New Series

Rough Draft Of "The Truth About Angels" (working title....not sure I like it)

(1)

i've seen angels
pawning halos
desperate for money
to spend at reservation casinos

withering from withdrawal
strung out and crucified
relapsing after only 3 days

i've seen angels
reading poetry about god
trying to remember
what he looked like

satan, an angel once told me
is not all fire and brimstone
but the place
in the pit of your stomach
that tells you
you're alone

some angels hear
the rapture trumpet call
on a daily basis
to them
it's as common
as airplanes


(2)


on Sunday
I saw at angel
in a wheelchair
trying
to enter a church
that wasn't wheelchair
accessible

hitting it's wheels
against the stairs
watching faithful Christians
throw pitiful
and hateful glances

Hewbrew 13:2
Do not forget
to entertain strangers,
for by so doing
some people
have entertained angels
without knowing it.

watching
for a few minutes
many people walked by
someone spat
"pathetic"

(3)


when looking through
the pawn shop looking glass
we saw halos
next to wedding rings
thought it'd be funny
to buy one

use it as a frisbee

the next day
must have been the fall of man
because we used that halo
to tie off
in a bathroom
smelling of secretion
and sacrament

that kinda bothered me
but didn't stop me

love, you told me afterwards
is God questioning
the morals of angels
before sentencing them to
earth

(4)

Ways to piss off God


i stopped believing
in god
(which is the only way
to piss off
an omnipotent being
who feeds on faith)

--

i used to talk to god
then he stopped listening.
so i started swearing at him
and he got offended.
stupid god.

--

i bought a church
and let it deteriorate.
refused anyone
who wished to worship.

--

working on....

when looking through
the pawn shop looking glass
we saw halos
next to wedding rings
thought it'd be funny
to buy one

use it as a frisbee

the next day
must have been the fall of man
because we used that halo
to tie off
in a bathroom
smelling of secretion
and sacrament

that kinda bothered me
but didn't stop me

love, you told me afterwards
is God questioning
the morals of angels
before sentencing them to
earth

(revision)

I'm coming home
often in alcohol
sworn at
in church hymns
which lust after us in bedrooms

the postcards i sent
and the poetry I wrote
litter your bathroom
where the razors
and the soap
echo evident emptiness

the person i once knew
writes only songs now
visits my arms like a stranger
never has the intent of coming back

our assimilation
and comprehension
of these augmented
adjacent sounds

is only the apparent behavior
of perversion;
love
and redemption

(poem)

place prejudice
in lust and resentment

only to come home
to alcohol
church songs
combined in bedrooms

postcards and poetry
litter the bathroom
where the razors
and the soap
echo evident emptiness

the person i once knew
writes only songs now
visit my arms like a stranger
never has the intent of coming back

the assimilation
comprehension
of augmented adjacent
sounds

is only the apparent behavior
of perversion;
love
and redemption

Submarines!

Have you heard this band? The Submarines are a soft pop duo emphasizing in a reflective, bittersweet but yet plaintive collection of songs. Honeysuckle Weeks, released in May of 2008, is a happy and sweet album which has a consistency of well put together pop songs. I recommend whole-heartily.

Also, Cheap Wine and Poetry: Thursday March 26th 7pm. Be there.

(check this guy out) (totally stolen from Juniper) ( I am so in love)

Post Fraud
A poem by Charles A. Rogers

I made a list of
My enemies
And it is you
Sleeping

I may have your blood vessels
In my hands and between my teeth
(and that most likely will not change
whether or not I return to exist
in this moment on into infinity)
I have no expectations of rewriting that list

In fact,
You can have my pencils
I've made my point

---

Wait a Minute
A poem by Charles A. Rogers

So, Spider-man lost
His job as a super hero
And Peter Parker lost
His job as a photographer
So Peter took his outfit
And got work as a male stripper
So now he drinks a lot
And MJ moved in w/ her mom
Because he hit her
When he was drunk

Happenings and Happenstance

I'm needing models (of sorts) to take portraits of. I have a bunch of black and white film and need to take photographs of faces for my own enjoyment. Let me know if your interested.

On Saturday, March 7th, at 7:30 PM, Artocratic Presents
Greg Dember,
Evan Gross,
and Willem van Spronsen/ the Super8

at the Neptune Coffee house 8415 Greenwood Ave. N. Seattle

I am good friends with Willem/The Super 8 and they can be found here: www.myspace.com/thesuper8band

Well worth the check out at least.

Speaking of bands, Saint Brickhouse is changing to Mahoot and has some wicked songs up at:
www.myspace.com/mahootmusic

Other than that, I wrote my shitty poetry I then proceeded to throw out. I lost my work when I lost my harddrive so I'm struggling trying to re-create and innnovate new stuff.

Been working hard on this so called "memoir" which is primairly about two very different points in my life I merged into one. Its "creative non fiction" for sure.

Here is something small I was wrote one night with my head in my clouds but my feet hung tight to the ground

Passive moments in wintertime as it paved into spring. I left you when the morning arose and I found myself a new person hiding beneath this skin. Finding love in overlapping circles of social grace and personified glory. A car driving north to friendships on tin foil and lace. A clean house and a romantic gesture leaves traces of forgotten romance that died in early 2004 with a man, a guitar and a hope for the future.

There is a silence in the early morning when the rest of the world is sleeping and I’m taking pills and drinking drinks to keep the hurt from turning to hate. There is nothing else to say. I swear, I know it’s true. I keep remember the day you first left, the cocaine on the floor, the trip to the dump. “I *heart* huckabees” on the television. The kisses and the promises that we would never keep. There is a tired romance that comes with greyhound terminals and the lovers I have left for dead at them. Leaving always, for farms that hold no home. Its as if holding you in my arms were as if holding strangers to lose change they ask.

There was a connection so deep between us it scared the life out of anybody who came close. Or, at least, that is what you told me. It explained a lot. I tried, for months I tried, to figure out how to say hello without sounding so cruel. Then I tried to say goodbye without sounding cruel. It's hard.

That is all.

She's The Dutchess and He's The Duke

Have you heard this band? You should. Go listen. Now. http://www.myspace.com/thedutchessandtheduke

They have this folk-rock edge of the 1960's with a modern twist. Very Neat.

They are on this label named "Hardly Art" which has a number of other neat bands featuring: "The Pica Beats" and "Arther & Yu"

Check it out: hardlyart.com




Here is a poem I've been working on. Something along the lines of "October Poem"

I can get used
to not having you here.
I do not think I knew you well.

I knew your nuances well.
I knew your passion for social logic.
I knew the answers to very few of your questions.

I knew we only depended upon
that morning I woke up
forgot my shirt,
pinned my heart to my wrist instead.
It bled all day.

I knew those lies you told me were true.

I knew you kept anger at your side
as if it were a loaded gun
that you were just waiting to draw

Revenge, you once told me,
is a theory so advanced
it might be admired by saints.

I always took note of your cheap advice

I always believed that we could save
one another
Through obligatory romantic gestures
and silent prayer
I divulge into delusions of grandeur

I know it's just a part of me
waiting for a patient sign
that I can love you
as much as you
hate yourself.

You're looking up at the moon
a lot these days
too drunk to blink
but looking anyways.

excerpt from new fiction piece

Just the beginning of the piece. Its pretty ok, the end (not posted) rushes too fast, according to most people. I'm working on it, alright? I'll post more later.

--

What Artists Do When Not Suffering
By Tamarah Phillips

I think it might have been Oakland, or maybe it was my own devices, but I would like to blame Oakland. Smears of white powder gleaming my eyes, looking out at a crowd that’s waiting patiently for me. “This one is called,” I say, “Picking away at Sobriety with a Bourbon Ice-pick.” And they laugh. They always laugh. I used to too, but that was before Oakland.

Other renditions of that night can have me standing, smoking and looking for anyway to get to a place where I can stand my own voice. Getting on a red-eye groundhound bound for Oakland, I thought leaving Seattle would leave behind a life of degernetive trust associated only with the feelings of self destruction. In other words, I thought I was tough enough to survive left to my own devices. Sitting outside my drunk motel room with a girl I found spare changing, we shared a joint and I realized this was it; this is what I had been waiting for.

I found Natalie the night I moved to Oakland. She was sitting outside Nation’s Burgers asking for cheap red wine. I bought her a blueberry pie and a cheeseburger. We went back to my motel room and got drunk past the point of collision. I had a bottle of whiskey and a 12 pack and thought I was going to change the world. She had a gram of cocaine and knew she could do nothing but resign herself to life of depravity.

One night walking down near Jack London Square, the place where Oakland meets the bay, seeing San Francisco glittering in street light constellations, hearing the sounds of trains in the not so distant future we held hands and made plans to kill off the pain and live in a quiet desperation. Behind Barnes and Noble, in an alley smelling of urine and cardboard boxes, she pulled out a mirror and cut us lines. "This is real pain," she told me, "You can't fathom the sort of depth I have been."


--

other than that, I'm back in Olympia taking a Writers Workshop class. I have written a feature article on Stephen Jesse, which is neat. Got OK reviews. My friend Mel 0pened a bookstore on Vashon Island. It can be found at www.strangerthanfictionbooks.com

It is a very good bookstore, great poetry section. The owner is well versed in everything he sells and it's a great little place to get a tattoo too! (more about this later)

UPDATE. First time in months....

Meet with the Writer In Residence at the Richard Hugo House on Friday. Ed Skooge, look him up.

We worked on a poem of mine and a story. Here is the edited poem:

I am Secretly An Important Man

the chuches on Broadway glitter in neon lights;
dark catholic hums that you can cash in
for heroines on heroin any day of the week.
They shoot noise and make up.

groped between breaths
in the back seat of my ford pinto, 86
blue smears of white power
gleamed her eyes
passively passing itself off as longing
instead of momentary lust
which was all i wanted

Pulled out of her Revlon lips
and forced myself back into the house
where ponytailed monsters
draped arms around jail bait
looking whores.

I had nothing to do
with my hands
smoking cigarettes on the back porch
snow falling, eyes whispering
"fag."

there is a loaded gun in my pocket
wrapped in cellophane and cigarette ashes
that struggled against scary fingers
lingers through swollen lips
I licked up the last of the juices
running down my chin and the clock chimed
ten past three
and man am I tired

down at the donut store
where bearclaws are 35cents
broken hearts a dollar
I saw that red cotton dress that made me hurt
ripped open like the back of her zipper
forced stares at that eye in cocaine
that eye in lust, that hair pulled down by suave
and please god don't forget that ass
of all orangutans screeching

she pushed up against me
and for a moment i pretended she was my girlfriend
covered in scars
only teeth and drill bits can make
i wanted her to forge maps
my body in her chapstick lips
so everywhere she went could be a reminder
that sometimes even her girlfriend doesn't tip her

back up on broadway
there is one good resturant and a bar
that although they try
they cannot
wipe away the boredom that has spewed these streets
back in the late 1960's.

"hey ma," you said to me crossing the street holding my hand,
"does it ever stop raining?"
and "son," i said
"it will stop raining the moment empty churchs
stop ringing bells on sunday mornings."

he was too young to know the difference.
I took out a smoke and he asked me to stop.

What do artists do when not suffering? Scientists believe they get it on.

Obsequious Learnings

Been writing, manically, intensely daydreaming at work trying avoid the monotony. I decided to re-read Ariel Gore's book because it makes me want to write, experience things and describe them beautifully to others.

Also been listening to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" way too much. 2008 reissue is beautiful. Add to the old favorite is Cohen's "Songs Of" because that also makes me want to write. Dealers dealing, stranger songs, going down to the river with Suzanne etc.




Some photos I have taken recently: (on my holga):

All Blacked Out And No Where To Go

I'm working on a story, been working on it for a while now, just wrote a couple pages more on it. It's about a house (as all my stories are) where addicts live. Its about trying to overcome addictions in a form reserved for those desperate but not wanting 12 steps. It's about love and friendship, the hardships that come along with those and most of all it's about honesty. Honesty is everything.

Here is part of the part I recently wrote.

I made my way home eventually and the music was over. It was sometime in the morning. Early, just after the sun rose. Margot was in the kitchen, tears swollen and trying to find recollections of something human within her.
“Hey”
I said. She looked at me and continued smoking.
“I need to go to church”
she said.
“Church?”
“Yeah, only God can forgive me now.”
I paused for a moment.
“You don’t sing”
She had tears in her eyes and there was ice cream on her shirt.
“What?”
“All I’m saying is that they sing a lot and you don’t sing well, it would be a pain to hear you singing all those hymns.”
“What?”
“I used to go to church, ten years ago, now all I can do is wish I never knew those songs. I can listen from a distance but that’s all over now”
She started laughing
“You’re nuts”
“I’m telling the truth. Swear to God.”
“ I should not go to church because I can’t sing”
“Yeah.”
“What about faith?”
“Do you have faith in yourself?”
“ I don’t know”
“Neither do I”
“We can try, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be your savior if you will be mine.”
She glanced up at me. It was the honesty that killed me.
“Yeah. Only Margot can save me now.”
She smiled

League of Innovation: Writers. (National Winners)

FICTION


FIRST PLACE

"My Best Friends Are the Ones I have Given Scabies”


Tamarah Phillips


Seattle Community College District


Seattle Central Community College

SECOND PLACE

"Nadia’s Fire”
Cheri Browne  
Lane Community College

THIRD PLACE

"Rube" 
John Strubberg 
St. Louis Community College at Florissant Valley

Quatchi! (The 2010 Winter Olympic Mascot)

So, this is amazing. Go look at THIS

A bit about the Sasquatch mascot "Quatchi"

Quatchi is a young sasquatch who comes from the mysterious forests of Canada. Quatchi is shy, but loves to explore new places and meet new friends. Although Quatchi loves all winter sports, he’s especially fond of hockey. He dreams of becoming a world-famous goalie.

THAT IS ALL.

So I just found out about this:

Poetry and music with free Thai buffet at the bar & all night happy hour prices on drinks.

Bai Pai Restaurant & Bar
2316 NE 65th St
Seattle, WA

Every Monday.

Also next Thursday is Cheap Wine and Poetry Night at the Hugo House. Ya'll should come.

Today I got my first rejection.

Well....that's not true, not true at all. Today I got my first rejection that was more than just "We're sorry, can't include this in this issue." It was more like (in my words) "This is trollop. We would never publish you."

Oh well. I should get used to it. I know it is good, I know that it worth a damn.

Yesterday I met with Harris, we discussed (among other things) a piece I am working on. It was decided that it should be called I am secretly a middle-aged man. In reference to this book:

Because, really, I just want to be Steven Jesse Bernstein. I am working on recording above said poem and some other things with some friends, putting out an EP of poetry. Should be fun. If you want a copy, give me a hollar.

notte

Today I took some pictures that didn't turn out so hot. It was quite disappointing. Here is a poem I've been working on:

Witness (in progress)

the chuches on broadway glitter in neon lights
that echo dark catholic hums that you can cash in
for heroines on heroin anyday of the week.
They shoot up and make noise.

There is one good resturant and a bar
that, try as though they might, they cannot
wipe away the boredom that has spewed these streets
from the death of chief joseph, back in the late 1960's.

hey dad, you said to me crossing the street holding my hand,
does it ever stop raining?
and son, i said it will stop raining the moment empty churchs
stop ringing bells on sunday mornings.

he was too young to know the difference
I took out a smoke and he asked me to stop.

(snapshots)

Elegy for 2nd Avenue Pizza

In Belltown
there is a hole
where a pizzeria used to be.

We would sit outside
from 4 to 6pm,

Passing time with 40oz of social grace,
drifting in and out of cheese soaked dreams
and mourning passerbys who had no mercy
for loose change.

Standing next to the oven
we saw them bake personal hearts
into the dough with pesto sauce
and chicken alfredo.

There was a jukebox,
which i'm sure is on a grave right now,
that played only early grunge music
and dixie blues.

Moments lost there
whistled and blink in high scores
chasing reveries
that hovered above the 50,000 point zone.

Closing one night
after 2am and counting
leaving rumnates
of small chunks of heaven
besides an out of business sign.

In Belltown
there is a hole
where a pizzeria used to be.
(and somenights I think it's still there)


---

I've been working on that all week, considering where it came from I think it is going in a good direction.