take one step outside of this villa, or outside of myself – so, the question becomes: Why would I?

–p.shaw

​After scribbling this I proceeded to read Dialogue of the Dogs by Cervantes, twice.

Driving away the customer.
       
     
Driving away the customer.

​"Yeah."

"So he drives away three or four every night. People who will never come back."​

"He comes every night though."​

"And they will never come again."​

"It's not simple arithmetic – but it equals out as a liability."​

"What should I do?"​

"First, best option: make him fall in love with your company."​

​"Second best?"

"Kill him."​

Ones and Zeroes
       
     
Ones and Zeroes

Open while shut.​

Neither one nor the other

no difference

a single state {of being}​

without variance

Sick
       
     
Sick

I used to love being sick. It meant attention, that I was cared for. I spent much of my "healthy" time feeling crazy in my head, afraid to tell anyone the thoughts or the things i "had" to do – this was for me, not being sick. But when I caught a bad cold, the type of sick others could see; then this thing in my body happened. The voices and compulsions quieted, I felt normal and the best part, people cared for me.

Exterior Artifacts, Filthy & Contrary
       
     
Exterior Artifacts, Filthy & Contrary
land line
       
     
land line

...him through a phone and really these feelings came from knowing I couldn't help him at all. My words were more like bruises reminding him I made it through when he shouldn't even me bothering thinking about me. And again, silence and its effectiveness has to be loud. He thanked me for my words anyway and that's what made me sick...​

Birth of Facebook
       
     
Birth of Facebook

One day Self was just walking around, minding his own business when he stumbled upon a being he had never before encountered, Absorption. Their attraction was mutual, immediate and fierce. As you can imagine there was sex involved: the genetic desire to reproduce conquering any reservations about what their fucking could actually lead to. In the end, they bore a child. His name was Facebook.

from The Etymons
       
     
from The Etymons

...which brings me to my intention of this, my original intention at least, which is with stating even if it removes the joys of (mis)interpretation, even if I have to risk that through my last ditch effort to be obvious, specific, bland perhaps. Because if not we may never be able to speak of my point, which I assure you I have one, for our interpretations could be so far apart as to not be on the same page – this page, the origin as it were, as it is: origin : original : intention : Etymons...

28515097-Photo.jpg
       
     
Caked on Coagulates: If a suicide had a wish.
       
     
Caked on Coagulates: If a suicide had a wish.

​Wanting to see your face when you see mine. Wanting to see you see the blood that runs in rivulets from the corner of my mouth. It is better that it has been hours, that there has been enough time for pools. That is what my soul wants you to see: not something you can save. What my soul cares to see and revel in is your despair: there needs to be caked on coagulates. There needs to be eyes rolled back in skull. There needs to be no hope for even considering a phone call. My soul wants to see you, seeing me with no hope of fixing a Goddamn thing: the time has passed. You showed up too late and the life is gone and only the one that is the soul waiting for you to show is me that you cannot bring back. I need to see that in your eyes – a distance. Otherwise why the fuck did I take my own? Retribution. I meant you to suffe and all I committed my soul to was sticking around for the reveal. I read Lao-Tzu – the whatever of Buddhist meets God meets Christ and Mohammed and knew by my timing I needed you to see something you couldn't fix but would suffer. It is an exhibition. Not a condemnation. Just you, feeling something we were never able to come to.

Rising. Guising.
       
     
Rising. Guising.
Olympic Peninsula in 3s
       
     
Olympic Peninsula in 3s

Everything burns
if hot enough in the rain
chimneys to the clouds
– Crescent Lake

Cows, they like to sit
some prefer to just stand
waiting, looking, chew
– Sequim

Wispy fingered clouds
trail hilltops and valleys, hand
on a lovers back
– Olympic Forest

religious paintings
on sides of Ramada Inss
cheap rates, last suppers
– Sequim

the general store
little bit of everything
not a lot of much.​
– Port Angeles

Indian Gamble
the no-limit casino
the salmon tourists
– Makah

the dead never pay
a court appearance is in
order, to go free.​
– Port Angeles

The new Your Past
       
     
The new Your Past

Forty is the new thirty because the last decade was lost on many of us or stunted the rest.​

- p.shaw

Considerations that occur in my OCD.
       
     
Considerations that occur in my OCD.

Between the U and the D of Nerudova – there is a line down to the S – and I need to bring this out to me.​

- p.shaw

Dirt > Olives.
       
     
Dirt > Olives.

I don't like the Olives but I love the dirt.​

p.shaw

Founding is not about finding.
       
     
Founding is not about finding.

What you keep founding is not about finding. I get tired of the words that mean no thing.​

p.shaw

asking to be asked.
       
     
asking to be asked.

with or without the mirror's reflection. Waiting for you to ask me what I've found.​

p.shaw

 We are all just here laying our subjective claims.​  p .shaw
       
     

We are all just here laying our subjective claims.​

p.shaw

 I wonder about all I have forgotten.  I wonder if you still remember.   p. shaw    
       
     

I wonder about all I have forgotten.

I wonder if you still remember. 

p.shaw

 

 I love the way a good transit system cuts short a conversation. The hustle to the tunnel, or stop. The day's water-cooler version of a walk, then: "my train is this one," and the banal is left hanging in the air. Even when our shuttle's the same, close quarters are not the right environment.  p. shaw
       
     

I love the way a good transit system cuts short a conversation. The hustle to the tunnel, or stop. The day's water-cooler version of a walk, then: "my train is this one," and the banal is left hanging in the air. Even when our shuttle's the same, close quarters are not the right environment.

p.shaw

Get-Well Schemes
       
     
Get-Well Schemes

These Get-Well schemes are the same as the Get-Rich ones: improbable, implausible, impossible. So, I come out of my haze of healing, ready to make words, the only things that have ever worked, start working again. 

p.shaw

 There are five of me and none of you. If we are coming to a point when we will want to make some changes, to make up for lost time, we should get started now.  p. shaw
       
     

There are five of me and none of you. If we are coming to a point when we will want to make some changes, to make up for lost time, we should get started now.

p.shaw

Intimacy and Answer
       
     
Intimacy and Answer

dry, you said, "Honey. I love you." I love you too and we were closer than we had been, without intimacy. No answers came and the porch failed us for once. 

p.shaw

Too much rush to ownership.
       
     
Too much rush to ownership.

ABSOLUTION W/O DOUBT. from the dents in the binding edge to every dog-eared page, I can remember all the minutes spent reading that book and how I dropped it. 

p.shaw

everything within itself.
       
     
everything within itself.
If then they are gone what will be left to waste.​
       
     
If then they are gone what will be left to waste.​

You are guarded and you are
waiting for the moment to
confirm your: suspicions; (first, preferably helping you justify your wasting of time.)

Mistakeness (second, you want to be wrong. You will be okay with your failure.) 

p.shaw

 

On time.
       
     
On time.

 • The present will only be the past again.

• The now is the same it was before.

• The future is the past unspoiled by the present. 

• Tomorrow is just like the next day. 

• Don't forget tomorrow what you remembered yesterday. 

• The future is the past unspoken. 

 

From Sea Moon.
       
     
From Sea Moon.

p.shaw

 

Thirty one of twelve, two zero, one, two:
       
     
Thirty one of twelve, two zero, one, two:

Each of us bears our own disease. To fall in love is to find another, with a compatible pathology, an affliction not to Heal, but to bargain with.

p.shaw 

 

from The Mayans Invented Quaint.
       
     
from The Mayans Invented Quaint.

Upon the request from raconteur Kristofor Minta, I had a reading at his lovely bookstore, Spine & Crown on the eve of destruction: the end of the Mayan calendar; and the pending close of Spine & Crown.

For my reading, I presented letters, mailed ahead of time, stories in epistolary form. From the time I sealed the envelope to when I opened them from his petit stage, I had not looked at the works. In some ways they were entirely surprises for even me.

This image is from a story crafted for the topic at hand, and for Kristofor, my love letter to him and his store. The epistle is called, The Mayans Invented Quaint. Because I had to get it in the mail, I rushed so many edits. It turned out just fine.

p.shaw

to myself.
       
     
to myself.

My hand is not straight, my nerves not true. There will always be doubts. Remember the napkin that can remind me of why. 

p.shaw

What do you mean she's playing games?
       
     
What do you mean she's playing games?

p.shaw

a portion of a love letter to everyone.
       
     
a portion of a love letter to everyone.

...the more I get to know you the more I can sense there is more to you that is not readily apparent. You are not hiding from me. But you are hiding and that makes me sad for both of us. We should get all of you. 

p.shaw

 Move not toward replacing antonyms with synonyms but toward not needing to hide behind sameness.  p. shaw
       
     

Move not toward replacing antonyms with synonyms but toward not needing to hide behind sameness.

p.shaw

after a morning of struggle.
       
     
after a morning of struggle.

Why do we try so hard with our words? Couldn't they be more effortless? Impress us without so many syllables? 

p.shaw

profiting from a will.
       
     
profiting from a will.

...If I sought to profit from my follies I would be truly stupid in missing these opportunities, but it's worse as I am really just missing the point. 

I never felt any of it even if I wanted to. My parents surgically removed it from my being, that ability, or was it their parents and their parent's, parents, parents. Maybe the prehensile tail of real paint evolved away to a wart of my hearts, our hearts generations ago.

But like an amputee who fingers his stump and imagines the feeling that appendage would have, craves the mobility that was once possible, that remnant scar where feeling once was, now pretends to be feeling from time to time. 

p.shaw

on the occasion of a death signifying the last of a family generation.
       
     
on the occasion of a death signifying the last of a family generation.

Grandma said, "Uncle Ernie. He was the only Parisian in the family." 

Uncle Ernie was a Westchester smoking, Michelob drinking, banko strumming, mid-western painter. I'm talking houses, not canvas.  

In this dream though, he photographed French aviator lesbians in Irving Penn provocative poses. We're talking Burberry plaids with lipstick on the butts of smokes in the way only a eurodyke from the 40's leaves her mark. 

p.shaw

everyone learned to keep the debilitating crying private.
       
     
everyone learned to keep the debilitating crying private.

p.shaw

synonyms for the self.
       
     
synonyms for the self.

I need to use the word: insouciant. Not more often, just: when. 

p.shaw

 and always the one's who were barren recommending my future hand in marriage to their nearest neighbor's young daughter, each and everyone the ugly duckling of the county.  I was no catch either mind you, most certainly not in my J.C. Penny Sunday's best that I loathed to wear and especially in the self-conscious state of glowing-red-pinch-bruised face and my shameful 70's Kansas Farmer hair cut.  Before we get to this thing I noticed about girls let me tell you two other things I am sure of, first. One I recognized at that early age and the other something that only comes in hindsight.  The first, being a son of a Baptist Minister, I knew Christians to be extremely adept liars. Especially on the subject of situations that could pave their way to the Pearly Gates. I was an ugly boy, I suspected it then and know it now. Although by comparison I may not have been too hard to look upon. Kansas, the Midwest is in general a very ugly place, full of very ugly people. Perhaps not by design, but by environment. The Heartland of America, where all bad Popular Vote policies are bred.  The term ugly American, is sadly enough used to describe our country's Aristocracy and Tourist contingent lucky enough to make it off this continent. None of which, or very few of whom ever come from Kansas. It's a sorry state of affairs that most Americans judged in this negative light are the privileged. If Europe and the world could catch a glimpse of Kansans, the term Ugly American would be lifted to new heights.   But I digress, I was ugly and so were they and my low self-esteem was my lowly state of honesty to myself and their Good Christian lying abilities were their ticket to heaven and a way of self denial.  I might have hid from my ugliness behind little self-confidence...  p. shaw
       
     

and always the one's who were barren recommending my future hand in marriage to their nearest neighbor's young daughter, each and everyone the ugly duckling of the county.

I was no catch either mind you, most certainly not in my J.C. Penny Sunday's best that I loathed to wear and especially in the self-conscious state of glowing-red-pinch-bruised face and my shameful 70's Kansas Farmer hair cut.

Before we get to this thing I noticed about girls let me tell you two other things I am sure of, first. One I recognized at that early age and the other something that only comes in hindsight.

The first, being a son of a Baptist Minister, I knew Christians to be extremely adept liars. Especially on the subject of situations that could pave their way to the Pearly Gates. I was an ugly boy, I suspected it then and know it now. Although by comparison I may not have been too hard to look upon. Kansas, the Midwest is in general a very ugly place, full of very ugly people. Perhaps not by design, but by environment. The Heartland of America, where all bad Popular Vote policies are bred.

The term ugly American, is sadly enough used to describe our country's Aristocracy and Tourist contingent lucky enough to make it off this continent. None of which, or very few of whom ever come from Kansas. It's a sorry state of affairs that most Americans judged in this negative light are the privileged. If Europe and the world could catch a glimpse of Kansans, the term Ugly American would be lifted to new heights. 

But I digress, I was ugly and so were they and my low self-esteem was my lowly state of honesty to myself and their Good Christian lying abilities were their ticket to heaven and a way of self denial.

I might have hid from my ugliness behind little self-confidence...

p.shaw

Not a Christian, not a Liar, not a K-Mart Shopper..
       
     
Not a Christian, not a Liar, not a K-Mart Shopper..

Not a divorcee, or barren slug with last night's meatloaf on her mind.

p.shaw

Variability.
       
     
Variability.

Their equations are supportive to the corruption. In fact, deeply rooted in the source of capability. Without the equation, their schemes would fail. And you are a numeral and a factor for their proofs.

p.shaw

Full attack!
       
     
Full attack!

Upon the occasion of the ants finding their way into our bathroom. 

p.shaw

Line Edit on The Mayans Invented Quaint
       
     
Line Edit on The Mayans Invented Quaint

from The Mayans Invented Quaint

p.shaw

another line edit on The Mayans Invented Quaint
       
     
another line edit on The Mayans Invented Quaint

from The Mayans Invented Quaint. 

p.shaw

Gathering our ground. Laying claims.
       
     
Gathering our ground. Laying claims.

We became pioneers. 

p.shaw 

said with cynicism: "nice piece."
       
     
said with cynicism: "nice piece."

On the table the sentence pulled itself together in a perfectly delicious rhythm. Then it was forgotten. How the words went together, their own form of poetry outside of anything we'd call poetry, much more important than their meanings and then they were lost.

What was at stake, an idea of how it feels to expect that nothing will change: that all of our stories don't matter.

p.shaw

run because i never did.
       
     
run because i never did.

Because it's muscle now or scar tissue it rolls off my back duck water that won't hold.

Nervous anticipation and a smoke helps considerably like numbing drinking myself to sleep which is no longer the option. 

Because it's muscle now or scar tissue feels comfortable now and I like it that way or I fool myself as I run because I never did. 

p.shaw

for Primeau: Taking notes.
       
     
for Primeau: Taking notes.

I started taking notes this time. I want to remember all the things I want to ask you when it's okay to. When it isn't weird to. There are so many of these questions, right from the beginning, I want to know about you. About so many people I never ask of, never ask about. I don't want to forget to ask or forget that I wondered. I started taking notes this time. 

p.shaw

the meaning.
       
     
the meaning.

The meaning means more than the acting. 

p.shaw

Hoe Down!
       
     
Hoe Down!

He called out, "Hoe Down! It's a Hoe Down.", and I dreamed the semantics of the street and the police instead. I interpreted his comment as "Dead Prostitute," or "Fallen Slut," very different than a country western square dance. 

p.shaw

for Maha: When the things you immerse yourself in seem too little to be living.
       
     
for Maha: When the things you immerse yourself in seem too little to be living.

The moon providing me the second-hand sun I so desperately miss.

I am beginning to pass – the demarcation line – leaving these days of necessary madness to one of contemplation, of the photos I made with the people I never felt a part of. Crossing the place where I can own that I have experienced. 

p.shaw

  

You can't take a vacation from yourself.
       
     
You can't take a vacation from yourself.

There are the pains, or pangs, you fell for things you should have done. I, for one, will never know the joy of being a father. This seems normal. That others too will miss this and we can identify with it. But then there are things like never knowing how it feels to be a surgeon, or a pilot, or a woman, or a priest, or you.

p.shaw

A mixed-up mediation of memory.
       
     
A mixed-up mediation of memory.

I don't know why I never wrote to you. Did I? Maybe it's because I did. Maybe it's because it feels like I could have. Because maybe so many of our talks would feel like letters to so many others – and if not – they would to us. We should have wrote.

p.shaw

 I touch those words    like: pain.   I make myself remember things I know and make myself see things I was  absent for.   I am sick of absence.  p .shaw    
       
     

I touch those words  

like: pain. 

I make myself remember
things I know and make
myself see things I was

absent for. 

I am sick
of absence.

p.shaw

 

the nature of racist euphemisms.
       
     
the nature of racist euphemisms.

p.shaw

 Loosen the jaw with drink  Open the craw  with think many things are easier.  p. shaw
       
     

Loosen the jaw
with drink

Open the craw

with think
many things
are easier.

p.shaw

the beginnings of nothing special.
       
     
the beginnings of nothing special.

On the walk
ahead. 

the path you paved becomes
not a cleanly way as you
move on, forgotten
the reason to move, running
forward to find another
chosen, unworn to
dirty and leave
behind a

Story wanted to be. 

p.shaw

Announcements you have to accept like a summons.
       
     
Announcements you have to accept like a summons.

We are sorry to inform you that there will be nothing special about your death. 

p.shaw

 I like to get drunk and pass out still wearing my jeans shirtless I awake feeling sexy, despite a dead animal • lying on my tongue as if I ran wild in a fantasy World.  p. shaw
       
     

I like to get drunk and pass out
still wearing my jeans
shirtless I awake
feeling sexy,
despite a dead animal • lying on
my tongue
as if I ran wild in a fantasy
World.

p.shaw

 and then I have these strange little moments where I wonder if this could be my life.  p. shaw
       
     

and then I have these strange little moments where I wonder if this could be my life.

p.shaw

where o' were.
       
     
where o' were.

Not part of the present and blind to
My future.

p.shaw 

On the occasion of caring little for anything other than words.
       
     
On the occasion of caring little for anything other than words.

I made the entire wall into a shelf for books. Beneath it the bed. I left a space in the shelves for where I originally imagined my head on a pillow to go. After one night I moved my feet into that space, instead sleeping with my head at the foot of the bed. Both in case of earthquake and so I could look down my length at the wall of my books as I drifted off, each night, to dream of each one of them...

p.shaw

assigning values.
       
     
assigning values.

Assigning a value to those around you is not an activity any majority, perhaps even minority, would revel in. Sick Fucks take pleasure in such. Sick Fucks whose minds work on the number. But that doesn't mean that Sick Fucks are the the only ones who have to engage in the assigning of value to human capital.  These are the unfortunate non-joys of a managerial set. 

When Managerial turns to Political, this is the course for despising what has to be done. Turning into a choice to judge and measure, and therefore for the Sick Fucks a "pleasure." It may not be the goal of the aspiration, yet it is undeniably intrinsic that the Sick Fuck has to not just assume the role but embrace it. 

p.shaw

on the occasion of remembering (which is always) or Why Anniversaries Do Little to Assuage the Moments You Remember that Have Nothing to Do With Anything.
       
     
on the occasion of remembering (which is always) or Why Anniversaries Do Little to Assuage the Moments You Remember that Have Nothing to Do With Anything.

The chance of long past decades circumstance and happenings. 
We are the cursed children of their rich undoings.

p.shaw

an another on the subject while we are at it.
       
     
an another on the subject while we are at it.

Q: Why do we think we have so much time? 

Q: How come we never get the same thing? 
A: We want.

All you've ever wanted: and she might as well not have bothered. 

Elegies: You don't deliver on birthdays anymore. 

Q: Why do we pick the birthdays? 
A: It's easy to feel like there will be more.

p.

shaw

An Applied Science:
       
     
An Applied Science:

Choosing where to be the most functional. 

Most being the operative(s). 

As in: 
     • The best I can do.
     • Not: Entirely.
     • Always: less than (<) perfect.

p.shaw

 

from when you give yourself a special gift.
       
     
from when you give yourself a special gift.

the fog this morning gives me an excuse for fire with my coffee.

p.

shaw

Friday is a day of vulnerability.
       
     
Friday is a day of vulnerability.

I often fear I am going blind which seems a lot like marching towards a death. I apologize to any of those who suffer this, or simply exist in an unimagined darkness, which to you is not a death but simply the life you must live. My offense to you is my weak-kneed fear of any darkness and of losing some more of what I have relied upon. I don't know if I can continue to lose any more than we all have. 

p.shaw

excerpt from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.  

What's Not Left.
       
     
What's Not Left.

Oh, how I want each of you to call me on my bullshit. For all of us to unmask the mystery which is nothing but the time we are allotted. There is nothing special of you, or me, but we can and we should and we will leave our artifacts that no one will remember no matter how hard we try. Unless we are lucky. And all this time we spent wondering why we care so little will matter not, for no one cared less than us. And finally, a generation is leaving that proof.

p.shaw

Can Dance pt.1
       
     
Can Dance pt.1

...inebriated as well but the stature of this friend does not quite earn him the title or recognition that the subject of my story has earned. The drunk held in his hands what appeared to be at first glance a well-wrapped package in butcher brown paper. Upon closer examination as the bus came nearer to a halt, I registered this as not a neatly wrapped package, or perhaps a bomb as I first worried about, by the way he held it outstretched before him – on both palms like a disease – but instead nothing more than a two-bit bottle of what was once fortified wine, wrapped in a standard lawful disguise.

from Tarantella of Trash
p.shaw

Can Dance. pt.2
       
     
Can Dance. pt.2

These are men, much like myself, who more than likely are well aware of garbage cans, their uses, and them as a resource. Yet this appeared as a pilgrimage. They circled the can wanting but from a safe distance/ Still the drunk held the offering out before him on palms face up and arms outstretched. 

from Tarantella of Trash

p.shaw

Can Dance. pt.3
       
     
Can Dance. pt.3

They danced the appropriate alchemy, using succinct movements meant to please the Gods of the Garbage. The dance, quite possibly, was an innate knowledge passed down genetically and just risen to the surface in a moment of need and destiny. I discerned this from a look of bewilderment that covered their faces, as if they were possessed and could not control their faculties, but entangled in requirements that happened all of their own accord. All this taking place while the head drunk still held his sacrifice stiff, stiff armed before him. 

The dance lasted for maybe five of those 45 seconds I was able to witness something that I wanted to believe was a singular event. And with the dance of the band coming to an end, the leader breathed heavy sighs as they all again gained control of their gout-ridden limbs.

from Tarantella of Trash
p.shaw

Lies at the expense of the self for the benefit of the others.
       
     
Lies at the expense of the self for the benefit of the others.

She broke it in the fight we had over chicken. I never told her. So that wasn't the lie. The lie was me just wearing it everyday anyway. It would have upset her to know she broke it. Or it would have just plain upset her that it was broken at all, adding to that world of entropy she so dreaded, all of it constantly stopping, crumbling and becoming worthless around us. So, I kept it from her. It was a lie to protect her from guilt and a lie to keep things even. Had I known it would be important to some day know the exact time, then I would have fessed up. I did it to spare her. Spare us. Spare me. 

p.shaw

what I miss about my father:
       
     
what I miss about my father:

Is asking him where we were when: 

I was too young to know why we were there, what our reason(s) for being there was, just even too young to know where we were. I do have a sense that we were there, those places, for dubious reasons, or sad reasons, or lonely reasons. They were passing-time moments. Passing-time moments in our life together but they were unacknowledged and off the grid. If he were still here I would ask him what all those motels, swimming pools and parking lots were actually all about. 

p.shaw

 When I was a kid, I used to think about taking rocks out of circulation. When I saw one I needed to have, I would pocket it. Then later wonder where it had been and why; how it got to me; where would it go when I'm gone; and how does it feel taking a break with me?  p .shaw
       
     

When I was a kid, I used to think about taking rocks out of circulation. When I saw one I needed to have, I would pocket it. Then later wonder where it had been and why; how it got to me; where would it go when I'm gone; and how does it feel taking a break with me?

p.shaw

of these dreams.
       
     
of these dreams.

these handful that haunt you? So red and vivid that it makes no sense that you can't find your way back to where they occurred. That the people who inhabited them with you cannot be contacted. These temporals that do not exist but still command an image, a feeling, sometimes even a smell in your memory. 

p.shaw

Getting past yesterday to get to now.
       
     
Getting past yesterday to get to now.

To fall into a meter of distractionlessness is not entirely easy. The body does not want to end its motion, the mind is trailing and leading, and the first thing, because there has to be a first thing which by its nature of having a place in an order means that there is still a momentum: it being the first thing following the last things that brought one here and the examination of this is not second.

p.shaw

The irony of time and lack of it.
       
     
The irony of time and lack of it.

"Voice Mail was the beginning of the end," voiced the aged guru. He sat amidst the rubble of ages gone by.

The decades beneath him distinguished by the sedimentary layers of bakelite, then petrochemical plastics and polystyrenes , then space age polymers. He rested his tushy on an ergonomic workstation created in the 80's and made obsolete in the 90's with discovery of rapid spinal degeneration at the time thought cause by the such devices but in reality...

"Yes. Oh, yes, my friend. Voice mail was the apple to our Adams, or Atoms actually, just as Virtual Reality and World Wide Webs were the evils to our Eves. A sad state of affairs, we just became too impatient. 

circa 1995.

p.shaw

sometimes what you want is nothing.
       
     
sometimes what you want is nothing.

It sounds small but I could see this being my life, again. Working, exercise, reading,  little jotting down like this of what pops into my head, nothing more and nothing less. 

A quiet tuna fish sandwich savored over the sink, drinking juice from the jug and the warm bath seems better to me than all the going and doing, running and hiding I have done for the last year.

Certainly not happier but also not that place of despair. 

p.shaw

 Because we made you uncomfortable, you are now missing who we are. That we change, and that truth to you exists in that past moment you hold onto, you will not see us. But for how you pretend we are.  p. shaw
       
     

Because we made you uncomfortable, you are now missing who we are. That we change, and that truth to you exists in that past moment you hold onto, you will not see us. But for how you pretend we are.

p.shaw

How you fucked me up:
       
     
How you fucked me up:

I believe we are doing work as a culture that really hurts. Some will say we are doing the best we can. Just like any organism, when we are in pain, we fight back. Not all of us. For those that are not holding old ground it is not easy. We just take the pain. I'm mad at my parents for not doing the work they should have done to have gone deeper, challenge their beliefs, rather than pass them on. They were horrible Christians. 

I was raised to objectify. It allowed me to distance myself from who you are. They taught me this. I can just judge you for how you look or what I want to assume you to be. The indefinite article: THE allows me to lump you into a category that diminishes anything about you, so I can have my opinions, and it saves me from needing to think any deeper.  

I was raised to objectify so I didn't have to actually know you. My parents wanted me to have this "safety" whether they knew it or not.

p.shaw

a report for our Mayor Mike McGinn, just in case he was wondering.​
       
     
a report for our Mayor Mike McGinn, just in case he was wondering.​

At the corner of 3rd & Pine, at the corner of 2nd & Pike, everyone is living up to the stereotypes. 

p.shaw

based on a time before cellphones
       
     
based on a time before cellphones

Based on a time before cellphones in Salt Lake City or any variety of town and city in the west.

I sit alone in a hotel room on the skirts of the Salt Lake City mormon founded territory of Utah, waiting as patiently as I can lie to myself about, waiting for an opportunity to conduct the business. What kind of business does not matter. 

This is business that seems to be endlessly pushed back in time frame, hour by hour, always an hour outside of my reach, continually notified by beeper. This is a time before the ubiquity of the mobile device. This kicking forward, hour by hour, the inevitably of my task – what kind does not matter – separates me from any freedom of leaving this room, tied to the room's lifeless phone, my only source of contact in this time before mobile, all at the mercy of someone else's schedule. Who does not matter but keeps me here, which is actually nowhere, when what I also don't have is a motor vehicle. 

I can survey the land outside my window. It consists of other "hotels," business parks and loops of concrete roads, and vacant bits of acreage available, commercial use only, which leaves very little choice even if I could leave by foot. 

The landscapes available are either over cared for in the case of glass boxed complexes that dot am originally desert valley, or trampled beyond recognition vacant lots awaiting development, but allow for econo-vans and pick-ups to park: for sale; or selling cheap polyester comforters adorned with mysterious howling wolves, fierce eagles, a tiger ready to leap off the fabric, all rendered white on black. I preferred when they were black velvet paintings but kitsch's commercial viability palls in comparison to Chinese made wares with such wide appeal. We are talking across the bottom three tiers of the lowest classes. We are talking across the lines of heritage. 

Shades of golf green turf berms and man made lakes, complete with waterfall and fountain features so natural looking of that desert paradise of the mind. Did we ever have a paradise desert in mind? 

I'm sure the patchwork of perfect dotted by vibrant commerce in garbage, makes some inhabitants of these glass boxes a little more comfortable, a little less depressed about where they have to work. "At least we have A/C."

Beyond the tailgated flag waving backends of pickups and a suspicious number of for sale 1974 Chevrolet Novas that line the margins of these acred vacant lots, the once desert dirt only has hints of their natural state. The composition of ground is whatever earth started here, mixed with concrete debris, weeded with seedlings of imported grasses that receive none of the care and regular waterings as their brother lots, from where they came from both concrete and grass.

 p.shaw

 

Numbing the crying.
       
     
Numbing the crying.

p.shaw

The last occurrence.
       
     
The last occurrence.

excerpt from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.  
an experiment of the story in 3rd person with the same voice of the 1st.

The last occurrence which led to the medication and not the therapy was the death. The death was relayed through the girlfriend whom he thought he could counsel, but couldn't because he had his own occurrence, his own death; so he couldn't help but he tried to help and so he acted as if he could counsel. She told him the story. Listening is part of counsel. He was able to listen. He now also had her occurrence and her memory as part of his which squared with the occurrence and with his own death at a proportion equal to the occurrences melding into one endless death, of two individuals, totally removed by circumstance or details and now the same. This all happened to the point that he could not distinguish her death from his and because of this he failed at his counsel, as the occurrence had failed her and because hers was now his, he never spoke with her again.

p.shaw

looking back...
       
     
looking back...

Fall makes me think of Kristofor Minta and Spine & Crown. Here is a clip from the original draft of The Mayans Invented Quaint. 

p.shaw

pretty.
       
     
pretty.

I can spit you a list 1000 miles long of all your wrong doings. Don't reach to me, I'm biodegradable in the road. You're holier than thou with a half life as long as the list of all your wrong doings...

pretty. (cont.)2
       
     
pretty. (cont.)2

...How long did it take for you to memorize everything you got to do to be you?

The soaping technique and the three shampoo, wash, rinse, wash for your doo. Waxing the primping, coloring the bleaching and whitening your whites: your whitest pearly brights: Brush. Brush. Brush.

How long did it take for you to memorize everything you got to do to be you?

The attitudes of your searches. searching. Questioning and condemning as you memorized. Did you build the walls, too?

How long too, to know where to go?

Where home-wreckers are show and accepted norm. But you, you will be the prettiest one. You don't smoke, you have all your teeth, a little chunky but the most expensive cloud perfume affixiates...

pretty. (cont.)3
       
     
pretty. (cont.)3

...with hallucination portraying your white trash normalcy. As a lute out to them, bring you in so I feel pretty.

I am, you know,
     I am.

I am because I spend a third of my life.
Because:
     in a bathroom
Because:
     in front of a mirror
Because:
     proving it
Because:
     to myself and
Because:
     to you
See? See I am pretty
   Admit it.

The camouflage fatigue they make me wear will never hid the $7.98 "ShineX3" that my shampoo collection, dime store affliction will give me.

I shine, see I am pretty and it only took...


 


 

pretty. (cont.)4
       
     
pretty. (cont.)4

...twenty seven years to memorize how to be so pretty and how to prove it. With sensory overload I dig my way into the desires you never wanted.

p.shaw

always remembering a lie my friend told just to hurt me under the guise of humor.
       
     
always remembering a lie my friend told just to hurt me under the guise of humor.

...while at the time I honestly was not feeling a single bit of anxiety about seeing her: when you said, what you said, to her, in front of me, for no good godforsaken reason other than to see me squirm; my life in one moment was reduced to shit. I could never tell you how that hurt, as that would only add to the humiliation, and it took me months to recover my dignity in front of you but it took never to get over that moment you threw me under a fleet of buses using only fourteen words.

p.shaw

​Until we reclaim the symbols...
       
     
​Until we reclaim the symbols...

...that are negatively associated with ideas we are dangerously close to running out of images are our disposal and therefore worthy of use to us.

p.shaw

it looks like so much work you make us tired just watching...
       
     
it looks like so much work you make us tired just watching...

and what would you become
        when you were everything
you wanted.

p.shaw

41007690-Photo.jpg
       
     
You wink well @ me...
       
     
You wink well @ me...

...and at what you perceive I to be.

"Are you an adjective," I draw. As I write, scattered, loose.

I am right as I draw: the loose ends are calling themselves together to finally get it right.

p.shaw

all the deaths get mixed up and the hauntings do not correlate to a logic of time or nostalgia.
       
     
all the deaths get mixed up and the hauntings do not correlate to a logic of time or nostalgia.

"The way it sounded," she said, " was like he threw a big book, like a dictionary, at the wall. He used to do that when he was mad, throw things. Not at me. I was never in the room. He'd be in another room, alone, and he'd throw stuff. A lot of things would break and I could hear that. The books would just make thumps. He'd throw them as hard as her could."

from I.H.A.D.T.M.M.C.W.R.T.C.A.O.M.M.I.S.

p.shaw

do any of you know her?
       
     
do any of you know her?

From the last time I was in New York City, I remember a girl. Actually, a woman who looked like a girl, who I sat across from in the tight corner of a bar at some pub whose name I don't remember. We never talked but I determined from behavior and muttered commentary that she preferred her beer from a bottle.

She worked at the pub, I had watched her come off shift and sit across that corner from me. I could imagine she knew the product and had served thousands of beers on draft and just as many in a bottle. Many of which she, herself, would have sent back. 

She bellied at the bar across from me and ordered Amstels, in the bottle. She'd sniff them before sipping and them send them back, which meant throwing them away. She did this five or six times. She wasn't in a hurry. They would be opened and put in front of her by a couple tenders who had replaced her for the after work rush. She'd just sniff and wait for a tender to make their way back to our end and she'd push it back at them. Finally there were a couple she wiped the lip of with a paper cocktail napkin. Then she'd sniff, these she'd take a sip, then send them back. Which meant throwing them away.

The pub's bottom line was not her bottom line. Eventually she switched brands, sniff, sip and finally, after almost half a case of waste she was drinking. She was pissed. She muttered to herself. She was protecting her patrons. She was making a point: these distributors bringing cases in that had sat too long on a summer dock of Staten... She didn't have a problem with the less discriminating patrons drinking the swill, but no, not her.

I imagined someone counted the bottles, waged complaints, but I never saw it. 

I miss sitting in those bars, catching things others didn't. Like her.

p.shaw

was You now Me
       
     
was You now Me

Me w/o skin.

I need that to become the quiet that I do.

p.shaw

 Since it really isn't: Why do we try to convince one another, or ourselves, that it is easier than it really is?     p. shaw
       
     

Since it really isn't: Why do we try to convince one another, or ourselves, that it is easier than it really is?

 

p.shaw

Between the coherent pain and bliss.
       
     
Between the coherent pain and bliss.

the old adage of playthings.

p.shaw

 What are you doing today? Is the doing all gone or is it all doing just no difference between any days left. What is left?  p. shaw
       
     

What are you doing today?
Is the doing all gone
or is it all doing
just no difference
between any days
left. What is left?

p.shaw

I know enough to know.
       
     
I know enough to know.

2.13.2012

Swing Swaying in the Breeze.
       
     
Swing Swaying in the Breeze.

Boys feeling for other boys in ways they were never taught to.

Girls feeling for boys in ways they didn't need to be taught.

Both dangerous for their time.

And when the moment breaks into a run...

p.shaw

argument that leads to the arrangement.
       
     
argument that leads to the arrangement.

This is where you see the true mettle of a man. How he confronts you is the nuanced portrait of the man – it does not matter what compromises either of you make. If someday you really need to manipulate this person, you must know his make-up, his moves.

Your lies angle you for the best outcome for today's folly. They teach you nothing.

p.shaw

 He could and did walk away from it, like a man leaving a horrible, ugly film that he refused to commit to memory.  p. shaw
       
     

He could and did walk away from it, like a man leaving a horrible, ugly film that he refused to commit to memory.

p.shaw

Nightstand Artifacts: 2.17.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.17.2014

2:15am
Without a family I have excelled at speaking with strangers.

4:37am
I'm most interested in you when you're human.

p.shaw

Fear and love so closely tied together.
       
     
Fear and love so closely tied together.

To give up an examination would allow love to have a chance in an environment of fear and the unknown.

p.shaw

on: not writing poetry.
       
     
on: not writing poetry.

p.shaw

I remember Belltown.
       
     
I remember Belltown.

When they all get drunk their worse worries become who would sleep with them considering their career choices. 

 

Nightstand Artifacts: 2.13.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 2.13.2014

3:11am

p.shaw

 Beyond the stomach I feel I clothe my eyes and See.  She makes me see the world with more senses  beyond the stomach I feel. I can see a set of double glass doors lit with rich tungsten it's a lobby, with a gargoyle who watches who enters. His eyes glow red.  Beyond the stomach I feel there is stairs.  p. shaw    
       
     

Beyond the stomach I feel
I clothe my eyes and
See.

She makes me see the world with
more senses

beyond the stomach I feel.
I can see a set of double
glass doors lit with rich tungsten
it's a lobby, with a gargoyle
who watches who enters. His eyes
glow red.

Beyond the stomach I feel
there is stairs.

p.shaw

 

Crossovers.
       
     
Crossovers.

How often do we wonder where the crossover is between where and how and the acceptance of now: mine and yours.

p.shaw

Homage to Before.
       
     
Homage to Before.

I think the same, or more, can be said about you from straight on, full front, chin down, eyes open, mouth is yours to decide.

But don't limit yourself from side to side.

p.shaw

leave myself at the floor.
       
     
leave myself at the floor.

p.shaw

I have a necktie. Pt.1
       
     
I have a necktie. Pt.1

It is not a special necktie in design or value. I purchased it from a street vendor in New York City whose primary reason for supply is to those who need a tie in the demands of: Spilled Lasagna; Perfume of a Lover; Office to Dinner without a Train Home.

I purchased the necktie because it reminded me of something and because I love neckties. The tie is the same pattern as a lining of a cheap coffin, the only one...

some truth is:
       
     
some truth is:

p.shaw

I have a necktie. Pt.2
       
     
I have a necktie. Pt.2

...I could afford. When I was shopping for coffins there was a great divide between affordable and tasteful. The lining, abhorrent, reminded me of grandma's upholstery. No offense to grandma, a couch at any time is subjective on context. A coffin is our only version of eternal.

I spent more, went into "hock," as they say, for a coffin I could live with, that my father could die, be dead with, for me, not him.

But the pattern, the necktie is fashionable now, garishly appropriate. It reminds me of debt. When I wear the tie and my wife remarks,
  "How Ugly."
I know it is right. I had stopped for it in the biggest of cities, with the greatest tastes, the tackiest of interpretations.

When I wear the tie I know that one day decisions will be made for me, and for others, even though my self is no longer a part of the aesthetic equation.

I choose to wear the tie on the days I fight...

 

on the occasion of 'finishing' something years in the making.
       
     
on the occasion of 'finishing' something years in the making.

I have grown to be afraid of my words. I have become scared to be alone with them. I am changing, into something I have always been from something I never was. This is realized with words and strokes of ink arranged on a paper. This scares me so I hide from it. Deny it by convincing myself I have forgotten or lost or changed.

p.shaw

when we began building...
       
     
when we began building...

I remembered.

I hated at times that you felt so uncomfortable with me that you neglected introductions or invitations into your life, then seconds later you welcomed me in. Mixed signals, I felt. The stress of the happening, must be something in me, I decided. I pondered alone, fluttering in and out of company with you each time more confused than the last.

I remembered the rule and came to the word "trust." Why not trust me when I had given all of my trust to you. Or had I?

p.shaw

I have a necktie. Pt.3
       
     
I have a necktie. Pt.3

...off my own fear of non-me. I wear the tie because you can't help to notice it, instead of me. My father, my grandmother would be proud: for different reasons.

Please return, if found, for reward.

p.shaw

Nightstand Artifacts: 6.10.2014
       
     
Nightstand Artifacts: 6.10.2014

3:37am

Every grief coming from wanting to be more, than I am.

p.shaw

18 miles.
       
     
18 miles.

You write 18 miles of crap and there are 12 paces that deserve to live. Accept that is the way of it and write miles uncountable of garbage to string together those paces.

p.shaw

but in what those words will stir within me.
       
     
but in what those words will stir within me.

Having recently endured an emotional affair that affected so many with loss and gain, love and hatred, insecurity and empowerment it isn't foolish to think the true essence of these words and experiences could be found in the folds of pages in the many books that have piled themselves on my nightstand waiting to be read.

p.shaw

 

 The essence defined in other's experiences who have made it to the page shaking down and out my essence before it has been truly defined.  p. shaw
       
     

The essence defined in other's experiences who have made it to the page shaking down and out my essence before it has been truly defined.

p.shaw

Four Parts of Accepting a Past.
       
     
Four Parts of Accepting a Past.

1. It will take longer than any of us are used to now and still that extra or too much or "waste" will not be enough because it was always to be more and we gave up on that a long time ago. Before we had the excuses of now.

2. How much killing of the self will resort in death and suicide? Short of the lack of breath, how will we measure completion?

3. What matters your touch? A simple pressing, a click, to satisfy all?

4. Every night she went to sleep with a family and husband she would abandon if he had only fought harder for her then and knew how to even begin the battle now.

p.shaw

Where I would hide. Part 1
       
     
Where I would hide. Part 1

My mother bought it at an antique auction in Chaney, Kansas when I was six. She bought three of them, all different shapes and sizes. The one that holds the pewter box with the rings and ribbon looked more like a pirates chest than a steamer trunk. At least more than the other two.

It was dirty. They were all dirty. But the pirates chest was the one I wanted and the first one my mother cleaned up and therefore the one whose dirt I remember most: the trunk's spider husks and cobwebs; flaking varnish and crumbling leather straps. I knew the location of each blemish and crumb as if it was the same day the farm boys who work the summer auctions, the ones who didn't have the skills to ride barrels, rope steers and train more for rodeos were the ones who worked to make a little extra at the auctions. Worked to come up with the cash to fix up their Dukes of Hazards Chargers before their sophomore years, before they couldn't work for their home field money after the family grain came to harvest. The extra hard working farm boys without rodeo skills loaded all the trunks my mother bought at auction on to the bed of daddy's truck and I notices all of the details as I climbed inside. The ride back home was more than an hour and she let me ride inside the confines of the pirate's chest loaded in the back of daddy's truck, surrounded by the smell of antique: mildew, rotting, musty, an old person's breath.

Mother got rid of the smell and the spider husks. She wiped down the flaking everything, inside and out, and sealed and preserved the trunk's state of decline under coats and coats of cancerous bronze paints and dull shellacs. The smell and husks were gone but my register of each blemish, the splinters of the lapstrake and frayed leather hinges were all encapsulated by her crafts skills, no longer authentic and just a cartoon view of somebody's past.

Not that I gave a shit about authenticity then. I didn't stop to consider the pirate chest looking trunk's romantic past travels, elegant wanderings or gritty tales of a pioneer's trail westward. I got enough of that from school field trips. There isn't anywhere else to go to in Kansas except for Forts, ruins of frontier towns, and the odd affluent mansion of some plantation owner who for whatever reason got run outta the south, where real plantations belonged, and decided that grain was now an acceptable fate, or maybe he was just too damn lazy to try for California.

p.shaw

Where I would hide. Part 2
       
     
Where I would hide. Part 2

Anyway, I didn't care where the trunk came from, that isn't the point. The point is I had a fucking Pirate's Chest. That's what it meant to me. And from the very beginning, this love affair with the detritus seared photographically into my mind meant that whatever I put into that steamer trunk, at whatever point in my life, there was always going to be a reason for it going in. The contents of the trunk have always been very clear to me and so they have always had that value.

The stranger part, the really odd part, is more often than not the treasured items are put inside not for safe-keeping but to get them out of the way, to hide them and even knowingly futile... to forget them. Which I of course cannot because they are inside the friggin trunk that I know everything about and subsequently knows much too much about me.

The box of pewter with its two rings and ribbon inside are inside the streamer where things go to hide. All of this is in a storage unit one floor beneath the surface of the hill I live on, technically eleven floors of building, in which I live in, between me and the rings and ribbon inside pewter, inside pirate's chest, inside storage unit.

In fact, all of this buried at the bottom of the chain-link fenced enclosed, 350 cubic foot area, designated and purchase by me to put things I'd rather not deal with on a daily basis, and these things less than others, therefore roughly 342 cubic feet of less treasurable, more acceptable by-products of my human existence have been strategically placed to obscure the wedding ring even further. The rings that I know exactly where they are located but that sometimes go missing. And at this point you are wondering about some things:

Is this a story about a ring or rings? Is it about a steamer trunk? Or maybe you are wondering if I'll just ever get to the point, or if there is a point. The point is: I'm a fucking liar.

Sometimes the wedding ring is missing. Yes, this is a metaphor but not because I'm writing it down. It's because it happens to me and I don't know why it happens but it does and I guess I'm...

p.shaw

knowing exactly where the ring is.
       
     
knowing exactly where the ring is.

p.shaw

Once.
       
     
Once.

This is from the one, about the time, when I was willingly placed inside a steamer trunk by my mother. I was too young to "allow myself" to get inside. It was suggested. My following action has come to be referred to in a family mythology as: volunteering.

p.shaw

doing time with Industrial Supply & Majick!
       
     
doing time with Industrial Supply & Majick!

p.shaw

on all the hurts we never admit aloud.
       
     
on all the hurts we never admit aloud.

That it took you two decades to get around to producing that beautiful image is a real disappointment. That we never got to a place where you could say the same to me, is a tragedy. Your ego never made room for mutual respect.

p.shaw

ARD_8.28.2015.jpg
       
     
 I stare and envy even as other women fill my thoughts. A woman reciting a poem to me is incredible. This is a night I can live for. Does she realize how her silhouette makes me feel? The words she shares with me I hope aren't empty. And the silhouette is merely extra in her seduction.  p. shaw
       
     

I stare and envy even as other women fill my thoughts. A woman reciting a poem to me is incredible. This is a night I can live for. Does she realize how her silhouette makes me feel? The words she shares with me I hope aren't empty. And the silhouette is merely extra in her seduction.

p.shaw