Tehachapi's Artist Community - grungehobbit.com

Heading up the trail to Emerald Lake
heady behind your distinct earthiness,
jealous of your connection to it all,
drunk on your affection and our loneliness.
Isolated pockets of peace above
bridges made from two logs lashed together,
creeks flowing beneath our swinging feet,
bear country around us, large boulders
in the middle of stream-etched glades,
carpets of saplings and moss.
It is so sparse to one accustomed to cities,
but so lush with simple elements
and the gossipy lives of trees.

All right, I have two versions of a poem that I've been eager to finish.  So, I'm going to put both up and I'm hoping for opinions on whether one is more worthy of finishing or if they're both doomed.  Here goes:

Version 1:

My uncle's heel was cut off by an auger.
Many years earlier,
his uncle fell under the plow.

My girlfriend lost her hand to a compactor,
one slip-up. Flies hovered for days.

Sometimes we only survive by submersion.

All farmland is stained.
Neat rows of corn that sprout

I feel the encroachment
of madness
slipping like semen
from the hollows of my body
a phantom raindrop
before the downpour
it is there in the mirror
it is there under my skin
behind my eyes
in the choke of my throat
it is there
when you look at me
when I take my clothes off
to shake out the sticky
relationships like spiderwebs
the dust of obligation
the spector of a lost destiny

On my right are my intentions
hands low and open in surrender
it is just as well
that I die incrementally

I am the one
that misunderstands.
Fraudulently confident.
I am the one
that misunderstands.
It was a catalyst,
a catalyst,
for the collapse
of my crutches.
Something you said.

I am the rain
falling
in sequence
comfort in clouds
heavy to fall
in sequence
in rhyme
on the doorstep
attended only by
the fallen leaves
that were trapped
against the bricks.

Everything is a war
sight pause a
glandular reaction.

The pessimist
that everyone thinks
is an optimist.

there was once a battle
where a man died
there was once a time
when a woman died
a fever kills children
more often than a bomb

bellies outstretched
bloated, lying in ditches,
maggots and stench
are a part of death

liquifying organs and
excrement release
are a part of death
as well

It should be noted
that the brain dies,
sometimes slower
than anything else,
and our energy
leaves us,
survives us,
and this is also
a part of death

habits cross,
take two steps back,
vernal smiles
and eyes.

the simple
hunch
a sincere
truth

a lifetime
of choices
mean things
come

sooner
or later

I can't help but post a few of these things...  I wrote these way back in high school!  They're exercises from a Creative Writing class.  They're beyond ridiculous!

A letter to my inner artist:

Hi!
How are you doing? I know you’ve been a little sad lately, and annoyed. I promise to get rid of the squeaky pencils as soon as I get new ones. I know how much they irritate you. Would that make you happy? …Perhaps? We haven’t been talking as much as we should, and I’m sorry. Mea culpa. I just start thinking about all these other things, and then (poof!) you’re gone.
Of course you really are much too shy. The moment I see you, you go and hide behind something. But I know you’re there. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re very cute, in your little white dress, bonnet, and shoes. Everybody will say, “Oh, how cute!” when you come out. But, oh, I guess that’s not what you wanted, is it. You want them to take you seriously, but not too seriously, right?
Well, don’t worry about what they think. My advice is to put your all out there and just let people think what they will. True, some might think you’re weird, but some might really enjoy it. What? You don’t believe me? Just think of how Erin reacts when she sees your work. She always loves it. Always think of Erin, because there are people out there like her who will love what you write. All you need to do is show them.
Don’t give up. Never think that anyone is better than you are just because they’re stranger. That doesn’t make them more creative, especially if no one even understands them. Always keep a base in reality. Don’t get discouraged by unfinished stories or poems gone wrong. Every one has their learning experiences. Every one has plenty of ‘those days’.
And lastly, cheer up. Not everyone gets the attention I give you. You should feel honored! (J/K) And I promise an Artist Date involving coloring books and crayons. Much love.

Signed,

Your big person

As an outsider,
I remember delivering generators.
I was in Lake Charles
when Katrina came ashore.

I saw the bands
Like a galaxy bearing down.
I passed the displaced
Sleeping on the ground.

The wind caught us in Memphis
Blew the mosquitoes out.
For such a violent woman,
She trembled and she pouted.

I never saw New Orleans
Except in postcard pictures.
What I saw was what I heard
From CB talking truckers.

I have no skin.
I am even.

The choir of crickets
continues into dawn
when the tangerines
drip drip to the ground.
The hillside of daisies,
like ivy, creep.
If they weren’t so pretty
they’d be weeds.
Some people, if they
weren’t so pretty,
they’d be weeds.
But under the daisies
is an infestation of
swarming red ants
like a liquid disease
that swallows the
tangerines and kills
the passive trees.

I have no skin.
I am even.