Monthly Archives: June 2014

notes from my phone

can a person be a laxative?

can a person with exceedingly attractive breasts be a laxative?

legit, those are some notes on my phone from the weekend.

i was standing on a sunny San Francisco rooftop–high ass fuck–listening to my friend, who happens to have exceedingly large and attractive breasts, rant about so and such and etc and ya. some dude i didn’t know was nodding to her stream of sounds and meaning, and i was nodding too. but i wasn’t really comprehending or even computing in the least degree. on the contrary, i was nodding while wondering whether a person’s voice and the things they say could incite a man to need to take a shit.

luckily, i managed to hold it in.

here’s something much less disgusting:

thighs two pack
mushrooms packet
three onions
bottle of wine
box of chicken broth

that’s Amanda’s list of ingredients for this weird wine-y soup that’s actually incredible delicious. well, depending on who you ask.

she once gave me some to try. a week later, i remembered it existed, reheated it, and found it quite delectable. so i decided to make it myself. in fact, i roped Natalie into making it too. we drove to the Alemany Farmers Market (late as usual), picked up the essential ingredients, and returned to my kitchen to attempt the soup.

now, Natalie is a cook. and i’m a poet. or musician. or wizard. or some shit. in any case, earlier in the soup-crafting process, we started to butt heads about some crucial decisions. Amanda was unavailable, so we couldn’t consult her about the exact process and finer points of putting this soup together, so we were left to our own devices. Natalie wanted to use her cool cooking skillz to add a bunch of spices and use less wine and all this shit. i was like, no, no spices. just wine. wine. it. up.

so we made separate soups. at the same time. a soup-off.

how did it go? fucking amazing, obviously. i had soup for days.

so many notes on my phone, so little time. here’s one from the Tool concert this year:

old life new life
body mind

tool is inside black hole

astonishment at walkijg inside of a cave

yeah, what? let’s see if i can retrace my steps.

see, Tool makes pretty strange music. they have strange visuals to match the strange music. when your sensory devices meet with these strange musicks and strange visuals, your brain begins to brew strange thoughts. for example, i stopped taking for granted the concert experience and instead begin to marvel at the strangeness, if you will, of it all. Bill Graham Civic Auditorium, the name we bestowed upon this large (for humans) man-made cave, filled to the brim with swaying apes captivated by the rumbling thunder of lights and astonishing lightning of sound emanating from the four apes on the raised platform. imagine an alien being, like Mozart, stepping into this cave. or imagine a caveman. would he be jealous of our cave? imagine a being from another planet or another universe? what would they think? would they be unimpressed? would they think fondly of memories from their own life? that’s the “astonishment at walkijg inside of a cave.”

so i was stoned at a Tool concert and thinking about aliens, this is true. i can’t just blame Tool, space has been consuming my mind more than usual. so for some reason i started thinking that maybe Tool is what you get when you go inside of a black hole. actually, no, i don’t remember what this was about at all. i’m sure it was epically profound though, stoned ronny of the past.

one of the show highlights were these words Maynard spoke between songs:


oh man, here’s a golden one:

the way a beautiful girl can just ruin your night

i’m not giving any context on that one except that it’s from 201301102151. maybe i’ll just remember something for once.

this is kind of clever, from 201301181153:

sometimes i don’t actually feel like i truly truly lived in the moment i loved because if i did i would still be there.

once i heard a beautiful song with Japanese lyrics that sounded like…

it’s some tsunami

Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

possible reasons i got an ocular migraine today

too much computer?
biking too much?
quit drinking
few peanut M&Ms
few ritz crackers
few cheesy popcorn
potato salad
beans & rice
english muffin with jam Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

possible reasons i got an ocular migraine today

bright light in Rich’s room
glass of merlot
real sliced potato salt + vinegar kettle chips
olive oil, red onion, and garlic (possibly burned [isn’t that cancerous?])
leftover recooked (in above possibly burned items) corn noodles
Robert Frost poetry
bad house mixing
green chile burger
worrying about finding a roommate, Liz Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Stephen Dedalus’ “Villanelle of the Temptress”

a beautiful poem from James Joyce’s “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.” specifically, it’s a “villanelle,” which the dictionary confusingly though completely describes as “a nineteen-line poem with two rhymes throughout, consisting of five tercets and a quatrain, with the first and third lines of the opening tercet recurring alternately at the end of the other tercets and with both repeated at the close of the concluding quatrain.” it’s easier to just read it. Continue reading

Posted in poetry of the universe | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

i me mine i me mine

i’m drunk right now.

i just wrote a poem. when was the last time i wrote a poem? if ronblog is my only indication, then the last time i wrote a poem was nearly three months ago. how sad. and what a bad poem that was. hopefully the latest is better. i believe it is. i hugged one of my loves recently, one of the greatest poets alive, aerienne. how could i not be infused with poetic sensibilities with her presence? also: i just finished reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. how could i not be infused with poetic sensibilities through his presence? i do not know.

i don’t know much at the moment except that i’ve had one too few PBRs and two too many gin martinis.

i do know that i despise any author that begins more than two paragraphs in a row with the same word, particularly if that word happens to be the word used by a speaker to refer to himself or herself. i me mine i me mine.

i’m in a band. did i ever tell you that? who the fuck are you anyway and why do i tell you so many things about myself? perhaps you’re nobody, so i can trust you. i’ll trust myself and keep talking. i play bass in a band that has no name. the band–bassist, guitarist/singer/keyboardist, guitarist/singer, and drummer–met today, and we spent 50% of our time working through band names. the other 50% of the time we spent playing music. i wish we spent 0% of our time picking band names and 120% of our time becoming incredible magicians of rhythm. alas.

i almost died today. i cut into the freeway on my bike–there was a bike lane but i was stupid not to look first–and a car flew past me at 50 MPH… just a feet or two away. i reevaluated my life decisions. i still love my girlfriend.

my girlfriend is the most beautiful girl in the world. she’s also the most beautiful woman in the world. she’s also the most beautiful lady in the world. her hair smells so nice. her eyes are big and bright and dark like diamonds like black holes like perfection. when i look into her eyes i want to cry but instead i kiss her. i want to make her happy. i want to wash her feet. i want to kiss her feet and then wash them and then kiss them and then wash them and then. i love her neck and sometimes i grab it. sometimes i scratch her scalp. she cooks ambrosia. the gods are dead and yet ambrosia lives–in our mouths. that’s not all. she is a medium, of sorts. she smirks. she giggles. do not fuck with her; you will be fucked. when i wonder, i am in her heart. when i love, i am of her heart. when i think, i am her brain cells dripping like a chocolate waterfall of the crust. pie is her sky mind as am i.

where does love live? Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

a portrait of Sisyphus as a young fog

black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks,
bringing along its wet and chill hymn:
reverie for the weary mind that leaks.

the crashing note of sinister antiques
like Sisyphus’ boulder barreling so grim,
black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks.

endless mystery, mother sans critiques,
the Pacific wind that falls on a whim,
reverie for the weary mind that leaks.

feeling, desiring, she blindly seeks
to pour over the natural city brim,
black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks.

an unrequited love hidden in her cheeks
dies numb and silent, meek and dim,
reverie for the weary mind that leaks.

gliding airless via senseless techniques,
i recite the mantra of my phantom limb:
black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks,
reverie for the weary mind that leaks. Continue reading

Posted in poetry of the mind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

selections from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo… Continue reading

Posted in poetry of the universe | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dear Ronnie

I believe at your soul level (the essence of “who” you are) that you are a Spiritual Healer, my dear. You do not need to be a doctor in the physical to do this. You can heal others in the … Continue reading

Posted in dear diary, poetry of the universe | Leave a comment