25 E. Winter

Waste your time reading this.

2010-09-23T16:11:00.000-07:00

There were dreams out there, for the having but most importantly for the taking, and I said it then and I’ll say it now “god damn it.” That’s what it really boils down to, the nitty gritty, what’s on the back burner, what’s in front of your stupid fucking face- god.damn.it. damn it all even, why? Because fuck ‘em that’s why.

Here on this earth, there are those who exist and those who question ‘why?’

I’m one of those who question, when I was little I would ask that same question, but it was for a different reason, I liked the sound of my voice, that and most children are just idiots with imagination, which thankfully for me I was able to hold on to both at least for this part of my adulthood. There could be a day when I fall into a business job and work my way to the top and forget what it means to lay in some fucking grass and look up.

Luckily for me, none of that matters- I drink too much, I fuck too little and I am well fashioned in the art of the shutting the fuck up and working shitty jobs. I don’t do much but I do it well. I’ve been told many times that there is nothing worth doing if not done well, we jerk off don’t we? There is no art in that just quick disgusting guilt fueled passion for a few minutes, then you zip your pants back up “oh shit, I’m late for dinner.” For those of you who show up early for dinner plans, hope we washed our hands, but since we are constantly dying and life is paced to quickly, who has the time?

I drink wine in a buttoned shirt, and I get sentimental, I will talk your leg off about the way that girl led me on and I crapped in the gutter for a week, am I lying to you or to myself? At any rate you are listening and that’s all I can ask for. I drink beer in whatever I had on at the time and I get loud, I have the same thoughts I had when I was drinking the wine, but beer will forever be the bullhorn of an idea that wasn’t that well thought out, but you try it anyhow at any rate you are listening because you have to- I am shouting.

I drink whiskey, if you ask me what kind of whiskey I am drinking you’ll know why immediately, cheap whiskey well for the same reason anyone else does, cheap, gets the job done and you want to fuck shit up. I beg you, if you aren’t already to (Fuck.Shit.Up) and I mean that in every sense, if you can’t cut loose once in a while and start some god damn well deserved chaos, then sit down, shut the fuck up and go back to horseshit existence you call a life pour a shot of bourbon and start asking ‘why’ and when you ask it enough come back out, we’ll be waiting and still won’t have an answer.

If I’m drinking whiskey that one gives or gets for a gift or doesn’t ever not once will it ever come in a plastic jar, and I am talking of the sort that generally has a well put together box around the bottle than I am drinking it to taste how perfect some things can be, or I am drinking to forget. If whiskey could target those conversations, or the faces or the people that set to ruin a day or a lifetime you can bet your sweet ass I’m sipping that shit for breakfast.

It is all because life is a god damn heartbreak, for me at least. It is a smile muddled with someone flipping me off, I’m talking middle finger right in my face. We will be fine. Start saying that one too- why not? (We.Will.Be.Fine) because even if you aren’t, you are still saying it and who knows maybe one day it will happen.

Talk to everyone, even the ignorant ones, that’s who we learn from- crazy you can learn the most from those who spent absolutely no time learning anything. We can strive to be like, or we can strive to not be like, boiled down half with logic here people, stay with me, listen, shut the fuck up sometime. Some people have some pretty fascinating shit to say, some people will say the dumbest most idiotic shit you will ever hear. Make sure you laugh, and often it just feels good. Respect people, all people, despite race, religion, politics, boil it down we are all human. Love, love, love. Get hurt, fall down? Get the fuck back up. I’m not saying this to you for any particular reason it is mostly for myself, talk to yourself, if you fuck up- quit listening to yourself and just start talking til it makes sense, and it will at one point I promise, if it doesn’t, boil it down.

If at any point of this you took your hand to your forehead and shrugged at the fact that you just read the rant of some stupid asshole and it sounded like everything you’ve ever read, fuck you- quit reading so much so us idiots can sound smart for 15 minutes. Chances are it did sound like everything but I hope it makes you think, the more you think the more you can do and it is important to always be doing. At any rate you listened and that’s all any crazy person can ask for.

new(er) poems

2010-09-12T22:15:00.001-07:00

French Girls
Posted
May 22, 2009
By
joshuagandee
there he was
"fucking harold" the one with the beat up volvo from '83
who says "the tank will outlive us all"
but it didn't even after we stole the hubcap
from the '83 volvo at the dealership that matched his missing one.

tonight: he is late, as usual.
"where were you?" we will ask.

"tonight...uhm, with a french girl."

"how do you know she was french?"

"well- for one, she had the pretty smile of a french girl."

"german girls have pretty smiles."

"not like french girls."

"she had the look about her face with her chin up and her eyes is a romantic squint."

"swedish girls have a romantic squint."

"ah, not like the french girl. she had the charm, the sweets and the kisses of a french girl."

"southern belles have charm and sweets and kisses."

"not like the french girls. i was melted to the floor, which is why i am late."

"stuck to the floor?"

"oh, but yes. stuck to the floor, i melted into a puddle and she had to wait for me to return."

"did you even finish kissing?"

"no, that's the whole bit. I laid on the floor in my puddle, looking into her squinty eyes, with her doughy smile and her lips, oh how i missed the lips while i was water."

"how do you know you were water?"

"i could feel it."

"and you are certain she was french?"

"Yes, i think."

A Timid Stretch
Posted
at 7:23am on May 19, 2009
By
joshuagandee
It was you who said "I can't take anymore."
As we watched your nephew with the potbelly
tip the silver soda can up above his head
i sat with my legs crossed as the brown fluid
fell down both sides of his face
collecting in a stain on the rim of his collar

as his mother ran in and asked why none
of us stopped him or tried to clean his face
you collected your things and said
"don't try to stop me or figure out who i am."

to this day i try to convince myself that the words
you meant to say were "...Where I am."
And as i cross the country countless times a year
with each stop i check your name in the phonebooks
car still on as i stand in the rain beneath a city
with my nose in the white pages not finding you.

I was on a timid stretch in the mid-west
when i stopped looking, that's probably where you were
but as i recall a night on your roof when you saw a shooting star
but i knew it was just an airplane
you said "i'll never move back to the mid-west, that's where
women go to marry preachers and die in pearls."

there was a day when i was vacuuming and i swore i heard
a door slam, i thought i heard your boots dragging across the floor
the sound of your bag your jacket and your keys all hitting the bench
with the same loud crash you left with. In the midst of my search for belonging
which was you for some time, i found myself in america
in a diner a woman looked like you with longer hair and a bruise
on the inside of her arm. as i paid i thought about turning from
the candy counter and asking her why she went away
but I kept my face in the menu..

In the park at that hour
you could have seen
while sitting on a broken down
rock wall
the wind that blew from the west
making the first current going
towards the waterfall
the water ripping from the top
like lids from coffee cups
you would have seen the empty
picnic tables and the tall grass
growing around the island
the water falling over the side
but neglecting the branch
that won't spill over
the bird in the sky
who flys without direction
only trying to protect
its height from entering the trees
you would have heard the water
and the leaves
the guitar playing from the town square
where the people were gathered 'round tents
closing your eyes you never would
have known what was up and what was down
if it were the leaves with the wind in your ear
or the water leaving one body for another
the goose trudging forward toward something
neck tucked down and forward
like a pouring tea kettle
before you got a chance to descend the stairs that overlooked
everything of this ohio park
of what used to be glacier 12,000 years ago
when the temperature was warmer 7,000 ago
when the trees started leaving
and building started forming
before you would have found time to think that
or see the children throwing rocks from
a tree trunk
the fishermen came.

The Outfit.
Posted
at 3:19am on May 5, 2009
By
joshuagandee
One of us was wearing a jersey as we walked the silver sidewalk covered in rain. The rest of us in khaki pants and jackets. I put my hands in my blue blazer and turned my head slowly catching my reflection in the window of the revolving door as I took my turn and watch the group take tiny steps toward the desk at the end of the lobby.

There were two women in the group- one was the mother of one of the boys and the other his cousin. The mother took my shoulder with her left hand and the arm of Robert in her right hand. "You are going to meet Mike, a member of the church and my nephew." Isaiah's mother and father walked on both ends of us, she in the front reading signs and he in the back correcting the wrong turns she makes as we meander down a white hallway. Robert looks over the black and white photographs showing pictures of women in aprons in the 40's.

I took my hands from my pockets and put my hand through my hair. My hand went through slowly feeling what the hard water from the White's outdoor shower had done to my hair.

We were in a hospital located blocks away from a University, I wasn't told why we were going there or why there were so many of us who had to see what they wanted to show us. We took the stairs part of the way and there were pieces of art, colorful blocks hanging from the ceiling. I looked over the wires that held the art in place, tied to the walls and ceilings even the toughest of breezes couldn't make them budge.

Outside, the water was collecting in small dots on the windows; looking up there were skylights collecting the hanging grey of a low standing Sunday afternoon. Waiting for the elevator I looked out the window and watched as a red sedan waited for a gentleman to make his way along the crosswalk. Umbrella in one hand and a cell phone in another. I wondered if the voice on the other line knew if it were raining or not, or if the sun was around where they were.

When we reached the designated floor there was a silence around the few of us, Isaiah's mother was looking all around and fidgeting with her hands, Brandon was chewing an invisible piece of bubble gum which got Robert to smile. I was looking at our shoes, you can tell a lot about someone just by their shoes. Matt's shoes looked as if they only existed for Sundays, Bryan's had wear marks along the toes and the grip on the bottom was worn to nothing, month's away from his socks getting wet.

The door opened and I caught my reflection in the silver of the shifting panels, I lowered my eyes and watched my feet start moving toward the carpet. We stood in a waiting room until a nurse came in and told us it would be a minute. "They just have to get him ready." So I had a seat in between Robert and Isaiah, in between a Newsweek and a Sports Illustrated. To my left I had no concern whatsoever as to who scored the most or had the most wins, I had not devoted my life to memorizing stats. To my right I shook my head as I skimmed the dismal display of black and white photographs and titles to articles that made my jaw clench.

Somewhere in the room there was a loud buzz as Isaiah's mother stood up and paced toward the end of the hall. We were lead by a doctor in a brown suit with a badge on his lapel. As we walked through the buzzing door I realized we were visitors to something more than a car accident, well past the recovery stage of an in and out surgery. There were men playing chess at a table for four. A television was on with the captions running. Once past all the tables and the women being led by college students in scrubs we found ourselves behind another door. We've been through so many doors. The doctor was buzzed in the door. "Mike, you have some visitors."

We piled in to a small room with a chair next to a table that had a pen and some paper, there was something scribbled; but behind the shoulders and being pressed against a wall I was in no fit shape to make out the words. On the bed sat a teenage boy or a young man in his twenties playing with his hands as he sat native style on a twin size bed. His clothes were a size too big and his lanky arms squirmed out from the sleeves as if they were being drowned by the material. Through his pants I could make out the bumps that were his knees, knotted up like the bottom of a hamper. On his wrists he had drawn pictures on white cloth that I discovered to be bandages wrapped around a torn body. The bandage on the right hand went up halfway to his elbow, the left stayed around as if it could have been watch.

I was lost for a moment, looking only at the faces around. The sadness and guilt in the eyes of Bryan. The confusion and sense of wonder to be out of the car by Brandon. Finally understanding where we were, Robert and I tried to make sense of the boy on the bed and the anger driven, get-well conversation initiated by Isaiah's mother. We were among the visiting rights given to those in the mental ward of a University Hospital. The boy on the bed was a student, what he studies within these walls are not taught to all of us.

Robert and I looked at one another, saying nothing- our eyes said everything. Although there was conversation and hugs and questions we heard nothing and said nothing until we heard our own names, mine was first "this is Josh" a voice said, I came out of my shock, escaped my own brain and nodded as I sent out a hushed hello, before I had time to panic or think about something to say my face was passed over as the boy on the bed looked to Robert who was next to me.

I faded back into the wall and heard "the doctor's let me read these."

These are my feet, those are my hands, these are my pockets. I put all these things together. I raced through my muddled thoughts. Before I could make sense of anything- of why did you bring us here? What good was it to show us this pain? Why the crowd? What other secrets can you share? As I asked these questions in my mind we were making our way out. Isaiah's mother hugged Mike and we nodded our heads as he said "It was nice to meet you." Was it nice to meet us?

I watched our shoes and heard a scream from the back of the room filled with tables, no one turned to see where it came from, we saw the door, we heard the buzz, I looked over the table with the magazines. I saw Robert, there was Isaiah, behind us was Matt,Brandon and Brittany. What is it that they were thinking, did they know why we came? The group was silent as our stomachs bounced at the end of the elevator. I looked over the wires holding the art. Counting the steps as I descended toward the lobby. The receptionist on the phone smiled at us as we went through the revolving door and back on the to street.

One of us was wearing a jersey. The rest of us in khaki pants. I took my hands from my pockets. These are my hands, this is the sky, this is my hair ruined by hard water. What are my problems, will every Sunday end this way?

As we turn the corner to the parking lot the parents look for the car as I turn and try to find the window where the woman screamed, trying to find the reason for her fear, trying to make peace with my concern.

Tbc
Posted
at 4:43pm on Apr 30, 2009
By
joshuagandee
you'll never find me
in Panama City, Florida

with my shirt off
and my tongue out in the air

i won't be in a crowd of forgetful teens
undressing behind towels and building pyramids with cans

you'll never find me in tijuana, mexico
eating the worm or laying out in the sun

i won't be among the many
playing limbo on the beach

nor will i bruise my arms
returning a volleyball over the net

you won't catch me trying to surf
the small waves of ocean city, maryland

you can't ask me for money
in reno, nevada

you won't be able to judge my poker face
because i don't have one.

there are many places you won't find me
but among them there are many i will be

In dreaming
Posted
at 7:21am on Apr 28, 2009
By
joshuagandee
In the box behind the old jewelry and your misplaced shoes,
I found the letter from Grandma- the one that told us
how much she loved us and how she wanted to hear
about the play once it was over.
She told that she was " a young woman once"
and the times were changing so fast now
and that she couldn't believe how big we have gotten.

I ran into a face a knew today.
The owner of the old gas station in town
the one where I would get a soda called 'cherokee red'
and I could ride my bike there and back without mom worrying.
I said to her "i never forget a face." she said "that's good, you've
grown up quite a bit since I last saw you."
as she left I heard her whisper to her husband
"that was John's boy."
I felt him look back.

I sat today with a cousin with whom I love.
We worried a little about our lives
behind laughter of course
for who is to say what we do?
In our laughter there is travel
and there is a dream I have.

Last night I dreamed of a tangled bed,
its sheets of white became a noose for
misplaced pillows. In the closet sat my other set.
From the window there is a bird building a nest,
its beats upon the glass wake me with every sunrise.
It was in my dream where i saw the faces, where i found the letter
where I had the dream and where the bird builds homes
where is it that i awake?

Oh, bother.
Posted
at 8:31am on Mar 26, 2009
By
joshuagandee
you think quietly
absorbed in the notion of
"what is a body that isn't tattooed?"
and in the sand, with the frisbee and the
three other boys from los angeles
you think quietly
"which one is mr. pants?"
and
"who has the most hair down there?"
but behind your thoughts and the sand
in his cargo shorts
you see the hot dog cart in the back ground
and the buildings that could be
a record store
or a restaurant
or a record store turned restaurant for that matter
and somewhere in the city
while you weep in your knee creases
there is a man wondering if what he did was right
and also in the city there is a woman crying into her pillow
with a phone pressed against her ear
and a sense of wonder where she thinks silently
"have i lost everyone?"
no, you haven't- please go to sleep.
morning soon appears and in the darkness of
the non-knowledge of everyone
we whisper our thoughts and scream our kisses
for tomorrow still comes
in the easy going earth
of latitude and longitude
and here we are
digging sand from our pockets
worrying about which boy in the cargo shorts
is going to take us home.

My Last Visit to Church
Posted
at 6:26am on Nov 23, 2008
By
joshuagandee
We sat at the altar
after the church had cleared
and the van was parked
behind the brick wall
where the neighbor kids played basketball

we were drinking the blood of christ
out of small shot glasses
i asked if it were welches
the woman with a floral print
told me it was an off-brand

you and i were laughing
with purple teeth
about the boy with his hands
in the popcorn ball mix
mocking and pointing

the other ones mom
came up behind him before
he could suck the spit back in
from around his mouth
she tapped his shoulder
and startled him a bit
he slammed the plastic
and turned and called her an ass

before he realized who he cursed at
thought it was one of us
she raised her fist and punched him in the chest
he was a church mothers son
she was a church sons mother

as we licked the blood from our teeth
and made our way back to the car
and looked back on the chairs in the lobby
the girl with the paper sack
the boy with his varsity jacket
and the man in the glasses

we silently decided
we weren't coming back
and the house is what we missed

Sitting At The Drawing Board As Nick's Paint Drips
Posted
at 3:19am on Nov 21, 2008
By
joshuagandee
there we were, within the limits
of your studio, forgetting the feet
beyond your space.

the wild one in the corner painting
the horned owl as the music
in the background explores every note
imaginable.
the chords seem to take on more
than what they are worth.

You use a brushstroke on the canvas
that is harder to explain,
the simplistic approach has more
to say than the earlier
as my face peers out beyond your kitchen.

Within the lines you stay, as the
camoflauge can hide any shoulder
that has melted.

Where is the red you spoke of?
the medium mix of yellow.
How I can question the tube from
which it came
to mean more than I would have thought
in any store in America
when it hung on the shelf
as an object with a price.

When you are finished
and the forms in the painting
stretch well beyond their limits
of ink and aggression,
how will you sell their faces
as more than they are?

What is the price beyond a face?
What is the cost of a glare?

francais

________________________________________
 Log in






terminus1525.ca > Studios > joshuagandee > joshuagandee's blog
JOSHUAGANDEE'S BLOG
Through The Quiet of The Morning
Posted
at 3:11am on Nov 21, 2008
By
joshuagandee
There is more to say.
The almost forgotten breaths we fake,
the twitch of waking up.
The countless folds our eyes will take,
the forgiving arm of the a.m.
The lean a love will take on
as it lays opposite you
to kiss your legs.
The darkness where the blanket breaks,
the movement of the trees,
chirping, sound, life of the outdoors,
beyond the welcome mat,
as you check your breath through
the palm of your hand
as it had a translation
without a key.
The warmth you feel
without arms,
seems cold without the hour.
 add comment
I've Not Seen You With The Windows Closed
Posted
at 6:13am on Nov 14, 2008
By
joshuagandee
I listen as it slowly drowns,
it is myself.

In my body I hear its sound, resonating
around my stomach.
I feel its movements.
I move my arm
it moves its.

There is the day that I think about.
When I knew it would come,
when I would have to show the world.

The news would come with their
cameras,
their stories,
their suits.

The mothers of the world,
with their knowledge,
would drop their jaws
with the minutes.

And there i was a man, alone with my rememberence.

In the morning,
I felt its arrival.
In a room with windows,
the sill cracked,
my face sullen,
hair pressed with sweat
as I lay in bed.

It came to this,
it has to leave
but there is but one way
for it to depart.

It has to be cut,
removed with blades,
but there are no knives.

Inside I know its heartbeat
but this is a house of breath.

I place my arms around my chest,
I hold my breath.

As I wept and turned like I do,
before the faces of my sheets,
I felt it turn and die inside.
 add comment
A Number
Posted
at 6:16am on Nov 7, 2008
By
joshuagandee
when the sky at night
turns to a million butterflies
and i am sleeping under the roof
of my home
i am miles away
the leaking stars
that race those gentle glides
into a thousand lights
the exercise of the clouds
and their constant streams
that flicker of the moon
on my shoulder
when it shines so bright
i could read to a hundred words
like the night we sat on the blanket
and kept each other warm
as the dark blue
the navy blue
of evening presses on
with its tiny fists of night time glow
i whistle through my teeth
the many songs of tomorrow
the la la la's of rhyming words
when the morning dew sits
like a million little raindrops
on every blade of grass
my shoes brush off the water
as it grabs my soles and rides along
with my strides
i walk for me
for you
as the day grows
the sun moves about the sky
in a line the scientists know
as a scenic route through telescopes
i am reminded of the times
we held hands
humming together in our laughter
the afternoon
the lunch hour
when we listen to the vehicles crawl
on tired roads
and sit in silent parking lots
 add comment
Ostrich Egg
Posted
at 10:23pm on Nov 4, 2008
By
joshuagandee
in school i sat next to a girl
who bit her nails and drew instead of wrote
she told me stories
when we were to be working
that before school she sat in the rain
with an umbrella that had a giant bee sitting on top of it
after school she would run to the brush
where she would ride the backs of horses
over the hills and beneath the sunlight
she would swing on swingset
with scissors near the ropes
she owned a tiger as a house cat
she would chew with her mouth open
at lunch talking to me
about the boys who point their fingers at her
and the corners she sits in for her imagination
she said all that i want is for them to see
for them to feel my mind
with their tiny fingers and run them
along the cracks of my mind
in each section
and i know now
as i sit older with a different change of clothes
without dirt and grass stains on my knees
that she was right
that in each section of her mind
where the scissors sat
where the horses ran and the bumble bees
buzzed she had it right
every line and vein that pumped her wonderful mind
had more ounces of freedom than the fingers
that were pointed at her would ever hold
when i think about her now
and the time for her birthday that her
mother brought in cupcakes
and an ostrich egg
i wish i could have allowed myself that freedom
to throw my bookbag from my back
and tumble in the hills until my pockets
were filled with leaves
instead i sat at home
with a bug in a jar
with sticks and pieces of grass
waiting for tomorrow when she would
tell me of her dreams
and the magic that fell from her lips
into my awaiting ears
 add comment
An hour
Posted
at 5:10am on Oct 28, 2008
By
joshuagandee
There is an hour in town when you can watch the store owners close their doors and walk the streets in search for soups and sandwich. I was early.
the political one, with his collar up, protecting his neck, orders two of everything.
the photographer orders soup, stands over me looking at the man fixing the sink.
"you're like a bad headache, you always come back."
They joke each other, one points at a belly, the other at a bald head.
he touches his,"They women like to run their hands through it.
The bald one asks why I don't speak up.
Everyone leaves with their brown bags. The girl in the vest tries the creme brulee coffee as the phone rings and a fan starts.
There is an hour when the sound moves. It all comes here.
 add comment
Unlike November
Posted
at 5:07am on Oct 28, 2008
By
joshuagandee
The picture of you
the picture of me
the two of us making noise
in that dimly lit room
my mind thinking of the nape
of your neck

the picture makes no noise
it hangs in our heart
with a curved tack
plucked through the skin
in the picture i am holdind you

outside the glass i am holding you
i hold you within my chest

this battleground outside

between the warmth of my bed
and getting the mail without socks on

together we could watch the sky and look for snow
knowing perfectly well
that the bluest of skys cannot pour

deep blue skies of the most gentle
october afternoon
will not spit its soft crystals on our foreheads

unlike the rolling gray, the dark cloud
of november

unlike the rain
the snow
the dry
the will it be a white christmas
of december

unlike the tall piles of white in january
the month of my birth

unlike the dry dust
the cheer of graduation
the sun tickling each face
of june
the month of your birth

but as i sit over my tea
thinking of your favorite drink
and the morning we woke up an hour early
so i could look at you
as we ate banana bread
and listened to jazz

i am reminded of the months we have collected
so far
like change in our pockets
we add it up and
place them in piles on the counter
watching the silver sit higher
than our coffee mugs
 add comment
The Weather Underground
Posted
at 4:51am on Oct 24, 2008
By
joshuagandee
The kids with the borrowed name
Who ran the streets with sticks and hands
Breaking out bank windows
Faces bloody, their words followed bricks
The first the second the fifth communiqué
Shaking street signs, waving hands with clenched fists
Measuring their years in the cracks of architecture
They pursed their lips, they tied the wires
Sat up all night in a hotel miles away
In cars they climbed
The engine on, the cars cruised down the
Slanting streets before the wires and sticks
Were in the vent
Before the clock struck
Their calls sent out to the newspapers
Hoping those who were there would be safe
The blast the ink spilled all over town
On every doorway in every hand
They were a storm
The blasts followed and fell on times
Seemingly enough sounding like anniversaries
Celebrated in hiding like holidays
Unmarked on calendars
Hidden voices of the 60’s
Closeted shouts of the 70’s
They learned how to use guns
They learned how to make bombs
They shared their knowledge
They shared their lovers
This was a cry hoping to change
The meaning of the flag
They were students
Their words stopped classes
The children in the courtyard
Having better days than the children
With their faces at loaded guns
The blood spilled on baskets
The pictures in Life magazine
The ocean poured over brown sand
As they waved goodbye in airports
As they cut their hair
Wore their sunglasses
Some of them died with their
Own misguided violence
Three dead in a townhouse
Greenwich village felt the shake
Days later they were named through telephone calls
The violence stopped across the sea
Their voices moved from beyond the walls
They opened doors
Their eyes open to more than matchbooks
Some had families
Couldn’t get a job pushing broom
Without the background
The kids with the borrowed name
They hit the streets
The streets heard them
The streets stayed still and gray
The yellow lines still pointing straight
The cracks and blasts
Did not shake the direction of the streets
But for a time
A detour was made
A sign of new direction
But, construction ends.
 add comment
New Stop Lamps For Dover
Posted
at 4:44am on Oct 23, 2008
By
joshuagandee
Philip Landry was tall and gruesomely thin, his mother dressed him until he reached the age of seventeen. Each Morning he woke up with sleep in his eyes, he’d pick it with his right forefinger investigate it and place it on his tongue. When he took a shower he would lean against the tile wall and turn the water on as hot as it would go, almost as a game he would play with himself. He would shampoo then condition, some mornings forgetting to run the conditioner out before stepping on the mat. When he toweled he would start with his shoulders, down to his legs and back to the shoulders ending with his head. He would hold the towel on his face trying to smell his own breath.

The bike he road came from a boy in his old neighbor. The bike was 20 years older than he and had a pouch on the back from when it was used to deliver morning papers. His clothes were two sizes too big for it was hard to find children’s sized clothes for a grown man. When he would pedal he would gain enough speed to remove his hands from the bars and place them in the pockets of his jean-jacket his father wore in the winter.

His small town gleamed each morning. When the sun would shine he would sit outside the market place and sketch the way the shadows formed on the walls of the church in the distance. With his small recorder Philip would record the sounds of the church bells and each Wednesday afternoon he would record the bells overtop the noon siren screeching off in the distance. Sirens would sound and Philip would scramble in his bag to find the recorder for another sound.

When men saw him on the street they pursed their lips giving a small grimace to the boy sized man walking towards them. Women thought him cute but never husband material, they didn’t see the arms that could hold them or even hold a hammer for the cupboards that would break years down the line.

As a boy his father made him sit at a weight bench in the garage and lift silver circles above his head until his arms started to shake. There was one day when his father added too many circles and the bar and weight came crashing on Philip’s chin, he still holds the scar. His father and he went running into the kitchen where his mother was watching over the pancakes waiting to flip them. The blood was running down Philip’s face and into he and his fathers hands.

“Quick, get a rag or something.”
“Oh my boy, what happened to him Roger?”
“He dropped the weights on his face, now get a rag.”
His father moved aside as his mother’s delicate hands rubbed a wet washcloth that was on her shoulder to his chin. She kissed his wiry red hair and stroked the back of his neck. Philip didn’t cry, just moved his eyes to the ceiling waiting for an overwhelming sadness to arrive, it never did. For a week or so he was to wear a giant bandage on the bottom of his face, when the kids at school asked he gave them all the same response. “I fell riding my bike with no hands.” “Some cyclist you are.” Some would say.

There was the day he sat in his tree fort in the back yard drawing his dog beneath him. He could never really figure how to make the legs look as they did attached to his dogs body, the drawings always came out looking like a dog with tentacles. He kept his notebook hidden in a drawer of his bureau so his father would never see the mutated sketches of the family pet.

Philip liked going uptown in the morning. He would sit outside his favorite café with his recorder on hoping someone would say something interesting or a new siren would come flying down the streets. In his long pants he would hold his grandfather’s pocket watch and a compass he got from a box of cereal. The compass was broken but he liked the design on the back.

The pocket watch was a gift passed down from his grandfather to his father to Philip. One Christmas Philip opened a small cardboard box that had the United States Military insignia on the top. When he opened it his father said. “This is a very important gift Philly, don’t just throw it with your other things.” The watch was a dusted silver with wear marks from being extracted every hour to see the hands. He ran his small fingers over the front feeling the grooves and each centimeter that was his family’s clock. When he pressed the latch the door swung open and he saw the two hands telling the wrong time.
“You have to wind it.”
“What time is it dad?”
“11:30, now just wind it and click the top there.”

Philip carried the watch everywhere, some days it was such a distraction it took from his studies. A teacher when he was in 7th grade took the watch from him and told him he would get it back at the end of the year. The next day Philip brought his father to school. The three of them, the teacher, his father and Philip marched to the office. Philip sat outside the wood framed office where he couldn’t make out the muffled voices beyond the glass. Minutes passed, Philip didn’t know which ones for his watch sat in the upper right drawer of Mr. Saunders' desk, his Middle School Principal. His teacher and father walked out, his father holding the door. When they stood in front of Philip, his teacher placed the watch in his hand as his father winked and patted his boy on the back.

The town he lived in was a rare find. A small town with so much happening. One of the few that are still lively. The theatre was not an antique case for what was but rather a place where families still met for entertainment. The only cars that passed were those of people passing through. People driving by remembered this town, they told of the smell of the bakery on 5th, they told of the men who still wore hats when they smoked. Oh, this was a town for the ages, untouched by the corrupted hands of time. Men, women, and children still got along. Families would eat together, all families getting their food from Smith’s Marketplace down on High Street.

There was a woman photographer who would walk the streets finding new faces for the paper. Philip was walking with his head down when he heard a horn, looked up and saw that he was walking in traffic, instead of being frightened he just smiled and took a step back. Almost four feet away from him the woman stood next to a pay phone. She whistled, when Philip looked back the wind caught his hair and she snapped a photo of him.
“Hey, do you think I could get a copy of that?” Philip asked.
“Sure, just come down to the paper next week, there will be plenty of others you could look at too.”
Philip placed his hands back in his pockets and walked down the west side of the street passing the coffee shop, a small boutique and the antique store he buys china for his mother every year.

In the shadows of the town you can watch the sun kiss the store tops and listen to the bells on the doors and people walk in and out. The crunching of paper bags and the sounds of doors opening and closing can be heard from almost anywhere in town.

Philip walked into the café he frequents each morning, he ordered his double burger. Always early for lunch, Philip is the first one to eat the change from sausage to burger. He watched a woman reading the paper, an article read “New stop lamps for Dover.” when he looked closer he saw his own face on the cover of the paper. The woman who snapped his photo had written the article.

After finishing his lunch he laid his money on the counter as he always does, grabbed his coat by the door and picked up a paper from the stacks. When he got outside he picked his bike from the side of the building, placed the paper in his side bag and started pedaling towards his home. In his head he heard the music of a thousand trumpets, his pant legs flapping with each stride, his hair glowing from the sun behind him, his heart pouncing in his chest, for when he got home he would remove the paper and know that for a couple days he was somebody.
 add comment
Four In Hand Knot
Posted
at 4:58pm on Oct 22, 2008
By
joshuagandee
I learned how to tie a tie today
i thought of you
looked at pictures of you
i leaned against a brick wall
the same one by bike was leaning on
i bought pictures from the forties
emptied my pockets of change
wrote two poems back to back
at a table with four chairs
listened to people order their lunch
signed up to volunteer
walking the streets
and being a bother
i learned how to tie a tie today
it sat on my chest untouched by the
collar on my shirt
i looked at my typewriter and thought of its sounds
had a cup of coffee
spilled some of it in my beard
i wore a jacket
shivered in the cold
warmed my hands with my breath
thought about august
thought about language
today is still today
and there is a lot to do
 add comment
Slow Currents
Posted
at 5:28am on Oct 21, 2008
By
joshuagandee
We followed the slow moving current for seven miles looking for a fire and the tent playing Elvis. Paddling along the seemingly quiet river, alone. Each of us were losing our minds to the leaves, me looking for spiders in the branches. How awful a trip it could have been had I been touched by eight legs. Our hearts beating as the small canoe started turning without our arms in motion. The sky brewing its small storms, clouds hidden above the trees. Neighbors, we called them. The ones beyond the hillsides. The water moving slowly as we hear children skipping stones in our direction. A father teaching his son how to hold the stone and try to hear the clank on the side of the canoe. They hit us once, we kept paddling.

None of us had any clue when to stop or if we were even going to stop, the earth never stops and if the water stops us then so be it. I grabbed for the bag holding the sandwiches, the water ruined the chips. The bread dried my mouth out so I swilled on some water and spit it over the side. The two boys behind me lit up cigarettes and held one at me.
“Not yet.” I smiled.
The rain started coming through the leaves and we lifted our hoods as far over our foreheads as they would go, the small droplets collecting on my glasses. We rowed on looking for the right spot in the river bank, flat enough with room for fire and stump seats.

There it was. 100 yards ahead in all its sandy, muddy, dirt filled glory. The perfect spot, with littered beer cans and a shopping bag with more trash. We left it as it was, in ruins. Setting up the tent, the three of us fumbled with the stakes as the hammer missed its mark and hit my toes.
“Watch it!”
“Sorry, dark as hell and twice as windy out here.”
“I hear you.” I cried.
The river bank grew silent before the next big gust came in and wiped the flame from the red Bic lighter in Albert’s hand.
“Cover it for me.” He said over the breeze of June’s summer night.
We watched in silence as the small fire pile started to spark, it wasn’t there for warmth but for light so we could see each others faces as the night grew grim and wet. As we sat with the tops of our heads beginning to get soaked we laughed at the day spent rowing. I stirred the fire and watched Jerry rub his arm in a deep strain.
“God damn river got the best of me today.”
“Well, it ain’t over, grab some wood for this thing or it’ll die.” Whispered Albert as if the river were eaves dropping.
Two more days of this old river, it’s brown flowing glory of distance started a small strain on all of us. The night whipped us with rain. The tarp over the tent caught most of the rain, we were on separate duties to shake it of its collection. Albert grabbed the hatchet from his rucksack and start hitting on a small log, removing the bark. He picked up his pieces and threw them on top of the fire, seemed like burning his minutes.

The three of us smoking cigarettes, covering the embers with our palms, each square tucked into our hands as to not ruin what we carried. The blowing leaves came falling all around us, we heard the creak of the canoe in the water, I ran to check the tie on it so it’ll be there in the morning.
‘Still good.” I hollered out, hushed by the wind.
Camera won’t pick anything up,. Jerry’s camera came with no flash. As the morning grew near we grew tired. Filled with the might and will to keep moving. Jerry walked in to the tent. Within minutes Albert and I heard him snoring.
“He’s deep in his sleep.” Whispered Albert.
“We’ll need our rest too.”
“How far done does this river go?” he asked.
“Hell, I don’t know, lost the map.”
“You think we’ll find it?”
“Hard to say, I’ve only heard about it, there were stories about if it even existed.”
“Well, I hope for our sake it does.”
“Yeah, me too.”
The wind seemed to die down for a minute, we put down another log.
“We should hit the tent, get some sleep.”
“Good thinking.”
We squeezed in next to Jerry, his snoring reduced to heavy breaths. Our muscles sore, stomachs hungry, minds weak. Tomorrow was going to be another day, another stroke into the river, hard pushed paddling.
Tomorrow night was going to be another night of sleep, another fire, more whispers to the land.
The neighbors beyond the hills, sleeping. Schools sitting silent waiting to open their doors in the morning. Storefronts looking at each other over the street. Stop lamps moving in rhythm, changing their signs at eleven. Men eating two dollar pancakes. Ink presses starting up, Newspapers printed more news for small towns.

In the distance we heard a howl, from a dog, a wolf, something. Before my eyes closed I stopped my breathing.
“I’ll see you at sun up.”
“I’ll be there.” said Albert.

poetry (for kyle)

2010-09-12T22:13:00.000-07:00

For Kyle: on his Graduation day.

We sit like stones.
Destined to become the living green
Moss that holds its
Direction for passers by.

See for me:
The plains of Spain
Ride the fence with your hand
And drink like Hemingway

From a glass
Chin up and eyes cocked to the side
As you watch the rest of us
Rest our cups to the napkins

Like the trumpet player
Putting away his music

See for me:
The mild mannered ones
Along the riverbeds of Italy
As they tip their hats to the sky
Like a salute to relaxation

Pass through:
The arc on the left of L’Arc de Triomphe
Before your eyes catch the glass pyramid
Before the Louvre

Drink Pernod
With the ones throwing Petanque balls
Older than you

When they talk

Listen.

You never know
When their history will help you
And it will.

Be completely cliché
But don’t say things like

‘Live as if tomorrow is today’

Don’t act as if you understood Burroughs’ reasons
For doing drugs.

Contrary to opinion:
You are allowed to say

‘Damn it all’
Once in a while.

For every day of sun

There are two of rain

And one where your car is stuck in the snow.

Don’t visit Prague
And bite your tongue
At American culture.

It is what formed you

Be it
Good

Or the reason you can look at the rest of us
And simply wonder

‘how?’

Or

‘why?’

Be swift:
But also stop to notice details.
A story is nothing without details.
Without them our lives could be
Written on a napkin

Be the dust that heaves from the elephants back.

Watch as it is no longer you.

As it collects
Back to the ground

As if it were meant to be moved.

Make time for sadness
It reminds us of how
Truly magical
A smile
Can feel.

My brother,

You will slowly become an adult. It is not wearing a polo shirt, nor is it wearing loafers without socks. Adulthood is half thinking/ half acting and I think there is part vodka part cigar beneath a palm tree in the mix, but either way, it comes on slow; like high tide and stays with you through the changing of your skin.
Go and find love, and if you think you have- make it true and make it last. There is beauty in a woman who can look you in the eyes every day and say “I am glad we put up with each other.”

Before you do these things
And become something of a man
Remember today for what it’s worth

Family
Friends
Food
And Folding Chairs.

new poems (or whatever you call them)

2010-09-12T22:10:00.000-07:00

On my porch in the creation of what is night
a man approaches me from the street
excuse me sir, he states
have you another cigarette for me
i hesitate for a moment but stand and deliver the line
give me a moment to grab one from my pack
as i am inside retrieving that
i hear a noise and he is standing in my living room
i turn to him and say
that doorknob you turned to enter
is to be grabbed only by me and my
expected visitors, and for that i am sorry
but you requested cigarette of the night will vanish
with this he exits
i close the door and lock the restraints
i find my spot on the sofa
as he finds his spot on the sidewalk

as a writer
i have found alcohol
i have found it to be debilitating
to be the surface for my creating
i have found it to be incriminating
for my nights in loneliness, contemplating
i have found it to be useful and to make me a fool
but most of all i use it as a writing tool.

pescetarian

2010-04-19T17:31:00.000-07:00

I love you
for the time you forgot the word
for the vegetarian who still eats fish

i look at you
and hope
you think i am perfect for you
as the paintbrush was to nick
or the guitar to jon
even though he plays that song
that wakes you up every morning

i wonder
if you ever look at me
and think i will be successful
but that is selfish
much like my thought
that i have never driven a mercedes
or ever been in the market to buy one
and i wonder if i ever will

it is your face in the morning
that helps me through the day
the soft features that bled from your pillow

it is that when i leave in the morning and
leave you sleeping, it is you
that makes my bed
and when you leave me to go to work
in your khakis and the polo that you hate
it is i that makes yours

when the bed is made it means
that we are not together
and that is fine, for in your heart
i am there touching your soft red hair
as you do to push your bangs from your face
and you are in my heart rubbing your soft closed
fist alongside my arm (of which we would both laugh at)

it is that when i write you
it is usually left under your windshield wiper
or left on your dresser while you shower or sleep
and when i write from you
it is a world i only know through your eyes
it is the beauty of the day you closed your eyes
it is the wonder of the day you laid in my bed
and before i slept on your chest
you told me those words i longed to hear
and there they were

out in the wind
where the trees could grab it
but since then it has circled around like a cloud
collecting the beauty that i see
and it rests with me before i dream
to know this world with you
to be in this world with you

since childhood
i have longed to share

Twenty Five East

2010-04-11T20:21:00.000-07:00

i walked out on my stoop
looked about the brick street
where the cars were parked
the neighbor next door (a cop)
just got off work
his gun and belt slung over his back

the lawn littered
with cigarette butts
the ones we forgot about since winter
the snow covered the yard
and presented us with an ashtray
"we'll see you again in spring"

and now we do
a disgusting display
of the cold nights when
we huddled beneath the overhang
the beer in the living room
for outside it would freeze our hands

what were we thinking?
the summer gets closer
each month is our change
for the day when we all must part
where no longer we share this house
with each other

goodbye old green duplex
we hardly knew ye.

hey, remember when...

2010-04-11T20:04:00.001-07:00

We went out into the night
Two bottles of wine
And a starry sky
We were trying to forget about a sadness
That had plagued us for days
Our motto
“If it’s still there in the morning
We didn’t try hard enough”

As the night progressed
And we watched the constellations
Bleed over into different sides of the sky
We questioned if we brought enough
Of the juice.
I turned to the grass and whispered
“Whatever it is you’re trying to do
I’m not having it.” And stood up.

“I never liked the taste of this red.”
“I never liked your cynicism.”
We argued like it was us we were trying to forget,
No sooner had we remembered
We were our own saviors and what comes of this will be
In the morning we hoped to feel the dew
We did.
“This has to be the largest moon I’ve ever seen.”

We climbed a tree as most boys do
And what we saw from there we counted
If it didn’t fit in our pockets, it was counted and remembered.
We passed the wine as our stories dwindled into
“Hey, remember when?”
Not the finest of memories we recollected
But it had to be said.
The language started forming into
What we had hoped would have come of a night alone
And two bottles of wine

The phrase that sold us
On the fact that we made right
Was muttered from a tree branch
As we looked across the pond we stumbled on
With the frogs barking, and the lone wind flowing about our hair
“What was the reason we came all the way out here?”

Future friends at Futurefriend.

2009-12-20T19:25:00.000-08:00

Hey,
check this out. My friends Anthony O'Connell and Cole Downs have a sketch group titled 'future friend comedy' they are hilarious and I am proud to call them my friends. Here is a sketch I was in as well as Rue, Carl Sigler, and Jon Allen. I hope you enjoy it. I find it to be very funny.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ld20lGCoAlU

BoMA

2009-12-17T22:15:00.001-08:00

Tonight, sure was great.
I had a gig at the Bar of Modern Art in Columbus, off of Broad. The other comics did a great job. Put on by Keith Van Buskirk, it was a Toys for Tots benefit show. The turnout could have been larger, I'm not sure who or what to blame. The show was covered by 99.7 the rock. When I first arrived, I was alone and met Keith soon after. When Morgan Ferretti and Brandon Ballinger arrived we went outside to the smoking section, there we met two people who were there for the "Lawyer Party" we dubbed it. After they had bummed smokes they found out I was there to perform comedy. Never have I crashed a party, so I found this to be a great place to start. We followed our new friends up the stairs where a V.I.P section and an open bar were waiting for us. We stood and drank our beers for a while until it was caught on and my being 'famous' mostly my face being noticed by the owner realizing I wasn't supposed to be there.

Brandon and I filmed a Mockumentary about my set that night. Soon there will be a posting of the set. It is a 'fake' stand-up comedy special, that we filmed. I am excited to see the outcome, I hope you will be too. I feel I met some good people tonight, and I hope it will help in the future.

Check This Out!

2009-12-13T06:33:00.000-08:00

Jon and I recorded a commercial for a break in episode II-Imma Tellim.

here's to hoping we don't get sued.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csKHkG6xbqE

It is here!

2009-12-07T11:46:00.000-08:00

Posted for your eyes only, the first episode of 'Doing Asbestos We Can'- a tremendous poop.

let me know what you think!

there you have it.

There's Something About a Cigar

2009-12-06T20:10:00.000-08:00

Another project I am working on, is a film adaptation of the play Jack Kerouac wrote in 1941 while he was at Columbia- 'There is Something About a Cigar' I have a cast lined up of very talented people. It will be exciting, originally the play takes place near a lake with gentleman coming in learning the importance of 'taking it all in' I re-wrote parts to make it fit the cast and my surroundings (Westerville, Oh) The project will both shine a light on the beautiful small town of Westerville and also bring about knowledge of a not-so well known play written by an 18 year old Jack Kerouac. I was unable to find a copy of the play on google, but just use it as an excuse to pick up and much needed book for any Kerouac lover like myself. The play and other essays/short stories are featured in the collection titled 'Atop an Underwood'

happy reading,

joshua

The time has come

2009-12-06T20:05:00.000-08:00

The first episode of 'Doing Asbestos We Can' is finished- as stated earlier. We have had some trouble uploading. It appears we are going to have to split the file up in order for youtube to accept it. Jon and I have episode II 'Imma Tellim' written and blocked as well as episode III 'Home Alone Too: Lost in New Yorkie' We are very excited to get the shooting underway, there are some exciting scenes. Episode II will include montages to both 'Better off dead' by elton john and ' Call Me Al' by paul simon. By tomorrow you and others will be able to view episode one. I hope you enjoy it as much as we had making it.

joshua

Nicholas Warndorf

2009-12-05T15:32:00.000-08:00

The great thing about living at 25 E. Winter are the people I live with and encounter. I have the great pleasure of being surrounded by great artwork, paintings that have been done by my roommate and friend Nicholas Warndorf. The paintings provided are hanging in my living room, my personal favorites of landscapes derived from googlemaps. and figure paintings he did with collage work from separate photographs.

Doing Asbestos We Can

2009-12-05T15:24:00.000-08:00

Episode I of Doing Asbestos We Can - A tremendous poop, has been completed. Creators Jon Allen and I worked very hard on writing and getting it taken care of- on the back end Brandon Ballinger finished all of the editing and we are very proud of the outcome. The video will be on my facebook as well as youtube. I have included some clips for all of you to see.

please enjoy. i know we hace.