Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, February 3, 2018

In the middle of our early morning rituals

In the middle of our early morning rituals, the moon fell into eclipse. Blood red shades. From the front door we watched the process— the unfolding dark: my son, my father, and I.

Even though he is seven, my son’s weight remains manageable, a light burden to carry downstairs and across the house, so I held him close to watch the disappearing moon. He wrapped his arms around me tight, still half asleep, whispering I love you into my ear. Watching me watch the moon.

Trying to catch up with flow of the past expectations. In a bluntly honest fashion. Staring at a blank page until a sense of snow blindness tricks the pupil, constricting the lens.

Looking for solace in Sylvia Plath's journals—that scratchy rhythm, obsessive and demanding want for writing. Parallel that intensity towards A.'s insistence towards M.

As the intoxication of hunters, sleeping fireside after the afterwards, beyond the rifle shot. Collapse of prey.
                                                  Wounded bear. Fallen deer.

Final Observations for January

1. curve of his neck in winter, calculating arithmetic

2. an unopened invitation left on the bureau mirror

3. bar of apricot soap still half wrapped in tissue

4. after midnight, his drawn out sigh slowly released into my hands,

5. that sudden epiphany exposed

6. with all the bedroom windows opened

7. she circles her rug-bed three times, then settles down, tail curled underneath

8. unwashed plates cluttering the kitchen sink

9. our neighbor's house across the street—his bedroom light switches on

10. bleached sheets hung out to dry in my grandmother's backyard

11. bowl of uncooked rice

12. screendoor springing back against the house without a warning

13. a tarnished coin in my back pocket

14. —pull of slow moving train across the roadway, heading toward a Blood moon

Saturday, January 27, 2018

Continuous Whining

This week is a repetition of last week. And the week before. A perpetual cycle of negation. As I have already mentioned, it keeps proving harder and harder to find an alternative voice, to sort out a different persona for narration of experience--one other than my own. That habitual, personal cliche. That well-worn complaint.

It all comes down to the fact I have fallen out of my usual writing patterns. My usual ebb and flow of words. Too many distractions. Conflictions and obstacles. Mixed emotions. The fan buzzes overhead--managing to shift my attention span, cause a broad range of sleepiness, soft drone of electricity. As a purring. A pulse. Or your fingers slipping across my shoulders.

Even the fragmented imagery fractures in furious, odd patterns, out of sync with my primary intentions. The rhythm I mean is breaking lines into irregular, nonsensical phrases that do not relate to one another directly.

End result: feel the need for insistent, continuous whining.

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Without True Cohesion

New ideas were slow in formation this week. Selfdoubt still plagues even now after so much personal development of style and achievements with writing over the past few years.

Furthermore, a damn popsong keeps filtering through my head, throwing my concentration off from my warm room project—the song’s meter mangles the sought-out rhythms and harmony for the verse, altering the patterns I want to use— makes my words clutter, fall offkey, falter.

Adding to my frustration: I cannot bend the poem to suit the selected persona—his voice runs counter to my own: confident, angry, rebellious, defiant, hints of respect (when he feels it is earned) … everything I develop for this new voice, for this personality crumbles into further unnecessary fractures without a sense of connections, without true cohesion… the poem inches forward, when once it galloped…

Probable Manuscript Titles
• 1913
• 1913: The Warm Room
• Warm Room, Open Window, Unmade Bed
• the unmade bed translated
• river/fractured
• fracture(s)
• suspended world
• remains of an uncalm world
• the wild green outside
• nervous rookery

Saturday, January 6, 2018


Midweek I gained the perfect idea for revving up this sleeping blog—but within a few hours, distractions erased any beginning phrases and paragraphs. I even weeded out the back garden, cleared out dead sabers of sleeping irises, all in the hopes of charging up a new idea, a casual commentary for development.


The blank page stares back: a grass field frosted over, trapped in a limbo, a paralysis of expectation.

What do the following items have in common?

• lit match / unlit match
• crumbs of bread loaf
• radio static
• quoted line from Chaucer, stripped from a notebook
• slow ache along the lower back
• open book
• closed book
• unread newspaper
• hands cusped near your face

Sunday, July 3, 2016

fractured line 838

838. our boy mumbles in his sleep—low on the landscape                     thunder motions—fades

playing with the haiku form— @HaikuSentence

Saturday, July 2, 2016

fractured line 837

837. five days after summer solstice, we shave back my hair;                     rain will fall soon

playing with the haiku form— @HaikuSentence

Friday, July 1, 2016

fractured line 836

836. shadow of a pen hovering over the page; the neighbor’s                     hounds bark

playing with the haiku form— @HaikuSentence

Thursday, June 2, 2016

Prompt / Poem / Poetry

[A Collective Meta-Modern Poem]
from Students at Wharton County Junior College,
English Composition 1302-22187
She holds her breath when
    crossing over fractured lines
in the sidewalk—
          (D. G. Smith)

Creative ideas launched roots in the earth,
endlessly growing.
Words entered the mind, emotion would forever be flowing.
Thoughts resembled petals,
breath taking and unique.
The sun too, sparked new creation each and every day.
Seeds scattered,
therefore lyrics spread.
Creativity was recorded for all to witness,
there would be no decay.

          (Arianna Presas)

As a whole, it is an item of fashion to be proudly seen,
Yet as an individual work of threading, it is useless;
Merely an idea that finds itself quickly disposed of
Without other similarly constructed pieces
To tie together- a modern statement
That once in the vogue,
May be thrown out as an embarrassing rogue
Or hailed as a timeless work
To be mechanically replicated many times over.

          (Miranda Smith)

I came from my father’s fertile soil. I began to grow; one stem and a leaf. I breathe in what is spoken and shower in discoveries. I stay in light or wither away. Eventually, I will plant seeds, being a fertile land for them like my father was for me.
          (Allison Moreno)

High above all, with a unique perspective of the vast world
Gains knowledge from book worms and distant travels
When understood leaves the mind flying high

          (Morgan Weaver)

A trash can. In the sense that we can throw in our feelings, memories and other meaningful things. In life, these things will always pile up at the landfill and make us who we are as unique individuals.
          (Alina Mohammed)

You are the switch to your light. You are the zipper to your leather jacket. You control all your fantasies. It can have like or as, but remember not all men wear pink. It may take a century to write it. However, I do not see Jay-Z complaining. Do not hang me for that one. It is all to answer a simple question.
          (Rolando Ramirez)

Filled with colorful flowers and scented meanings.
In an open field, where birds are set free.
Flying through the air with surprising and clever intentions.

          (Ashley Nguyen)

Strong yet fragile. The dragonfly, through echoes travels through a short life.
          (Chris Garza)

Friday, May 13, 2016

Prompt / Poem / Poetry

[A Collective Meta-Modern Poem]
from Students at Wharton County Junior College,
English Composition 1302-22187

Find out more information regarding Mark Rothko.

—a luna moth— on a broken bottle.
          (D. G. Smith)

We look around; everything is beautiful.
We smile, breathing in the aromatic air.
Peace is what we feel as we feel the rush around us.
Streets bustling with life, the shoving of shoulders.
     We are screaming, so we write it.

          (Julieta Barreiro)

The mind's eye witnesses that which blooms plentifully, a sudden unison of limbs approached the door, that who watches assists their passage and notices the stray reminder hobbling behind—
          (Angel Guzman)

Spinning fans, the equivalence to running thoughts. But a reflection of yourself is just a piece of glass where a person can see themself. Looking at the base of a statue, before one looks up, how will you know what the rest of it looks like if you don't keep looking up?
          (Michelle Vivot)

Ideas are lurking in raw images such as mother nature herself. She provides inspiration to a poet, such as my photo of a flower and the fly. Both are creations of God and mother nature. Inspiration is the key to create a rhyme or a story. It could be different colors, shapes, objects, or even sizes, the outcome can be as strong as the winds of a hurricane.
          (Hieu Lieu)

A tree holding on to existence,
from the rigors of its creator.
Flowers closed to the eyes of the world, as
a car abused by its brother.

          (Jubal Velho)

I always get my hand dirty,
I devour the Earth and make anew.
There's many of my kind, but some of us take hours
and some of us take days.
We sing as we work to make the time go by and we start to rhyme, but that's what they want.
Sometimes it's frustrating, I give them what they desire and I get criticized anyways. Only my brothers on the field can relate.

          (Pourya Jannesari)

I am ugly and boring to look at,
But once dug deeper people fall in love. A beautiful creation comes out of me, when people pour their emotions out.

          (Sanam Walimohammad)

It begins with the roots, they need water and nutrients to grow, but some leaves and flowers do not bloom like expected. Not all flowers reach their full potential, but that might be the beautiful part to it.
          (Brianda Avalos)

A table, a spot for a young woman full of emotion and allure, to bring
forth an expression of herself to her peers.

          (Bryan Poole)

A blossoming network of life,
Radiating outward metamorphically
Cycling through each new sunrise brand new.
The energy flows downward,
Touching everything and bringing light.

          (Jewel Korman)

Different shapes, colors, and sizes.
Inspiration for something magical
But lost like a dog in a forest
And strong like a man of faith.

          (Kellie Flores)

unsrcrewing the cap of a bottle, the ocean water flows out and water will contaminate— but with the cap, your body guard will protect the water from getting out
          (Mohammad Memon)

In a world full of greens and blues,
Man creates an alien structure that, stands taller, metallic, sharper,
It stands out, opposing natural thought,
Combining two forms of two different cultures, becoming one stage.

          (David Pichon)

A color of sun,
A source of happiness,
The water makes me alive!
I can seduce you with my soft hands,
As well, put you in danger with my sharp thorns.

          (Umme Ammara)

It is a foundation which connects things whether they are big or small.
It is the soul of a larger organization, which continues to grow stronger each year.
They evolve as time goes by holding onto their true form of Mother Nature.

          (Anam Mohammad)

A yellow bloom speaking sounds of love
Unfolding it'a silk petals in rhythm
Expressing feelings surrounding its green nature
          (Shagufta Dadabhoy)

They come in many different shapes, sizes and lengths,
All sorts of different colors may defy its outer beauty,
However analyzing it throughly may show the inner beauty,
Over the years, seasons change and they evolve and go through the cycle of life and death.

          (Soha Mardiya)

What rocks do I see?
There are gold, brown, gray and white rocks on the ground.
There are beautiful and pleasant.
What are they made of that I could think?
They are all made the rocks harder than the sponges so I would not be able to touch with my hands outside.
How were they reflected?
The rocks were reflected so bright and well organized, it can be valuable over the hot sun what I have been understating them so well.

          (Wen Osaretin)

I go against mother despite whatever she says— I'll protect you because mother is a moody woman, I'll defy her for you through a sea of similarity. I will make you unique— mother may try to change us but we will remain different
          (Shayan Lahijani)

Nature is the expected and the unnatural and synthetic is poetry. A fountain is powered by pumps and chlorine keeps it clean. Yet, the unnatural and the natural coexist as one.
          (Anna Hickey)

Which seat do I choose?
The emotions coming down, deflecting the sun from my reflection.
The angles all vary.
Different viewpoints to help think louder, breathe softly, and get a sense of belonging.
Which seat do I choose?

          (Nadine Hassawi)