...this island earth...

...phone numbers...

2008-07-27T23:47:00.000-07:00

I don't want to think. I don't want to think about how after all these years after all these beers and girls and "love" I still close my eyes just to see your parents living room. I'm concerned that I don't see you fully in these day dreams. I see the couch and your coffee table, made of rod iron and floor tiles, and the TV we played SNES in front of -- the TV we played Guess Who in front of. I see the sliding glass door I'd walk out of to the patio we'd smoke weed on -- to the light from the neighbors we swore were spying on us having sex. I see the perfect tequila shots you brother would sneak us before he got his job at the hospital. I see the curtains that we'd close daily to hide from the world, the christmas tree and stockings your mother hung, the twenty your dad gave me when he made out good in Vegas. I see the bathroom around the corner from the endless supply of sodas they provided, the paper plates from the best turkey and mustard sandwiches you made. I hate that I close my eyes and see paradise because paradise has become a luxury I'll never feel again. Paradise is living the regrets we said we'd never have to suffer. I hate that I can't see you; not now, not before. I can't remember the expression on your beautifully sick face when I gave you a mix of Coltrane and Montgomery and Gilberto to help you through the relaxing baths; although, I clearly remember how exhilarating it was to make and pass on. I barely remember your touch in the foulable image of the ever watchful celestial creatures that dwelled in those plastic glowing stars on your ceiling fan -- oh, how the clock light excentuated every curve in your spine. I've been through girls, I've been through lonely, I've been through false company and real tragedy.... nothing compares to those memories. Damn you, to have to live through that! To have to realize that I've thrown away life somehow. That existing now can never compare to living then. I don't want to think about it. I don't care to. I'm comdemned to forever remember your phone number (oh, god, what would I do if you had changed that number since?).

...some meaning of creation...

2008-07-19T00:25:00.000-07:00

"Don't call me a cynic, because I'm not."

That's the line that is ringing beyond the whiskey and the Bass drinks.
That, of course, is well combined with the other line from a random weekend with a slightly distant brother:

"Can't be the one getting shit kicked on you. Most of the time, you gotta kick the shit."

It's hard to explain how you become entirely (and somewhat randomly) thrown into a relationship. Years, hopefully not in my reluctant self, later you find that everything is the same. That every girl is a girl and some have found the boundary of womanhood. ...// Oh, to meet A WOMAN -- some feminine goddess that has an opinion about books beyond Barabara Kingsolver and Eckhart Tolle. A WOMAN. One that's read Notes From the Underground, but yet has a soft spot for Harry Potter /// who wears horn rimmed glasses, who votes, who listens to Run DMC and recalls Mitch Hedberg anectodes, that smokes weed and plays billiards, that bets on episodes of the Flavor of Love, and has to work out lists in their blogs to compare the life they believe to be worth living against the failure and fallen regret of the life they currently exist through.

And, that might seem cruel, it might. I might be a horribly selfish individual but there is another quote I've heard. Ghandi said that you should " live the change you wish to see in the world", and how could you disagree? If you believe, fundamentally, that somewhere and some other situation (of any reason) could possibly be better, how could it not be true?

"Man will, in fact, choose what's best for man." Sartre knows that our reptilian brain is what keeps us alive. He, and I, are pretty sure that simply existing is not living. How can I resist the urge to live?-- to touch a new skin, to taste a new taste, to hear a new story. Life should be entirely stories. I want to hear them, to relive them, to envy them. More importantly, I want to create them.

...family...

2008-06-19T15:46:00.001-07:00

FAMILY.
A family is like the fingers of a hand: each finger is weak but together they can make a fist to beat up other families who don't know the "fist trick."

--Dan Liebert

...short film...

2008-06-19T15:43:00.000-07:00

***
Thing about writing is, it’s only writing. You take a movie you like and your shitty life and mix ‘em together; see what you come up with.
***

A SHORT FILM (TO BE USED AS AN INTRODUCTION TO CHARACTER)

ACT 1

-I’ve looked over your resume and I have to say that I’m a little confused as to why you’re here. Have you ever worked in a law office before?

-No.

-Have you ever worked in an office of any kind?

-Not exactly.

-Do you have any experience with law, in general?

-Not really. Maybe.

-Did you go to school?

-Past high school?

-Yes, a four year institution or community college? An accreditation program, maybe?

-No. But I did get my GED.

-That’s where my confusion stems from. Do you have any basic understanding of the intricacies of the legal system whatsoever?

-I’ve been in courtrooms if that’s what you’re asking.

-Do you have any sort of qualifications to work in this office?

-Only one.

-And what’s that?

-I could tell you your ACT score.

-I don’t really see the relevance of that… skill.

-I think having an associate during criminal suit that could consult a lawyer, such as yourself, in, say, choosing a juror would be quite beneficial for your sway of that juror’s decision. That’s why you don’t select doctors or professors as jurors, isn’t it?

-Yes, in so few words, but I still don’t see how you could be accurate.

-I can tell anyone their ACT score, first try. Or, what they would’ve gotten if they had taken it. I just got to hear them talk for a few seconds.

-That’s ridiculous! And, at any rate, it doesn’t qualify you to –

-28.

-What?

-28.

-(pauses) Wow.

-I told you.

-And my secretary?

-30. You know you really should promote her.

-(pauses). Hm. What’s yours?

-Never took it. Funny, isn’t it?

-I’m still not convinced. 28 is correct, for the first time I took it. Shouldn’t you have come up with the average of the two times that I did?

-Not necessarily. The ACT is a pretty large reflection of a person in your position. I wouldn’t want to disrespect you with a lower number.

-Who says it’s lower?

-19 is pretty low. The average, a generously rounded 25, doesn’t seem too flattering either.

-That’s incredible.

-A 19? Not so much.

-No, that you can just know those things.

-Oh, yeah I suppose. It’s not something that brings you a lot of money or fame or anything. More like a deceptive parlor trick. I can hit on the head for anyone. Like, your wife for instance. How does she take her coffee?

-You’ll be able to tell from that?

-Hell yeah. Coffee is everyone’s dead give away.

-She uses cream and honey.

-23.

-Damn! You are pretty good.

-So I’ll see you on Monday then.

-What?

-I got the job, right? So I’ll see you on Monday.

-No, no. I haven’t finished interviewing yet.

-Oh, I see. So all that internet research I did into your personal records and that whole deceptive bit about being able to tell you something as arbitrary as your ACT score doesn’t qualify me for a position as a paralegal? That’s all paralegals do, look up and report to you arbitrary bullshit. You’re crazy. Fine, fuck it. I didn’t want this job anyway.

END

...pantheon...

2008-06-19T15:41:00.001-07:00

PALLAS,
a Titan,
and
STYX,
an Oceanid,
begat
ZELUS,
--a companion of
ZEUS--
who, in turn,
begat human zeal.

NYX,
the night,
(who many
do fear)
begat
ERIS,
--a companion of
ARES--
who, in turn,
begat human discord.

Closely related in theory
to the good in
DISCORD,
the competitive creator
that drives human development,
ZELUS
and
ERIS
are the reasons for
GRAFFITI.

I tell you this
to spell out
what message
is missed in
GRAFFITI
--
WHY
ARTISTS
STRIVE.

...a cover song...

2008-06-19T15:38:00.000-07:00

(to the tune of Twin Falls recorded by Built to Spill):

Desert spot, I touched her dress.
We were seventeen.
Thought that's how we'd be
when we hit thirty three.

I spent our one year anniversary
in Juarez, Mexico,
too drunk to take her home.
You know how that goes.

I spoke into the void this year
and it spoke back to me:
"No, we couldn't see
what kind of friends we'd be."

...void...

2008-04-27T02:37:00.000-07:00

I've seen the void.
I've heard it speak.
I've written into the void many times, now;
yet, every answer remained the same:

no.

Even, the void feels me
obsolete. It tests me for the sake
of winning, or playing.

I've seen the error.
The void doesn't care if i live.
My existence matters
so little.

no.

I miss the void, still.
I knew it so well, every tendon,
every smirk, every kill.

It shoots me looks,
o're beer pong and rum,
to intentionally confuse.

I suppose every human is suseptable;
Every human is,
after all, human.

...20 years old is ___

2007-12-30T03:25:00.000-08:00

20 Years Old Is:

20 is half stampede dust cloud / half death sentence
20 is all one liners
20 is the rest stop from horror movies
20 is when life moves too fast and too slow simultaneously
20 is when change stops and starts at will
20 is uncomfortable in bed, uncomfortable in the head
20 is breaking condoms and failing transcripts
20 tears at you, reminds you of 17, reminds you of 15
20 reminds you of how ignorant you really were at 17, at 15
20 doesn’t get better
20 is when you realize you’ll die broke
20 is when you realize that others will not die broke
20 is an invalid I.D., an invalid viewpoint, and an invalid poem
20 is rejection
20 is rejection letters
20 is rejected edits
20 is dejected sentiments
20 is dejected relationships
20 is fucked up.
No matter what anyone tells you 20 is not 21
19 isn’t 20 for that matter – or 21 to 22
20 is a gig with no venue
20 is anticipation
20 is the cockroach waiting to be stomped
20 is a canvas that’s too colored to start over
20 leaves textures on your skin
20 is part insomnia part mental health part medication
better yet, 20 is all medication
20 is the starting gun when you were too stoned to remember you were in the race
20 is the Seinfeld series twice
somewhere around 20,000 is the poverty line and
20 still relies on birthday checks as income
20 is somewhere around 7,000
20 is researching jaundus
20 is a bad investment
20 is moving 4 times a year but still stuck in the same shithole town
20 is immense input with little return
20 reminds me of vinyl records, squeaking about full wave form sound
20 can’t compete with the iPhone
20 didn’t loose his legs in ‘Nam
20 may still write that on his “homeless, hungry” sign
I heard that 20 got hit by a scooter and told people he was running the bulls in Spain
20 knows he doesn’t know and makes shit up
20 doesn’t fuck around
20 is running the bulls in Spain
20 is like Bitch’s Brew if Miles were sober
20 is constructed like a Mitch Hedberg joke
20 is Bob Hicok and Mighty Mike McGee in fishtanks as turtle prey
20 wishes he was Bob Hicok or Mighty Mike McGee in fishtanks as turtle prey,
at least, he’d go down still clever
20 smokes, a lot

...sketch...

2007-11-24T12:03:00.000-08:00

I think I've had time to digest this but I still need to get it down on paper. That way, when I look back, I can laugh at how completely wrong I am (in worst case, how right I am);

Going home for the holidays is getting harder and harder each and every year. I drove around. I drove all over, waiting for Hardkore to get done with obligations. First, to the water tower to smoke. That started the thought. Next, everywhere I could to avoid going down to Capri Rd. That lasted maybe half an hour. She ignored me for weeks. She wouldn't text me back. She's cold now -- rock solid in her misinterpretations. And the thought of her landed pretty solidly too. Of course, all of my friends had to talk about her. Everyone has to say something. First days are bad here. Then, I saw you at the coffeehouse. I can't go to any fucking coffeehouse anymore. That was supposed to be my sanctuary. You acted like I've never know you; like I've never slid my fingers down your back. That put me into reaction mode.
Then, Heather. Actually, Heather worked itself out. But Heather's best friend, not so much. It's rare for me to feel that kind of strength. The pull. This time from a mind. Can you define that for me? A great day, great days. Kens. She smoked me into submission and skated with me -- And Laughed with me. It's never been so natural. It must have been.
Society fails me, I think. Or I have too high of expectations. We could've flown far away -- falling further in love with every mile.
My mom tells me that I analyze everything way too much. I need to live the moment. DY tells me that we're impatient people. All of this leads to my condemnation of loneliness. I used to watch people fall in love on busses, I used to snap their pictures. Couples kissing through the night, all the other patrons hard asleep. They seem ahead of the world. Autobus autolove autographs. The fast are the lonely.

...commentary...

2007-11-09T08:57:00.001-08:00

I've spent a lot of time reflecting on my crafts (both as a writer and as a student). I've been involved in some illegal acts. This is a commentary I wrote last night, possibly for radio air. I was thinking about sending it down to KRWG in Las Cruces.

: So was that okay, I'll have the citation added before the paper's due. You said Wednesday, right?

That’s me, 20 years old, debriefing a client on the topic and structure of the paper I’m writing in his name. The client is a close friend of mine, and a fellow student at the university I am enrolled at but where I rarely attend classes; the paper is a proposal argument against the proposed strengthening of the No Child Left Behind Act Congress is currently debating. It contains a brief history of the act and what it means for public education nationally. The irony is entirely too obvious. My client is a foreign language student and his paper is due for a basic English composition class. I have, in my three years at the university, been studying creative writing. Although, that amount of time seems to be enough for me to feasibly be closing in on a degree, I’m planning on leaving the institution. As I felt in high school, my education has never been tailored to me enough to maintain my interest. Either that, or I’ve never been up to the challenge that keeping my sanity while performing mundane state curriculum requires. The point this research paper aims at revolves around how governmentally induced standards only create students who are unimpassioned by personal growth and molded into creative educational survivalists – of course the message is softened by layers of collegic tone.

Youth, such as myself, are now trained to look for loopholes. Illegal downloads of music, modified X-Boxes, paid paper writing.

I write papers for colleagues here and there, I try not to make a habit of it. In turn, I’m compensated with insignificant sums (still more than I receive for publishing a poem) of money or consequential favors. Throughout the past six months, I’ve written almost nothing for my own classes. I see negative trends arising from the new standards our children are being subjected to all over.

In high school English, I wrote my answers to oral vocabulary tests (spelling and definition) in capital bold letters. It was a request the student that sat next to me had. I thought it was very resourceful of him. Not only does he not need to learn the material but he’ll get a great grade from my work and no one will be the wiser. Group learning was another great loophole we had discovered. We could even plagerize each other’s reading response answers word for word by simply claiming we studied together.

: I made you write super big. You really helped me out, man. Wofford didn't like you anyway.

The 102 level English class (normally a taken your second semester) prompts the assignment as follows: we should (or should not) do X for reasons A,B,C, etc. You can also think of the claim as: blank should be changed or be different because A,B,C.

My client has the ability to write this paper, and would probably receive a decent score if he did. I think he has been turned off to doing so because, simply, that is the standard we are now held to in undergraduate education. The prompt is the same as when I was a freshman in high school, or earlier. It’s a stock example of what you would see on a proficiency exam. No critical thinking necessary. I believe this because of this and this. I can easily write this one because I have had to countless times, and so has my client.

So is this academic dishonesty? I don’t know. I feel as if by having me write this paper for him, he has done some critical thinking – real critical thinking. He’s weighed his options and bet that a paper fundamentally different in tone, organization, execution and pace from his own style will go unnoticed by his professor. And he’s right. The success of students is no longer measured on how well they can digest material but, rather, on how well it’s perceived that they have. He’s written other material for this specific class, for this specific instructor, on many occasions and any one person who reads this paper and takes any time to compare it to his others would immediately question whether the authors were the same. This should be a scary thought, considering academic dishonesty could get us both kicked out of school. But we’re not scared, we know better.

We have become a generation of test takers; a generation of loophole seekers – all products of one size fits some education reformation. This is the consequence of standardized testing, of standardized response. If there is no difference between student goals, there is no difference between students.

So while the debate over whether more taxpayer investment should be spent on a law, that I interpret to create zombied, ignorant generations of United States citizens, rages on in Congress, the answer in my mind is simple. Allocate monies toward hiring competent instructors, toward individualized education, toward a final goal that is suitable for the individual. We are endoctrined by the public educational system in place to keep up with the pace of the national average. As I question whether or not I’ll remain at the university I’m enrolled, I see clearly the position that vocational education should have in our society. If an individual can’t meet a state standard, specialize their learning to a field they are interested in and could potentially be employed in directly after graduation.

Don’t strengthen the means for them to find ways out of educating themselves.

...dreams...

2007-11-06T08:43:00.000-08:00

The move went pretty smoothly -- just a few more things left at the moontower to get to the new house. I really like the new place, it's relaxed. Can't say so much for my dreams lately.

The photo album gets finished so I have to flip quickly back through all the pages to review. My dreams have been like that, except on a constant rolodex flipping through the memories I've made up about what you've done since you left. Still frames of you in bed under a massive orange comforter with Dynek, --orange glow on the walls of a small bedroom-- and a captured gentle kiss. Nothing graphic but enough to get to me. Still frames of you with Erica in a kiddie bounce palace - all red and orange glow surrounding your matching black stripes -- smiles all around except on your face. Thank god my mind distinguished these forgeries by giving you jet black hair. Maybe, I could believe its an evil twin of yours. Every once in a while a real photo emerges - nothing with me in it, though, you moved on -- a photo I remember from the album of high school years and trips to Mexico with girlfriends. Tan. Curly. Tall. Blonde. All this leading my thoughts back to when I was seventeen and sex was casual, loving. All this making me remember that I've had my photo album stolen last year. That I'll never be able to remember you properly. That I probably already don't. My dreams are vivid enough, even if it's your evil twin in them. I want to go back and re-live senior year. I want to go back and kiss your collar bone when I tell you I'm moving away to Boston -- that I won't be joining you in Albuquerque -- that I'll save us all the heartbreak of dreaming.

...the house on Capri...

2007-10-20T21:36:00.000-07:00

I was 17 years old
when I finally kissed your face.
It's a short drive down
to take you home to your mother's place.

My matchbook ripped
and a cigarrette on my way
--you stared at it.
I hoped things would be okay.

I hoped thing would be okay.

The shotgun shells
surrounded our desert spot,
where we'd make love.
"Don't worry we won't get caught."

Your backyard lit
by the sunset you caught on film.
Now we'll get lit,
promise you won't go soon.

Promise you won't go soon.

...why i haven't been posting...

2007-09-25T23:14:00.000-07:00

Been working, really. And dropping out of school slowly.

http://ironshosts.mypodcast.com/

There's the proof of labor. Subscribe, enjoy.

...emailing life lessons...

2007-07-11T13:21:00.001-07:00

So. I stole your email from a group message Thea sent out. sneaky sneaky if I do say so myself.
well, I am also stealing internet from my neighbor, while eating a snikers bar that I stole from this girl. I guess it's just one of those days.
I have decided that I don't email enough, it's always facebook or myspace bullshit. so. we are going to email eachother now, Sam. just to let you know.
a couple question to get you started:
ahem.
What would you say is the best thing happening right now? either world wise or just with you
what is the crappiest?
why is it that people don't listen to themselves and realize how fucking stupid they sound most of the time?
there you go. enough for now. I await your response. with eagerness. like a dog waiting for scraps from dinner.
Cass

You could've just grabbed it from facebook, you know. But, I fully support stealing. Let's call it "resourcing".

Best thing...

Some days I like to think that there are a growing number of like minded and motivated young people who, within a few years, will slowly start to change the world -- that there is a combined effort to create new aesthetic values and a globalized culture. That's idealism, right? Realistically, I'm just glad I have enough money to smoke good weed every now and again, play my gitr. The best thing, really, is that I have found a few good friends here in Albuquerque (the land of assholes) to surround myself with. I even moved in with one of them. That's all that keeps me sane now -- the fact that there are people who either a.) understand a little of what I'm going through (even though its impossible to have the same world view as anyone else) or b.) (and this one's kind of mean) are going through things much tougher than I. Plus, I've really taken to napping lately.

Crappiest...

Older generations have really lost respect for the younger ones. I'm not taken seriously pretty much everywhere I go; as if being handed my horizontal ID in a few months gives me the right to be heard. Pretty ridiculous. The world in general drags me down; which leads me to drink and smoke and fuck, which leads me to question the validity of those activities, which leads me to find someone I can pay to question that validity, which leads me to remember that the questioning IS the validity and that therapy is a backward process, which leads me to drink and smoke and fuck -- its all pretty vicious considering I don't like half the things I drink or smoke or half the people I fuck or any of the people I pay to question the validity of my life. Circles kill, you know. At least, a straight line has a destination. But it's a circular world, so I arrange things accordingly. Side fact: did you know that the amount of marijuana it takes to fill a stained coffee mug ring is the perfect amount for a 1 and 1/4 inch joint?

What about you? Best and worst. You have an advantage, I'd say. You got out and found one of the last places in this country with some culture. I'm jealous.

Sam

I don't always have my computer with me you know. Catch up?

2007-07-05T18:26:00.000-07:00

It comes down to memory, there’s no way of knowing what it is exactly but that’s the bulk. These journals inform me. Nostalgia. I’ve forgotten how to be single. I don’t approach people anymore but I think it’s okay. I’m still on you, in my mind. It was miserable in the end and both saw it but my mind moves back into good times.

Things I should tell you:
-I’ve never cheated on you.
-I’m thinking about it daily now.
-If I go to Brazil I’ll never come back to you.
-I hate your dad.
-I hate that you love frat boys.
-You internalize too much.
-Stop laughing at my expense.
-Your friends judge me unrealistically.
-You’re greedy with covers.
-You’re a greedy lover.
-I’m intimidated by your projection of OUR future.
-You’ve lost your independence.
-You try to buy me too much.
-I hate having to touch you every second I’m with you.
-You pick the worst times to kiss me in traffic.
-I love you.

CONCEPT ART:
Collections, its made from that. To show a conceptive creative idea fully, you gotta show all sides of it. Collect how it should be explained. Explain it fully.

I blame my actions on one fundamental flaw: I’ve learned too early to love life purely for the beauty it contains. So, can you blame me if I fall in love with a new girl everyday? Can you blame me for prematurely understanding the beauty in diversity? Every shape hip, lip, every length slip. Can I help myself from wanting to know every facet of every woman? Can you learn to forgive me if I slip up once, look into the mind of someone else? Appreciating the differing way neurons fire in women’s minds? –the different ways to handle me, to retort my feeble mental flirtations. Oh, the way women TALK. But, maybe, you see the beauty in men. Someday will you, too, know that nothing matters but the way you you you the way I I I / LOVE beauty; want to see it all. Want to fall in love everyday. NO FUTURE, NO FUTURE in sight. No next minute. No next second. Now. Beauty. Now, this moment.

I guess I’m just disappointed in how it all turned out. We were both pretty childish but, for me, that was childhood. It’s the difference between who you are and how you are. I got used to you judging me on who I am. Now I’m working on the how I am (I lost a lot of that). Socially I’m lost, especially around the opposite sex, because I’m stuck in this public image created from having a ridiculously long term relationship. I can’t flirt and I’m jealous because you, purely by being female, will still get laid. The only hope I’ve got is that I’m still the best and that’s not much

and insomnia is ensuing again. Granted I worked all night but my life is running soley on power naps sparatically placed throughout the day/night. That’s discomfort in myself. I wanna meet someone that at first glance makes me eager. No more of this hometown girl bullshit – that residual thought. NEW,NEW.

Divine says its because it is new. It’s that T.V. thing. Like, yeah, sweet T.V., NEW T.V. and its sick for a while but its not H.D. Its not any flat screen LCD and you gotta upgrade, right? But I don’t think its like that. It’s the way your thigh feels through old eeyore pajamas. The way you drag your smokes and giggle. Is all that new? No, it’s the old shit I get to see. The old habits. Tricks, jokes, over and over. That’s performance, practice. That’s real. That’s relying on licks over simply chord changes. That’s ii, V, I turnarounds – places your hands go naturally – the feel you like to feel. That’s sweaty palms, and small goodnight kissing. And I hope you’re getting the same from me, I hopw your getting my practice.

It’s a ledge, a high ledge. I get it, I know, cliché, that my imagery of a text message conversation is that, a ledge. Tess Gallager; she says a lynx next to a housecat. I’d say it’s the third floor for the vertigo. The aracknophobic spotting a spider on his ceiling in bed, safe? A strawberry to my grandmother, a piece of broccili for my pops. The thing that could kill you. All it says is “when do I get to see you again?”

I’ve this fantasy that while I wait for your response (and consequently write this) you’ll be in your car on your way to my door. That you’ll knock and I’ll answer to your lips, your stomach.

So that’s pretty much about how it usually goes. I get my hopes up, even for conversation – for a bowl and a friend – but to no validation. Every Saturday night builds to me lyin in bed reading about authors losing their parents or lovers, often in horribly graphic detail. I barely have parents or lovers but Jimmy threw me a bone before he left in the form of a bit o’ shwag. Reminds me of my mother talking to me after three monts of silence just to inform me about how surprised she is that I’m not incarcerated. At least she thinks something of me. It is becoming super frustrating, though, this ridiculously mediocre life I’ve built myself. So many years of eating alone. I don’t think too too many people understand that implication. The chomping jaw sound pressed right against your ear (one of two things that break total nauseating silence – the other being the envied chatter of other cafeteria patrons amoungst each other about books, music, etc. They piss me off) I hope I don’t die of cancer. That’s much more lonely. You can’t eat to eat alone.

I wanted to thank you.
I’ve wanted to thank you.
For falling off the planet.
For not returning my text messages.
For being good to your words.
For bad mouthing my reputation to old friends.
For making me your masogynist voodoo doll.
Thank you.
A clichéd thousand times.
For making me enemy idolartry.
For defriending me on all internet social networks.
For burning my picture, the painting I made, the journal I altered.
For jumping into strange beds with strange men.
All to spite me,
Thank You.
Thank You.
Thank You.
For cutting the cord.
For giving me up and letting me breathe long enough to see the space growing between us three years ago and us today.
Your closeness prevented it.
Thank you.
Thank you
Simply, for hating me.
I’ve never felt so damn satisfied.

It’s very cued from new beginnings – makes good use of the feelings I’m getting from her. Get up and move because the last end was fro real; for a real purpose – to guide you to her. How can you hate relationships they’re like chemicals – they keep the world running. She stands on that rock poised perfectly to stand out from the broken glass and cigarette butts in our sunset public park and yeah I feel great; about writing some new pages – they needed this breath. I needed this breath more importantly. She smokes so beautifully – an old soul like me (some new wisdoms for me to drink up). Like the cars that were our souls were still cool… *//My 54 Bel Air heart, clanky, rusty, steel and strong as hell (not much to look at I fear). I’m writing songs while texting you, fantasizing how I’ll play them and you’ll trip with that gloss touch shooting off your smile. God, I want to taste it again. I’ll teach you life- how to roll cigs on the front porch with a cup of joe and your morning sex afterglow. Cause that’s what its about now. The world’s turning to shit and the old folks aren’t dying off fast enough so you have to grab it. You gotta smoke, you gotta fuck. I feel we should infect each other – human mind to human mind – celebrate calamity amoungst our kind. Fuck sleep, I say. If we slept one night a week how much time do we save? Do I get to look you in the eyes when I sleep? Do I get to test your flavors or hear your whispers? Do I get to care? Text me all day, text me all night; call me. I’m dying to get into you. To be the select few with your home number so I can leave it with friends when I stay with you. Its so presumptuous, I know, but who cares? Beds weren’t meant for the lonely.

...ARG...

2007-06-28T22:52:00.000-07:00

And everyones getting together. All the opportunities I've set up (or so I thought) are fading in my face. Where's the fucking courage? I make my intentions clear --working cautiously off of the signals sent -- but they can't tell me straight. I have to be shown. Thanks. Little minded girls are easy to find, they're everywhere. I don't want your roommate and you fucking know it. I texted you to tell you. So you became facebook official with the dude you paraded in front of me at Jenny's house. Games, motherfucker; games. Basketball and baseball and life -- getting full court pressed to cock block my hope to round bases. Now I'm setting up diversion plays to create workarounds and can't you feel that same pulsing pain like "shit I've been playing to this pettiness for years"?

No.

2007-06-17T02:09:00.000-07:00

A clipping from my existence, right now in its imperfection, would read to you like Sandskrit. To hear of how I predict my own death - to hear the lists I've now filed - to hear me scream at concrete tombstone water breaks - to hear me talk about you would seem alien. I would seem dejected. You've forgotten me and yet cling onto the eight year old innocent version of your American dream. To hear that I wish I could call myself anything other than American would seem foriegn. It would all be Greek. To hear my belief that everyone deserves to be heard, seen, felt - that words have weight - that noone can live without being asked how they are would shut your ears in frustration. You would only recognize the name you gave me.

It's a pressure coming down on me.

...cockroaches...

2007-06-17T01:14:00.000-07:00

I've had a this feeling my whole life. This feeling of anticipation. Every action building towards something. Toward some event in the near future. An event that pushes back its date daily. And that's a hard realization to come to so seemingly early into my life. How meaningless this all really is. I've had this feeling.

Poverty for humanity. The hope that someday things will be different. Poverty.

"I used to be articulate (email from Sherry to Taylor Mali) but that was before the mind dulling pain like background noise."

That's life. That's the stuff of life. A simple mind dulling pain like background noise. Constant.

Everything builds toward something. Toward a "pressure brought to bare" (Dan Mueller, hates my writing, hates me as a student, hates that I didn't work it all out, that I didn't kiss his ass properly) upon the central character. Like the foot coming down on cockroaches. Everything builds.

Notes

2007-06-03T18:05:00.000-07:00

Notes from work (for use in future poems and for reference):

So it goes, so it fuckin' goes. But I'm Sal Paradise -- so envious of the romantic escapades of the everyman Moriarty. It's that pull. That pull in. The pull up to your house, the pull in of your hips, the grab of our eyes. // And the East Mountains (christ, you might even LIVE in Moriarty).

Here's a list of my recent shortcomings:
I didn't go to my Living World Religion final.
I flake on Britta and, like an asshole, still try to take advantage of her.
I pulled out on Kara, I pussed out; I deserve this.

Smile, giggle and tell me that I taste like you.

READ:
Conduit Magazine
Slope Magazine
Crazyhorse Magazine
Tess Gallagher (more, more, more, she's incredible)
Frank O'Hara
Bill Knott
John Kinsella
Hailey Leithauser
Maureen Seaton
Amy Gerstler

Kissing and transportation go together.

The hardest most meaningful commitment is the commitment to memory.

If we could just:
kiss under the streetlights
egg your ex and run, drop, roll
drink wine by the pool
eat and smoke, scrape our knees, lick eachother's wounds
integrate, find a way to become singular (ME, 3E, WE)
ask about today, tonight. Find the place where we remember that we could easily, in all seriousness, die at any moment (for anyone else's agenda)
If you could only just:
(consider the two of us)

...freewrite: existential circles...

2007-04-08T17:39:00.000-07:00

My napkin doodles are less interesting at the coffee house today. They’re repeated simple shapes of triangles and very imperfect circles. I saw a video of a high school instructor swinging his arm around on a blackboard in class, making a perfect circle. Hope I don’t have to wait that long to be able to take the time required to learn that skill and apply it to my dream of woodcarving. Maybe I’ll widdle a perfect sphere.
My pre-sex conversations are a little blander than normal lately – along the lines of movies I’ve seen recently, books I’ve pretended to read. It’s not that I’m that lazy, really, just that I’ve lost interest a little interest in women. Seems I’ve come full circle since high school. It’s been affecting a large percentage of my life.
I can’t drive like I used to, maybe I’m getting old. “The closer I am to death, the closer I get to life.” Maybe I should buy me a pacifier and learn the simple pleasures of how a nipple feels in my mouth, how a glass of juice is godliness. I’ve stained my new table with those little condensation rings. Yesterday I arranged marijuana in the circular segments the size of those rings (consequently the perfect sized joint). It helped me realize how meaningless my existence has become.

...reasons I'm making this list...

2007-04-08T17:14:00.001-07:00

-I hope you'll notice it and think to yourself "how COOL? A grown man with a Trapper Keeper of lists."
-I'm trying to work out ways to start a conversation with you:
{Sublist}
-Hey (no, too familiar)
-'Scuse me. Could I borrow a pen?
-I'm Sam, we should date. Will you let me fuck up with you?
;
-I have a compulsion to make these lists that I fear will soon leave me and I feel as though I'm making process creatively in this form of prosetry.
-I hope you'll think "Man, he's really paying attension in class. That's so attractive"
-I'm distracting myself from coughing or wandering my eyes.
-I'm trying to ignore all of the characteristics I find attractive in the girl sitting next to me:
{Sublist}
-Eyes (madeup)
-Hair
-Legs
-Nose
-Bravery
;
-My blog needs updates.
-I can write what I want to say with little societal side effects ('cept not being heard).
-I'm hoping you're texting your friends about this cute guy you sat next to in astro class.
-I dressed up and my mind is saying "they're watching me so skate harder and write more."

...places of inspiration...

2007-04-08T17:14:00.000-07:00

(To the Everywoman)

Staring from the throne at Alf in my bathroom.
Staring off the dam, thinking about human plinko.
Staring through the Student Union Building pane glass pained glass into sunny afternoon blink.
The walkway by the duck pond.
The park during sibling soccer games.
The plaza after dark.
The alumni building before the grad student banquet.
At the bottom of the bottle.
At the bottom of the bong.
At the bottom of the cement cave drainages.
The bookstore poetry section.
The internet interpersonal website.
The library, third floor.
In your parents' house.
In your parents' yard.
In the reflection in your eyes, I suppose.
Daily newstands, for the candy rack.
Nightly coffee houses, for late night cigarettes.
Killer punk show concert halls.
Anywhere with chocolate,
Anywhere with kitzchy mexican folk art calendars.
Anywhere with Environmental in the title.
Anywhere.

...listing...

2007-04-08T17:13:00.000-07:00

For Sale:
Slighly used, disease free, never wed,
young male. Smokes a little but runs
smooth. Doesn't need too much $$ put
in. Will sing lullabies at bedtime.

...two truths...

2006-12-19T07:27:00.000-08:00

"There is only light
and energy, everything else
is chemical." That's what
I thought about on the dam,
when I positioned myself
between your legs, so I could
stare at both you and the
mountain. The only problem
about that statement is that
I couldn't tell which one you
were -- lightness or energy --
because I knew that I was a mess
of chemicals. I knew that
I was a mess of the opiates,
the THC, the alcohol, the Xanex.
I was a mess because I had only
delt in chemicals until you.
But I was still wondering
if you were light or energy
because I could see light in your
face but feel energy in your
legs, the ones that surrounded
me as I stared at your eyes
and the mountains. "There is only
light and energy. Everything else
is chemical." Which proteins
are you setting sail, which flattened
strains have you inflated and made
sea sick with nerves? You must be
energy (could light do such a thing?).
The best part, you like me too.

...stoned math...

2006-12-10T11:52:00.000-08:00

"Kansas is flatter than a pancake
I told her as we smoked
her glaucoma weed. On our backs
on her porch, skull to skull,
we passed the sun-tipped joint
and I counted stars. Her eyes

and mine used to abacus together,
determined to rebirth the sky
as a number. We'd also tried
to kiss, to seclude our hands
in each others laps but touching

was always touchy, like our fingertips
giggled as soon as we stripped. How much
flatter, she asked. I shrugged
and the shrug passed through my head
to hers. I wasn't sure

about the figures, something like
.972 for pancake, .992 for Kansas,
meaning the scale is 1
and what's flatter than one,
than solitude? It's helped
being friends that we tried

to be lovers, that I could recognize
her clitoris in a line-up, that she painted
eyebrows abover and a nose
between my nipples one Halloween. And now

that she resides in cloud,
I at least float naked
in her mind, a more detailed truth
in the night sky of memory.
I lost count at three hundred

and twelve, sure I was repeating
the pushiest luminaries, and told her
I'd read we can see
only six thousand stars at once,
the eye a poor harvester
of such weary light. She pulled
on the joint, a hiss like a tire

being filled, and said
she doubted the mind
could feel the difference
between sex thousand and endless.
I agreed and closed my eyes
to the flat sky as she began
to count out loud the stars
she keeps inside."

-Bob Hicok

...note...

2006-12-10T11:35:00.000-08:00

I wish I was Bob Hicok.

or Mike Eisner.

I wish it were already done and on with and all this uncertainty left.

I wish it were later. I wish I wasn't hung over. I wish I didn't continually put things on hold.

I wish you came over today.

I wish you weren't flakey. I wish I wasn't flakey. I hate to see it.

I wish the world never had reservations.

or fear.

I wish I was Taylor Mali.

I wish I could put down the video filtered dillusions about how to live my life.

I wish I could give a damn enough to stand up.

I want to be fresh like Jesus.

I want to get out of University and take myself up on the record store, or the Meta Physical Bookstore cartoon idea.

or sitcom.

I want to play around.

I want too much.

I wish too much

...freedom fighting...

2006-12-10T11:30:00.000-08:00

It was all too much.
It was all too much and I left thinking,
about the next street corners' new
set of uniforms, how they discuss
things greater and never find
re(s)[v]olution in their clothes.
I stood and watched as two men
in black military boots congregated.
One wore army camouflage fatigues,
one eyeliner and plaid,
and they faced off on the street corner.
It was all too much.
They discussed war, Gods, and oil.
I stook and watched the mens'
uniforms scream curses
about conformity, "don't they know
they aren't free?"
It was all too much and I left.

...Namaste...

2006-12-10T11:27:00.000-08:00

Demanding refunds from lovers' abortions
two weeks too late,
holding Socratic seminars around cups
for beer pong,
jumping into strange cars/beds/pools/people,
running down darkened back alley walkways
at three in the morning
holding up unbelted denim by gripping groins,
untested & unloved,
a pill popped generation,
a drunk and stoned generation,
a round table open mic minded generation
seeped in black.

My generation.

...thought of Taylor Mali...

2006-11-24T09:03:00.000-08:00

I am constantly clearing my mind through mid morning coffee and cigarettes in a low-lit west-facing apartment. Number 2172. I live alone
and that wouldn't bother me so much had I taken the time to realize that there are a lot of great mid morning post coital conversations I miss having. That girls used to request things from my computer or my mouth or guitar. That they are more receptive to the arts I love in the morning. But today I am alone
and I am listening to Taylor Mali on IndieFeed Podcast because he always makes me feel better. Because I can hear his soul in the way he recites. And, although outwardly I have my reservations about him and his style, today I have to hear him read. I am alone
and Taylor is telling me about the girls in his life. He's telling me about Giving Good Voice. He's telling me about how to love your art, love your women, love your children through your poetry. But I am alone
and giving good voice doesn't really mean much to me anymore. It just makes me want to go back to her. Mali's words are cinder. They are too perfect for time. It's just him up there on the mic alone
spitting cinders. He's telling me about being able to deliver the difference between Frodo and Bilbo Baggins. He's telling me about where the wild things are for him, what good deeds readings are for him, and why the caged bird sings for him.
This reading got to me. This reading got to me. Somehow, something in his voice, something in his words, something there between the falling ash, somewhere in those little spaces between words, somewhere in the little click before breathing, Mali is letting me know that me sitting here at home alone in the morning, drinking day old coffee and smoking the cigarette I told myself to wait on, is what poetry is about. That poetry is life and living and giving good voice to gorgeous women all hot and bothered is how to capatalize on what people don't respect enough outwardly. That poetry is about being alone
or close quartered. Recitations that impact aren't found outside your mind. Outside the cleared cloudiness of hampsters frantically pushing memory carts into and out of focus in rapid speed. Outside looking straight at lovers and reading/hearing all the things that made you afraid, that excited you, that cleansed you. Recitations that impact are realized deeper than even Taylor Mali could locate. Does he know why he's so good?
I know that I'll come back to Taylor for these realizations because he does exactly what he claims to – gives good voice – and, although, I don't know him, his recitation is intimate and impacts me.

...[unfinished]...

...open mic mindedness...

2006-11-23T09:51:00.000-08:00

Scattered small discussion groups of friends sit around barren digs, although undoubtably less barren than usual for dessert cafes, waiting for open mic coordinator Mary Oishi to speak and read. The chocolate cafe and bakery is distinctively different on a Thursday night. The blank walls bounce cappicino machine raquet everywhere. The discussion groups stare into journals and binders and scrap papers left lying stained by coffee rings. The place closes in an hour and I have little hope for them keeping it open on account of a few college kids and some young gun hip hop heads. And Mary steps up, looking disappointed at the turn out, and reads a poem for her father. She has some pain in her face but as she reads she looks around and can't bring herself intimately into the reading. I'm sure she sees Kyle, Ben, and I scribbling down notes about her. I'm trying to catch lines, all night I'm trying to catch lines. "Just Like You, Just Like Mom." The poem isn't touching me. I want to hear the bitter hopeless outlook of youth – not the defeated hopeless outlook of age.

Ben Ticknor walks for the mic with bolt in hat and a huge smile on his face. He had just prior picked up some "medicinal" wormwood and other various legal herbs. I am happily writing down the little details of his purchases and where to find them myself – happy because I know he's going to read "Death Junkies" about the positive aspects of a youthful culture's drug albatross. I've been wanting to use albatross all night – I caught it earlier that day. All night I'm trying to catch lines. Ben is reading and staring at us and I can't tell if it's to make him feel more comfortable or if he's trying to shun the slam poets for their lack of artistic vision. "Waves of fear anticipation endorphins and adrenaline wash over us as we ask why and how." Ben gets on his toes when he reads and I picture him tumbling onto himself in the middle of the line. He's good and fresh and I can handle his work.

Kyle Culver makes his way to the mic after Ben (pathetic applause by the way and I think about how the coffee machines are rustling and gurgling for us, not the patrons) and he reads "The Rat Race" opening famously with the word "maybe." I'm trying to catch lines and am getting frustrated that my thoughts keep coming back to how Kyle starts all his poems with "maybe." The lines are running fast. Kyle reads fast. and everything seems choppy. everything seems. choppy. and monotone. But it's a good poem and it has its impact. I catch phrases, not lines, because my mind is wandering around my coffee, "maybe", my cake and that pomegranite seed I can't get out of my teeth. "Apathy...inconsequential qualities, be collectively minded" – all of the bitter youthful spirit.

Kyle comes down looking flustered. Both Ben and I clap loudly drawing some attention to ourselves. I read next. I read a poem about the generation gap and how our generation is defining ourselves. But the words I use are all wrong now that I'm reading it. My peers get stuck on what Namaste means and lose out on the rest of the poem. They weren't trying hard enough to catch lines. And the hip-hop heads are looking at me like I don't even know how to rhyme and I'm looking at them like you don't get it at all do you. I try to stick through the Slam that comes up for a while but can't. It bores me and I like being bored at home.

...improvisations of Namaste and Revel...

2006-11-20T08:40:00.000-08:00

I bow to a generation prior. You have humbled me.

I bow to faith preachers, soap box coaches, abhorring messages of Stand to Reason! with lost shouts of reason standing still. I am humbled.

I bow to faithful followers who have exempted themselves from the constant questioning of leaders and the pursuit of personal understanding and belief. They have found peace of mind and I will never. I am humbled.

I bow to religious advocates who have mind to critize gays and single moms for their misconceptions of commitment, love, social responsibility. I believe love and relationships are matters of heart. I know I am a lesser person for not trusting in meaningless metal loops and costly court documents. You have humbled me.

I bow to terrorists for commitment to ideas beyond human comprehension and for the courage to fight on one side of the intangible clashing leaders of eastern and western thought. I am grounded by what I see and could only fight for what I can taste, smell, love. I am humbled.

I bow to suicidals for commitment.
I bow to politicians for "commitment."
I bow to mental patients for commitment.

I bow to judges for condemnment and confidence to posit their own moral ideals across cultural understandings and belief, finalizing the fate of others who share lesser standards. I don't have courage enough to deny the importance of individual belief and I am humbled.

I Revel in my generation. You entice me.

I revel in confident women that must control their every surrounding circumstance. Their life road is direct and I will wander scenic routes until death. You excite me.

I revel in see punk kids spar in blacklit coffeehouses. You exhilarate me.

I revel when community rallies over morality. "We can or cannot have this child" and its heartfelt decisions either way.

I revel in a pill popped, drunk, stoned, round table open mic minded generation seeped in black demanding refunds from lovers' abortions two weeks too late holding Socratic seminars around beer pong cups, jumping into strange cars/beds, taking stranger sex candy, untested and unloved. This is my generation and it humbles me.

...our poetry scares me...

2006-11-20T08:34:00.000-08:00

Our poetry scares me
even if you've never jotted it down

because I know in six years
I'll still be writing about you.

I'll still be trying to find
the complex meaning behind

what you meant. What
it meant to you when you touched

my cheek and smiled
down my chest and said

"Let's take this time
slow." I'll still be trying

to figure out my mind-
to figure out why I picked up

on co-workers, cute,
and brought them around

friends. Why did I pick up
on party-goers and frinds

of friends and bring them
around me? I'll still be

trying to interpret the look
in you, on the trunk of my car,

after I drove two hundred miles to tell
you that I couldn't handle

us when all I wanted
was for you to touch

my cheek and smile
down my chest and say

"Let's take it slow."
Our poetry scares me

Because I can't stop reading.

...hot pink sharpie mini...

2006-11-08T15:01:00.000-08:00

Grab the quickest thing
(paper, napkin, no, no).
OLD POEMS! Perfect, fuck it
and, and... is this sharpie all I've got?
I've got the perfect line to work out:

Punk kids spar in
backlit coffee houses.

I thought it up last night.
It captures all of my existence!
The line to define generations!
And, And... It's in PINK?!
Does that proptur hoc color
or paper add anything?
Will someone not quite
understand because of the color
of my marker?

It should be in black,
Punk Black, Die Black
Dead Black,
Krylon Ultra Flat Black.
Not Pink. My generation
is seeped in black.

Punk kids spar in
Blacklit coffee houses.

Not Pink.

...boots...

2006-11-08T14:46:00.000-08:00

A dream of Taos at night with stinging cold cigarettes and bowl after bowl after beer after beer. Frantic mystics and mountain advice from mountanous people, mingling with elders, see youth in age. We search for LSD, a mission for understanding because mindscapes are beautiful when they are visual, we find none and despairingly obliterated with Kona and THC, the river crisp wide, full in moonlight. So flat, so flat, so high my ears wouldn't pop. My brain's pressure unequal and no medicine for that beyond looking in. Very calming in the plains, snow capped silence battered by all my thoughts colliding, swirling. Womb-like warmth from chilled brews and enlightment paths, enlightened neuron trails reopened and pour my history to irish dancer blonde and staring, sexual listener. She wore boots, boots grabbing attention. Judgemental children raise awareness of past and fading insecurities, never have kids, kids are too real, too honest. I avoid honesty to tame irish boots, to slip them off and stare at ceiling cracks blocked rythmically by gold strands poking my eyes tearing beauty. Sleep, sleep. These are visions, what visions to vice. All the while thinking Cezanne, Ginsberg, Eyeball Kick, Hydrogen Jukebox, Hydrogen Jukebox, Sexual Listener, Irish Blonde, and Boots, Boots, Boots. My friends cold clammed, steam rising in frigid flat farmland. Wood paneled front room huka conversations and more beer more beer. I fear hearing boots but want to be a sexual listener like her. Them's big boots to fill, competative, because many men seek listeners; many men seek bare feet and cracked ceilings; many men also dream. I did nothing. They do nothing. I drove - and boots fell miles behind to big trucks, big lights, small minds and sober living. Places & things I wouldn't be without. Sleep, Sleep, Dream and remember where life meets. I wake sexually listening to reopened senses.

...falling asleep to soothing door slams...

2006-11-08T14:38:00.000-08:00

The stray was given to me
by out-of-town heroes
while on retreat.
I wandered into lock
I made file so
on file everything was
to Jewish command
and how you think
you were controlling.
You spoke the confidence
of female youth but it
didn't work, not this time.

I was sleeping and you knew where the door was.

I'm glad you called to apologize
so I could clearly state
that you don't mix
not with me
not with liqour

and I was sick from drinking.

...real photo...

2006-11-03T21:20:00.000-08:00

THE SIGN COVERING THE PHOTO [should've] READ:
DON'T THINK ABOUT IT
[don't pace, don't finish that pack
it was all over months ago].
THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS
[not about the guy there now,
not about the fucks, she loves to fuck],
THINK ABOUT WES
[not about her, not about her
not about running over to make sure],
BUKOUSKI, GINSBERG
[yeah, about that shit, not her
not about how making this sign isnt helping],
PARKER, COLTRANE
[not about how she's attracted to assholes
not about assholes at all],
AND MONK. WHAT'S
[going to happen?? not about
being lonely, not about rubbing
rocks against your wrists
when you really want it to hurt
because soon it'll be]
DONE
IS DONE.

...SlamNation...

2006-11-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

I've figured out the SlamNation style.
The style that just flows so fast and so
coherently fast
that makes you think
that maybe there's more to it
than what is audible.
Some trick or passing knowledge
that demands college... learning to
respect.
It's easy really, cheesy really,
because it boils down to
.......................pauses
and.................breaths
to dramatize.
AND LOUD PHRASES
to distract, but under it must keep intact.
Continually bringing back
some hip hop essence
made to clarify my lack
of rythym.

I've figured out the SlamNation style, see
its easy really, cheesy really,
because I'm not much of a fan
but have still been told about it from friends.
I podcast it, how traditional i know.
"Just be sarcastically awesome"
and use some silly catch words from the nineties,
......................totally
remembering............pauses.
to dramatize.
And repeat, repeat, repeat the words you want them to hear.
Clearly label to under-reads
that this is what you should focus on,
that this is what you should focus on,
it's all that matters in my piece
it's all that matters in my piece.
The rest is shit.

I've figured out the SlamNation style,.....................yo.
pauses.
and repitition of....................yo
pauses.
AND LOUD PHRASES
don't forget, that's how you get their attention
before you start
aiming your art
at quick couplets
ryhming outlets
for creative outbursts
that's where it hurts
when they hear
and when they fear
fast paced hip hop essenses.

I figured out the SlamNation style
and I condemn it.

...i spyed...

2006-10-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

A girl with a limp
stared at her phone
weaved and wandered
through the side walks
with no sleep from the night,
baggy eyed,
bruised,
used for book money
and wondered if her education
is worth all the men
or the guilt.

...Allen Ginsberg...

2006-10-26T07:28:00.000-07:00

I write poetry because Ginsberg did.
Ginsberg wrote poetry because he was a homosexual, because he could be a homosexual, and he had to prove his humanity either for himself or his audience.
I write poetry because Africans were inslaved and sang songs.
African slaves sang songs because they were human, they were proven - given - by injustice.
A slave knew humanity because he was given his identity.
Ginsberg wrote poetry because he had to prove his humanity - he was free.
Ginsberg wrote poetry because he wanted to justify, give evidence, and support his own humanity - fight, reflect, constantly consumed, bound and trapped.
Ginsberg wrote poetry because he had to make his identity.
A slave knew humanity because he was given his identity.
I write poetry because Ginsberg did, because Africans were inslaved, because I as a human constantly seek identity and wish to learn humanity.
(10-25-06)

...horn man...

2006-10-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

The small round wooden table is littered with sugar packet wrappers, the grains of which scatter and pattern in lumps here and there, and Abram reaches for his pot of tea with his face buried in a black leather bound journal. He breathes words to himself as he taps the hardwood floor to the rhythm of his shaking left leg. His free hand fumbles around blind for a second before he takes the time to look up for the pot. After he pours the raw substance the regular process begins: one packet of sugar torn right to left, a half second drip of milk from the boat, four swirls with the spoon and two taps on the top edge of the cup. Abram is slightly annoyed by all the buzz in the coffee house and looks out into the street to find some silence in the change of scenery. How could he think? How could he concentrate on his journal?
Across from the coffee house there stands a man in a pinstrip suit. A black rectangular instrument case, badly worn, sits open faced under the heat lamp summer sun. He scrunches his face as he blows through a trumpet. People pass by and listen – some shake their heads and others drop a few coins into the case. Abram has seen him before around the coffee house, and takes great interest in him. The horn man never plays a single note, he just blows air through the metal and clicks the valves loudly. His dress is what particularly catches Abram's eye, he looks good like a jazz legend you'd want to hear old stories from. Like Davis or Gilespie.
People around here know him and ask him to "hear" songs they love. He only nods when they ask and then picks up his horn and clicks away. That's it, man, they say, just like the old days, they tell him. Then they drop in some change and leave smiling. Abram's been fascinated with the whole scene for a few weeks.
When Abram had first moved to the big city, he was obsessed with Davis and would talk about him like Christians talk of Jesus or high school girls talk of Laguna Beach. He was under the impression that jazz was cultural and sophisticated. He thought he was showing off worldly things to Effie. Things she didn't get at home in the county, home with her parents. How stupid, Abram passes that horn man everyday and he's still on a street corner. Where's the culture in that? A year before was the mulberry. A year earlier he stood tall, he was stable.
***
The kitchen is lit with one spot light above the white section table on the west wall. It can only light up half the room but the moon is doing a good job for the rest. Effie sits on the counter, Abram along the west wall, at the table, browsing the newspaper stack in front of him, thinking how upset she looks. He pulls out the world section and folds it down the center. The red vinyl chair he found at his parent's place in the country squeaks as he leans deep into it. The girl picks up her third orange from the box next to her and begins peeling it with the help of the moonlight. She throws the peels back into the cardboard cube. Abram never looks up from his paper.
They grew up together south of the big city on the mesa. Abram hated small town life. He hated having his parents know everything that he did. He hated knowing that if something happened between him and Effie, she'd tell her mom who talk to his grandparents at church and would certainly pass on the information to their son, Abram's father. He hated having to drive ten miles to smoke a cigarette without criticism.
Effie slides of the green retro countertop and moves toward the table. She stands by the chair opposite of Abram and picks up the front page and folds it lengthwise to fan herself. She bites the orange. Abram refolds the world news into its original form and shuffles through the stack. He settles on the funnies, unsatisfied.
Effie rolls her eyes, throws the fan down and moves toward the window over the sink. Abram knows she's staring at the mulberry in the backyard. He can see its trunk through the glass sliding door. The grey cement walls surround the small plot of dead or dying grass are graying to the color of the summer night's sky. The mesa they lived on was vastly landscaped and free. He regrets bringing her here. The shadows of the mullberry's great branches tar out the details of the bark and the only break of moonbeam forms an oval circumscribing the small rectangular thermometer nailed to the tree's skin. Abram can't make out the temperature. He buries himself back in the paper.
When they had moved in together, Abram would lay out under the mulberry and rest his head on Effie's stomach. They'd whisper in the dark about how big the city was but how amazing that they could still see the stars. He shuffles through some sections of newsprint, not looking for anything in particular, and sighs deeply before resorting to grabbing the front page. The readjustments to the folding dump damp citrus frangrance into the stuffy air. Effie slowly walks back to the newly cleared space across the table from him. She sits. Abram glances up at her for a moment and commits back to the paper.
"When you decided to move, did you expect me to come with you?" Effie says shyly. She bites her nail. Abram lowers his arm and sincerely looks across the table.
The mesa, covered with red shotgun shells and brush and sand, made him feel big – like a tree should feel. Above him, between jet trails and small town lights, were the stars. The skies made the mountains small. He was young and in love. He had moved with her to a place where shotgun shells meant something new and he had adapted a quieted outlook for the city. "Effe what's wrong?"
"You keep saying you'll tell me if something was different and you keep saying that there's nothing to worry about and that nothing bothers you and if there was something we'd fix it but you never tell me what really is bothering you because I know that things aren't the same as they were." Abram shies his eyes toward the china cabinet while she says this and then hesitantly makes his way back to her. Her eyes never budge.
He places the paper on top of the journal to his right and leans his elbows to the tabletop, his hands outstretched toward Effie. "I know I don't have much to say anymore-"
"That's not it." She stares at him with glossy frightened eyes.
Abram looks down at his hands. "Its this heat, babe. Its late. Can we talk about it tomorrow?" The stuffy air has long been choking fresh conversation. Silence reenters the kitchen and Effie's socks stick the linoleum when she moves back to the window. Abram picks up a Time magazine and begins paging through pausing on interesting pictures. He know she's staring at the mulberry.
He wakes up after hearing a car door and looks out his bedroom window at the busted yellow cab slowly peeling itself from the street curb. He leans over to the empty pillow beside him and chokes on the smell of oranges.
***
The city has grown on Abram a little in the two years he's lived here; although, he hardly regards it as home. Abram walks by the coffee house and sees the familiar face of the horn man – scrunched and passionately silent. He's never seen so much emotion involved in such silence. Abram approaches him and drops in some change, the man helps his mind wander carefreely. The street is practically bare. The horn man doesn't speak, really, just make gestures. "Hey, you know 'Killer Joe?'" Abram asks hoping to show off some culture. The man nods and begins tapping his foot lightly, swinging his leg. He takes in the world with a breath and begins to blow silent air. Abram could hear it. He could hear every note. He could hear the piano chomp little chords, the drums click in, the bass walk, and doubled sax. He could hear his first gig, he could hear Effie complimenting him over coffee after. He could hear the conversations he had at parties about the greats and legends and Effie talking about how much she loved to hear him tell stories. He could hear her on the mesa laughing at the all the things he used to say. He could hear himself say "I love you" a thousand times before the move. He could hear Effie grabbing her purse in the middle of the night. He could hear the door shut and the cab waiting out front. He could hear himself roll back over in bed and the buzzing in his ears when he knew she had left. And slowly the horn man creeps in. He blows through the whole piece without a single break, taking every verse for his own solos. Its brilliant even if it is all in Abram's head.
The horn man finishes and Abram looks straight at him thinking of some question to help explain it all. He blurts out "how'd you learn to play so well?"
The horn man looks up from under his bowler hat and smiles through his pencil mustache. Abram felt like a student in the presence of his greatest mentor. The horn man sums up his lesson to Abram with the only thing he's ever heard him say: "Sometimes it's the notes you don't play that mean the world." Abram drops in two more quarters, thinking of Effie, and walks to the coffee house to bury himself in his journal.

...project tibet...

2006-10-08T18:36:00.000-07:00

Around the wooden sign,
standing prominently
across from an ivory Buddha,
30 ft. spinning spoon sculptures
wave quietly above a few spectators.

They are money, 400 lbs.
carrying shopping bags and filled bellies
talking about grassroots movements,
and amused by the size
and price
of precious metaled giants.

The locals come at night ("its zen")
to watch the great beings
spin and spin and spin,
trying to shake the rusting and tainting
collected from playing parlour tricks for the rich,
their basis concretely dependent on them.

Sculptures that long to break, creaking cires of copper.
These tour bus victims,
small talk side conversation pieces
spin and spin and spin
to uproot.

The Buddha smiles,
happily imagining the stem
of one spinning giant snapping
in a feverish wind,
sailing excitedly to the ground,
never being sold.

...hometown...

2006-09-21T13:44:00.000-07:00

A blue sedan slid down the muddy offshoot from road M with Dave and Mitch silently riding inside. The car creaked across the wooden platforms that makeshifted a bridge over ancient broken barbed wire fences. The meadow was a swampy green gray mess of tall grasses and patchy mud puddles. The silver sky sprayed a mist of color almost blocking out the tree line encircling most of the soaked field.
The car came to a stop and Mitch jumped quickly out of the passenger door and into a particularly flattened part land in front of him. Dave shut the driver door of the car and slowly walked around to lean on the hood. Mitch briskly straightened himself and rubbed the arms of his jacket, randomly blowing into his hands. "Man, I haven't been out here since senior year. I almost brought my running shoes."
"Shut up for a second, would you? This is serious. Jer wouldn't have been joking around like the damn fool you're making out of yourself right now. And you know you are, right?" Dave had always been the controlling figure, way back to when he was a kid. He told Jer how to act for people – which eventually turned into how to get laid in high school. Dave was assigned to logistics in his circle of friends and had to make the tough decisions: where they were going, what they were doing, who's car, etc. That's what made him management material for his father's general store. He hired Mitch about the time they both dropped out of community college.
"Yeah, right. Jerry would've been the first one to roll up those ashes in a joint."
"You wanna ask him if that's true," holding an urn up to Mitch's face.
"Okay, man, chill."
That part of the woods was set away from town about five miles down road M from the high school. Dave knew exactly how far that five miles was, too, having spent a majority of his minor years trekking to the meadow to get high or throw parties. The side road that leads to his spot of choice ducks down just low enough that the grasses cover any sign of activity out in the meadow itself. It had been well researched from earlier generations of Dave's family. Four of his relatives (uncles mostly) live on road M.
Mitch slammed down on the hood next to Dave and looked out toward the woods. The mist left ghostly impressions on Dave; he knew that this would probably be his last time visiting the meadow and he was saddened by it. A brief moment of silence passed. Dave was surprised at how long Mitch held his breath before spilling something spastic and under-thought into the air. The respect was necessary for them both to keep; Dave couldn't help but think that Jerry would've wanted silent contemplation. "We should've brought some beer or something, though, you're right."
Mitch seemed to like the sound of what Dave said because he immediately popped off the hood and ran back toward the passenger door. He opened it and dug around frantically in a black duffel bag. "Oh, what are you on about now?" Dave was slightly annoyed.
Mitch's head materialized from over the car door and he slowly lifted a six-pack to join it, chuckling slightly as he did. "I thought you'd say something about it, but I knew you weren't bringing anything."
Dave smiled slightly and caught the gold can firmly in his left hand, trained well in the skill. He tapped the aluminum top and cracked open the can spraying more silver grey into the field. He lost sight of the mist before it touched the ground. Mitch turned toward Dave putting a closed peace sign to his lips and breathed in. He puffed out two grey sprays of air that floated above him and got lost in the clouds. Dave had known this sign since the age of fifteen, although this was a rare occasion to see it in July, and he began to rib around for something in his jacket pockets. He grabbed hold of a silver cigarette case and remembered when he had unwrapped red and green paper encasing it. The embossed print was more worn now but still clearly read: Merry Christmas, Chimney. Love, Jer. Dave popped the clasping and pulled two sticks out. Mitch fumbled around his pants pockets and produced a green Bic. He lit one and puffed, vomiting white grey into the vacuum sky, it disappeared smoothly into the trees and beer and rain. "I knew you didn't quit." Dave shrugged his shoulders calmly and bent in to light his cigarette. He picked up the urn and turned it in his hands, thinking about how he'd never come back to the meadow. Mitch moved toward the middle of the flattened patch of packed dirt and spun slowly around, arms outstretched. "There are a lot of memories here, man. Our parents, even. Think we'll miss it?" It was comforting to Dave to know that Mitch had the same intention for the place.
"I don't think so, it's so far down road M."
"Yeah."
Dave's cigarette burned down, he crushed his beer can and threw it into the car's open window. He went out to join Mitch who was sitting in the middle of the clearing, making sure to bring Jerry with him.
"This last time here is for you, Jer." Dave closed his eyes and looked up, reaching the urn high above him. The ash fluttered around him and streaked into the mist - a small portion of the remains making the trail down Dave's cheek smear black.

...reminiscent sky...

2006-09-20T14:16:00.000-07:00

You may never forget me but will you ever remember me? Will you bring up my name in coffee shops with friends or see a cloud and remember that I built you the sky?
I woke to you every day for a year longer than I could've asked for; a year with you could give a lifetime of memories.
I hope I still get to see you in your dreams. I hope we meet somewhere deep in your subconscience and our love is as pure as ever. No complications – yeah, that'd be nice. And to know that you'd be happy with me in a small fragment in a virtual scape gives me strength. That I still am in your mind somehow, that I am still loved in your mind somehow, still building a sky in your mind somehow, still teaching flight in your mind somehow

...a second dedication...

2006-09-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

FOR STEVEN:
He built the wings he flies on. He built the sky to fly in. He rammed this earth and cried these rivers and never asked for anything. You'd question it, right? You'd say it's not possible, yeah? But that's why you'd never fly.

….I'll let you be in my dreams if you let me be in yours….

...corner room...

2006-09-20T14:14:00.000-07:00

The carpenter is young, and does everything with his hands and head. Very lonely, quiet and uninterupted. I imagine his workshop to be poor and small with hammers and nails and all sorts of old world tools. I see a locked corner room. He takes in the things he loves to use as his materials. His heart as much an engineer as his head. And he cranks away up there for years and years, never mentioning his work or progress. I imagine Effie sneaking in to his workshop, out of curiosity. She takes in everything at once without being able to piece it together. There are pails of water and pails of feathers and some tubes and things strewn about the place. Wires and hooks and little bottles of colored liquid. I picture Effe in wonder of it all, slowly walking about and playing with the little pieces of wood and nail balancing the pails of feathers and water to eachother, while the carpenter arrives and observes her curiosity. How embarrasing for the girl to be caught and she asks her lover why these things are here – why he never shows his work to her. The carpenter explains that he has been building her a present and never has finished it. I imagine him taking her by the hand and leading her to the corner room. I imagine Effie in such anticipation and excitement as Abram pushes some puffs of cotton and big wooden frames out of the way of the door. The corner room contains not much but air. It opens to a vast deep blue sky. A bright sunny scape with beautiful clouds and rain and no wires show through. "Why do you lock it away from me?"

...a little word association...

2006-09-20T14:07:00.001-07:00

Cigarette.

1. Meg (I'm sixteen, we're in Albuquerque getting high behind the Buffalo Exchange before heading to a show at Popejoy).
2. Cassie (I'm sixteen, we're in front of Keith's house, New Year's, I'm pissed at Kelly, we talk, we hookup).
3. Rachel (I'm seventeen, we're at a desert party after her fling in Juarez, the line: "cigarettes and beer make you argumentative." Fuck you).
4. Ash (I'm seventeen and I know she doesn't like that I smoke, she buys me a lighter, that's when I knew it was for real).
5. Kara (I'm seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, she's alway worried about my smoking but seems to love a cigarette when she's drunk, she'll deny that).

...busted spirits...

2006-09-20T14:01:00.000-07:00

It's funny how Ben waits around for someone to fix him and all his shit. Placed in good hands and a little mistreated with sort of this underlying unhappiness and that old school gentleman's flair. The marimba's worn down and missing keys. It still hints toward the splendour it had when it was young. Like Ben's ripped up tux. Its stained and abused as if bit by bit it was slowly malformed. And it just sits and waits to be restored, never calling attention to itself -- never making any noise. Ben got fucked over by that girl Casey. He was going to ask her to marry him and she wanted Micheal that night. He takes everything devastating like that lightly. He simply walks into the soundproof room and bangs away on something loud -- and the marimba waits there in the corner.

...postmodern conditioning...

2006-09-20T13:54:00.000-07:00

you'd say It's tangible
to new world Belief
and apathy//
\\i'd say it's tangible
to Old World death
and antiquity...
--but it's still neither here nor there--
does that make me care?
you believe your lie
and i'll lie
about believing
but i've never had the chance at trying
to Kill God
----------------------------------
Though, it's hardly necessary these days
when hearts fade in timely ways
and faith is a word of fear.
----------------------------------
you'd say It's not real
to be so remembered
for philosophy//
[[[WE"D say it's not real
to be so entangled
in wrongs...
--write songs or paint pictures
but words aren't elixirs
i spit my lines
and you'll try
quick defending
but my words aren't weapons trying
to Kill God.
----------------------------------
Thought it's hardly fashionable roads
when changed minds change modes
and questioning is illegal.
----------------------------------

...freedom fighting...

2006-09-20T13:48:00.000-07:00

Two men in black military boots; one in army camouflage -- one with black eyeliner -- stand next to eachother. Freedom fighters and both conformists. Uniforms for each side. Do they see they aren't free? (08-30-06).

Freedom Fighting

I stood and watched
as two men in black
military boots collected;
one in army camouflage
--one in black eyeliner;
and took stance
next to eachother.

And while they talked
of things greater
than both could ever
control, their uniforms
screamed curses and ranted
about conformity.
I said nothing.

I left them, thinking
about the next corner
and the next set of uniforms
and how they would talk
of things greater
and never find re(s)[v]olution
in their clothes. (09-11-06)

...completely abstract...

2006-09-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

The first box he opened (labeled "desk") contained, amongst other things, his first piece. Pyrex and small. He loaded some greens into the pipe's small bowl, sat next to some dishes on the couch and breathed in his freedom. His living room, his couch, his bowl. He could taste the sense of relief that noone watched him -- that he could take his time.

...a history lesson...

2006-09-08T14:16:00.000-07:00

So, before I started This Island Earth, there was a few years I spent blogging almost entirely privately. I think I had two readers, though I'm not quite sure that I have more now but... here's the year and a half I wrote at journalspace. It's much more of a journal but there are some good poems if you search hard enough.

What I'm trying to say is: if you care to know how much different I was before I left my parents house download a little history on me.

...a novel idea...

2006-08-26T21:20:00.000-07:00

Constant clippings. A bombardment of clippings of court papers, interviews, phone conversations, exposes, reviews, critiques, newsprints, and all other sorts of official things. Constant incessant clippings that, seemingly, have nothing to do with anything. Then familiar names should pop up. And familiar towns. And the story should unfold without the main players ever having a single conversation, without any sort of interaction, but the love should be so strongly felt between the two. And then, he should speak candid, he should be interviewed by her -- long after it's too late to reconcile -- when you're forced to simply start over. And that's how it should feel, like starting over.

...match...

2006-08-11T12:48:00.000-07:00

match

2006-08-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

My hands have learned new languages in the past few years of my life. That is so much more interesting to me than even the processes that formulated the new licks. My fingers have words on my frets. I have lines of prayer and reverence. I have ways to say love and ways to say names of people. It's how I think of them when I want to think of them, in those times,,,, Jazz is great because the words get lost and those melodies that are left are all heart,,,

Those old poems of mine are great to read though -- to see all the predictions I had come true. It's not that I want to be right about them, i just feel better knowing that i didn't lie to myself....it's different worlds these days, you know?.....I want to imagine all of those little phrases I was too clever to write pop up in my head when they ring true----quote them aloud so people thought i was articulate. And the conversations with Hardcore over the week have been encouraging. Like I didn't just fuck up myself and throw everything away. YOU threw it away.

so in honor of this new found independence and slightly depression single status after losing my loved one I will begin again with these little improved poems that I think help me more than music in some ways (because im fluent with this language and its subtleties):

I light a match
and it takes six frames
fly fly fly six frames
and the match is burning slowly away

between torn paper borders
between white lit boxes
between Everything that mattered
and the match dies dead.

I light a match
it takes more than one
time second fly to get the feel
of the match while its stable

before it dies.

...a philosophy...

2006-06-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

16 hrs. to design. 20 hrs. to cut. 3 days to research placement. 1 hr. preparation and tactic organization. 2 min to tape. 5 min. for first tone. 5 min. for second tone. 5 min. for third tone. 12 sheets of posterboard. 4 exacto knife blades. 15 cuts on fingers, hands. 3 cans paint. 2 big balls...

3 mins to buff.

What's the real crime?

...art not crime...

2006-06-22T16:33:00.000-07:00

...a photograph...

2006-05-22T19:35:00.000-07:00

...i loved her...

...recovered...

2006-05-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

It's different worlds these days, you know?
Ups and Downs.
Thats what;s wrong... //
Of course it is, of course it is.
It wasn't the convinient lapses in memory
Not at all. The tracks were robbed.
..///

You can't use the pumps
cause the vandals took all the handles.

--Life is outside of this box, you know--

And I used to believe that.
I remember vivid picture frames containing nothing
and huge vasts of sound and light from the world around, and here;
that wood frame...freedom....

Old world interests, I'd say.

Abram Williams Speaks Candid

2006-05-11T17:28:00.000-07:00

...
AW: The first thing I remember, the first that always comes to mind, is how you made love. Is it selfish to think of that first? It's a large reflection of how a person is. Maybe that's too Freudian. Maybe I'm too stuck on it.

RS: No, it's fine. I think everyone remembers that first.

AW: I try to work it in to my playing now, you know. I think of how you moved and how delicate. I try to feel what I felt when and translate that to the frets.

RS: And now I'm interviewing you for it, funny. Like, they should interview me.

AW: They should.
...

...memry...

2006-05-08T00:04:00.000-07:00

Sketched scenes to movies,
Full pages of black and white and grey
Inked drawings of old love and kiss.
Nostalgic way to the no return.

Saying okay was slow;
was calm to you and, fretful
I've forgotten how to cry
about true and forgiving youth.

You wanted me to be bold.

...big...

2006-05-07T23:57:00.000-07:00

Their mesa, covered with red shotgun shells and brush and sand, made them feel big – like a tree or cave should feel. Above them, between jet trails and small town lights, were the stars. The skies made the mountains small but they felt big.

They were young, in love -- "big love" they'd say -- and they had moved so fast, in one way or another, away to where shotgun shells meant something new. They caved in. This was a big mesa -- too big to see the sky. "I feel closed in" Effie would say. "I feel weathered" Abram would say. When she left, crushed perhaps by the city, his enormity left with her.

2006-05-05T09:13:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I really dedicated myself to a journal. I'm always so afraid of the consequences. Today, I've resolved to really try and write everyday. Quickly, I think you'll find that this is not a "Dear Diary" situation, that I am a creative writer and that the things I devote time to have impact for reader and writer alike. Odds are that if you read this you've stumbled on it randomly and that's okay. Feedback is awesome, by the way.
As of right now, I'm completing a portfolio for my English 221 class and have finished editing a short story titled "the Horn Man." I started an entry to try and get ideas for the something else piece I need to include. I really want to put in my microfiction piece because I'm very proud of it but I don't know if that is acceptable. I pulled out the digital copies of my old journals for inspiration. I used to keep everything in notebooks and would burn them if I didn't like what I read, having old work is cool because I never really realized how much unfinished material I have to fuck with.
I think I'll put up the short story for the hell of it. And the microfiction piece, why not?

...endings...

2005-09-22T19:01:00.000-07:00

I guess it's really over now. Those glory days, I mean. The band was together (in some form) for over 5 years. Now we've got nothing. The website space was sold off. We don't even have a demo in complete form. So depressing...

...future...

2005-09-21T23:21:00.000-07:00

This poem was started and finished over two distinct periods of time. The opening was written prior to a parade I went to see; the end was written (and was greatly effected by) the yearly "electric light parade." I've never seen military troops march anywhere in america in my life. Podunk Las Cruces hosted them well.

FUTURE
As to show my blood
would be deliriously sad
as none gone want,
As to say "next moon
next time, no way"
as none here need,
As to think my sight
was as clearly diluted
as the water in my veins,
That's how the day ended.
(Clarity fated and worshipped)
And the reviewer of our
Times new paper he said
"look down on yourself
i look down on you."
PCP in our pot and now
i'm smoking crack in back alleys
with the illustrious prince.
That's how I was formerly known.
Ha.
As to wonder my worry
was intraveiniously delivered
into small side cups,
as to care that I was being
fed the shit I always wanted
and not cry "Fuck Yeah!",
as to scrape my right from my left
and tear away the misconceptions
of my given (not taken) world,
that's how my life begins.
(Rebellion fated and worshipped)
And the parents of a lover
now found out of me they say
"Doesn't it distract and
rebel yourselves?"
cold waters fall into eyes
and out the tears of mental cavities
from years back.
They found me dead at birth
I swear.

"Attention! We've decoded
Your world and have declared
Your intentions not sound.
Attention! New ideas must go
Through our office for approval
And dismissal, all enemies of
Our thoughts are to be destroyed."
Can't you hear the future?
My childhood was never
Crowded by military parades.
It was never given that meaningful
Sparkle that only unjust killings
Can expel into the newly formed
Minds of American youth.
I was never shown my enemies
Before their crimes were committed.
Not that I'm against freedom fighting
But dissent is the only
Option and it's not for
People other than our own.
As to think these theses
Go untrumped into peers
Opinions with open minded
Humanity and fearlessness
Was to care that this will be
How my day will never
End. For pioneers closed their
Ears and so have I.

...a dedication...

2005-09-21T23:17:00.000-07:00

THIS ISLAND, EARTH
...and has it ever taught me anything?...
...this island earth...
...anything but pain?...
...the purest emotions are the same...
...i could cry from anger...
...everyman dies of his vices but, more importantly, everyman dies...
...and the consequence of misfortune...
...doesn't compare to cold knowledge...

(unfinished)