Oh, retreat from the waves

February 3rd, 2016

Oh, retreat from the waves
        endless waves and sand(calculating numbers-problem solving-)
to this delicious solitude&folded in your cool hemisphere sf=original output
divided by current scale
when the earth does sigh and weep
        laborious tide (oh)
i’m tossed out and about, mirrors and flames
rosebuds explode, from the bottom of  Jersey dirtystreets
strings and songs. hanging fellowships| strange sun} eclipsed shade
rest in soft peace sylvieGirl childof the sunlight keeper of
The clouds
          parading past us)slice of summer at the beginning of a
Revolution and evening traffic inches across Garden state asphalt
Farms plowed over cement foundations; plastic trees; fake flowers
dried up vegetables.Rotten sandwich\ my cleverSilence deep and dense
pilotLight_blUeFlame=my true love. Ladder touching the sky
lust trust dust mustThoughTs take root
On the side of the road I met my brother once
drunk as a skunk half in the bag two sheets to the wind geological shocks,
he spat his words into a browN paperbag.Blew it up with hot air
and
popped it.
the warm variety of risk, this poem My best ee C.imitation

the doctors misdiagnosis of bipolarI’m just nuts you dumbasshole

neondusk a reworked poem from 2000
wednesday3february2016

January 22nd, 2016
after the divorce...when you spend a whole day with your kids and then drop them off at their new home. as you watch from the car they stand at the porch and knock until the light goes on. and then you drive away without them. some images are just burned into your memory forever...

after the divorce…when you spend a whole day with your kids and then drop them off at their new home. as you watch from the car they stand at the porch and knock until the light goes on. and then you drive away without them. some images are just burned into your memory forever…

Photos Found on my Phone -3-

January 19th, 2016

January 14th, 2016

tunnelBLOG_3

One Summer Day a long time ago…

December 31st, 2015

blackandwhiteblog

Photo’s That Make You Think
Yeah, brother Gary or Gunk as he may be known as, suddenly started randomly texting me photos. So cool and it made me realize (like I’ve always known anyway) just how many photos are out there that I don’t have access too. But one of these photos really set me back. It was during one of our Uncle Brother’s visits after Dad died. We were a gang alright! All thirteen of us on the picket fence. Beverly hiding in the back. Gary always the clown. Bonnie and Bern little babies.
|click for a better view|
So Mom or Brother were able to harness us all together for a photo. How did they do it? How did they manage us or even feed us for gods sake? These were good times. I wish we took more photos but this one (a photo of a photo-means there’s better quality out there—) makes up for all the photos that were never taken. Thanks for sharing it.

Cloud Forest

December 31st, 2015

newCloudsleep

The one reason why I thought it was NOT a dream was because I distinctly remember being so excited at this situation that I just had to put my arm around my father. While the photo was being taken, I swirled my head in total ecstasy as to who I was with. I remember turning my head. That wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t deja vu either. It happened.

I’ve kept a watchful eye on my sugar intake. There are some very serious diabetes in our family, I want you all to know.you should really check your glucose level when you can. One of the major culprits in our sister Beverly’s death was diabetes. Our great grandfather had his left leg amputated due to diabetes. Our grandfather also had his left leg amputated and he passed away from diabetes and gangrene triggered by peripheral neuropathy.

Since we all reluctantly visit death in our imagination, we sometimes wonder how we will go. In the movie Big Fish, several children visit a haunted house where a witch with a glass eye lives. and she offers a view into her eye so that you can see how you will die. If you were offered a glance into that glass eye would you be brave enough to look?

It was on the bottom of a box. The box was underneath a pile of other boxes. Like twenty boxes. They were all filled with stuff from Whitman street. Most of it was old toys from Christmas’ long ago. A lot of papers and old letters. What I was looking and hoping for were photos. I don’t even know how I got here. It’s feeling like a dream. Maybe it is and I’ll wake up. Because Whitman street seems dead. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t even live anywhere close to this god-forsaken town. Up these crazy stairs. Doesn’t look like our old house. I don’t get it. Here is the room filled with boxes. The first bedroom on the right. By the upstairs bathroom.

Do you remember this Whitman bathroom? Once our dad spent all day assembling beautiful glass sliding doors on the bathtub so that we could take showers in a sort of luxurious way. He was pretty handy with a drill and hammer. I remember we hounded him all day as he worked on these sliding doors. Mom was excited because they were really nice looking. So when he is finally done, we all take a step back and look at this magnificent work of art. It has probably doubled the worth of our home, I’m thinking. We were the first family on our block with color TV and now we own the richest looking bathroom in Carteret. So we check it out, open and close the glass doors slowly. Yeah, everything works fine. Beautiful. Then someone, I don’t remember who, (probably Glenn did it) slammed the brand new door shut and the room exploded with a million pieces of glass.
What I remember most about that tragedy was my father who typically has a very short fuse, just shook his head, mumbled “It just wasn’t meant to be” and began cleaning the mess. Nobody got yelled at. Nobody got punished. The glass was removed but the frames that he spent hours putting into the wall remained. They were there for years. And for many years after he died. I always looked at them and felt them whenever I took a bath or shower. Touched the screws inside the track holding them to the wall and I thought of my father and his patience. His eerie silence cleaning up afterwards.

Einstein showed that mass and energy are the same thing. Based on this theory, time travel seems possible. If not now, then in the future. Parallel universes, or alternative universes or mirror universes have had a long run of popularity in science fiction and science fantasy, in both print and visual formats. One need only look at an “Alice in Wonderland” or look no further than the “Star Trek” universe (our Universe in less than obvious disguise) to view the near endless plot variations that such parallel / alternative / mirror universes provide our heroes and heroines. While there are some serious reasons to suspect that parallel universes do exist. Time travel is the name of the game!

stairsSo, in this dream, (which I thought was a dream) I went up the Whitman street stairs, opened a door to the first bedroom and found a bunch of boxes and began digging into them. In one window I could hear birds chirping and the sun was blasting through. When I opened the curtains and looked down it was the side of our house. When I looked up at the Summer sky, it was a cloud forest. There were a few of us playing whiffel ball and Toker was aimlessly walking around. I could hear Schnauzer barking in the backyard. Schnauzer was never allowed to wander around aimlessly. The window on the other side of the room was gray and I could hear the wind whistling through the cracks. I pushed the curtain aside and it was a blizzard outside. I could see Gitters house across the street and it was buried. Mr. Gitter was desperately shoveling the walk leading up to the door and Peanuts was barking like crazy behind him. So here I am in a room from the past split into two different seasons.
Downstairs I heard our whole family screaming. People were yelling Glenn’s name and I went to the door and opened it. At that exact moment Danny Braza was racing down the stairs to save Glenn’s life. A chicken bone stuck in his throat. This was the first use of our brother Glenn’s 16 lives.
I shut the door and realized I was way back in time. It seemed like I knew what I was looking for. Went back to the boxes and there on the bottom of a box filled with receipts and papers from Westfield Sewing Center was this photo. |Click HERE for a better view|
flattenFORblog4generations

In regards to a very interesting comment delivered to this blog

November 13th, 2015

Located in Comments on the post; Pawn to King Four

“I HAVE INFO RE: OUR UNCLE WHO WAS LOST ON A SUB AND FRANK GILL WHO WAS KILLED IN THE PHILLIPINES WW11 says:
November 10, 2015 at 2:00 pm (Edit)

MY FATHER, ARTHUR ,WAS FRED GILL’S AND CAROL GILL’S BROTHER”

This was posted Tuesday Nov. 11. Oddly the information which is very Veteran associated was posted the day before Veterans day.
To the best of our knowledge we did not know. Brother, Fred Gill, Carol and Joan Gill had another brother?.

We are asking and hoping that the gentleman, our cousin, can come back and email me.
Assuming he found this blog by the strategic tags I have placed with every post. (this is how we found Jerry Jones and family.

So come back cousin please! We would love to hear from you!
My email is:
neondusk@hotmail.com

November 13th, 2015
loves her sleep. (at 48 Mahar)

loves her sleep. (at 48 Mahar)

Fear and Mayonnaise

November 12th, 2015

portrait of the poet at 55. (written Aug 25 2015) why else wouldn’t our country be depressed? the world doesn’t seem to be getting better. there is always a new terrorist group waiting in the wings. the shootings are getting closer together and louder. we all look around suspiciously even while waiting for our Starbucks®. Visions of Sandy Hook crime scene still haunt me. my imagination is a gore manufacturing machine influenced by the media and Hollywood CGI.

the tomato garden was exhausted so i reluctantly retired it early. our old neighborhood. they watched us carry our life in brown grocery boxes into waiting cars. the birds still chirp, the dogs barks echo and the ice cream truck still screams from down the street. no, sorry it wasn’t white flight. we loved you neighborhood, you are forever in our hearts.

I’m not selling any of my shoes at the garage sale like the women did. because I need all mine. I still have plenty of walking to do. In a micro-second at work, the server crashed and the back-up followed. So the horrible equivalent of my job’s building burning to the ground happened one hot Summer morning. the smart girl moved 288 miles north and my son waded into a diverse dormitory somewhere in middlesex county new jersey. my other boy stepped off a plane from United Arab Emirates with a red face blasted by sand and sun.

I was just getting into cooking when a grease fire wiped out my ambition and abilities. for me, cooking is all about timing. start the potatoes first and everything after that will be dandy. when the art students finally leave, the teacher takes off her pants to get comfortable. she slices the last of the tomatoes and cucumbers and makes a sandwich with her made-in-Passaic-ghetto-bread. she calls it “starter” bread because the dough is passed on from generations when it “started” . this is also called “poolish” (and old English word for Polish) or “mother bread”. Let it be known that there are some Mother Bread hundreds of years old. meanwhile in New Brunswick I heard my son say, “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up” but if you are only now choosing classes in for your first semester in college you better find that out quick. actually I’m still searching for that what I wanna be when I grow up and I’m bald with a prostate that is giving me fits.

if i didn’t announce my birthday it would have rolled into oblivion because everybody was too busy packing. packing to move to Boston. packing to move to New Brunswick, packing to move to a new place. packing. packing. packing. we have to go. we have to move. we have to pack. there’s nothing more sobering then being told you have to move. you have to move because the landlords son has a severe gambling problem and he needs the money to play poker. if i didn’t insist on a birthday present I would have got another heartless shirt or hat.

so here I am at 55 finally learning some important lessons. number one: speak up for yourself! hey it’s my birthday and I don’t want another dumb hat or shirt. thank you very freaking much. sheeeesh, people just don’t know nor care. ahhh, George is ok. leave the old man alone, throw him a Giants shirt. so I said something. buy the old man a blue iPod nano you unimaginative fools so he could listen to his weirdo music.

and I wish someone would have taught me lesson one from the very beginning. instead i was walking around my awkward adolescence like a dumb ass Billy Pilgrim just taking shit and more shit and then even more shit. people figured me out right after the initial introduction, oh this dude is a door mat. walk all over that. waking up on a bunk bed and facing each day with incredible amounts of FEAR. afraid to smile. afraid to talk.

I was a bundle of fear because my father was standing tall on my hero pedestal when he decided to take a quick detour into the silent abyss and my mother decided to punish me for the rest of my life for not accepting her sexual advances when I was 12. some people could shake off not having parents and actually use it to catapult higher in life. But I jumped on the springy diving board and it snapped like a fresh pea pod in half.

also this past summer of 2015 we attempted a vacation somewhere by the ocean. but nobody was really there. everybody’s mind was somewhere else. did you actually taste the ocean? did a wave slap you in the face? did we ever make it to the top of the lighthouse? the much anticipated dolphin watch turned out to be mechanical dolphins spinning around on the oceans surface.
although we had a high room with a good view everyone was looking at the future and worrying. our landlord put the phone on hold for three days to and when we finally answered it we got kicked out on the street. a mysterious detective from our home town called while we were “on vacation” and was asking questions about a missing person. one day on the beach the wind was so strong our chairs and umbrellas were just about ready to launch into outer space until we gave up and went inside.

my ode to Alcoholics Anonymous begins every morning with waking up crisp and clear like a young child’s first pair of glasses…

like a patch of blue sky on a black stormy day

like a pond, still but deep

like a happy dog with two tails

like wet cloths left on a cloths line for three days

like a brain freeze on a hot summer day in front of Krauzers 1974 holding a Frozen Coke®

like Jim McSherry sarcasm during a serious conversation

like feeling the back of your head after a crew cut

like eating my mothers potato salad on a wooden bench in our backyard on Whitman street

like taking an ice cold shower on the hottest day of the year when you have no pool

like taking LSD for the first time

like putting mayonnaise on your french fries

...somewhere by the ocean. but nobody was really there...

…somewhere by the ocean. but nobody was really there…

“i was the monster”

October 28th, 2015

SLEEP_LOG-OCT_2015
tHis was a fairly simple dream but with complex themes wE had just moved into a new living space and there were boxes everywhere oNe on top of the other i could hear kryhas voice but i couldn’t see her tHe people that helped us move were all in the backyard sitting on our back porch laughing and eating hotdogs and hamburgers i could see them thru a window from the kitchen iT jolted me to see that the man outside barbecuing and telling obscene jokes was ME! i actually felt my heart stop and a electric tingling went down my back tHe man barbecuing suddenly looked at me staring out the back window nOw my dream had became a nightmare and i wasn’t in a deep enough sleep to realize it oH hell, this is just a bad dream I thought, and proceeded to create a monster with my imagination eVery nightmare needs a monster iT was a small two headed thing in the garden and it was growling and tearing up kryhas flowers and my vegetable plants nOw i knew it was a dream because we just moved and we had no time to plant anything aT this point i thought it would be a good time to walk outside and confront all the people and monster in my dream i pointed to my myself, who was standing behind the Weber® grill and said ‘what the living hell do you think you’re doing?!’ eVeryone stood up and screamed because apparently i was the weird one here. i didnt belong here i was the monster tHe thing in the garden jumped out to protect the barbecue guy (me) from me tHis is where the dream went out of control because i didn’t arrange this scene like this wHy am i the outcast? tHe two-headed dog jumped up and grabbed my arm! it was growling and hanging from my forearm aS much as i shook it, it wouldn’t let go aNd my arm starting hurting and tingling eVeryone in the backyard circled me and the monster tHey were smiling and still eating their hotdogs tHe pain in my arm became unbearable and i suddenly woke up i was sleeping under my arm again and it had fallen asleep now the tingling in my numb arm was intense and i was a happy that i woke up bEcause when i thought i had the dream under control —- it wasn’t even close.