and we dance like this back and forth, hurting eachother for no apparent reason other than to feel better about our shortcomings as humans.

Yes, Back, Over, Um, No, Yes, Behind the Tree

everyone is so busy looking forward they don't look back to see what triggered the effects of all of this commotion? shit doesn't just happen, it's a result of your behavior. maybe its too much work to figure out what's going on? let's just fucking party and hope everything works out okay? of course it will, i'm checking out, disconnecting the cables, taking the blue pill and not the red, shooting guns and buying stock, making big plans while i munch on my super low calorie lettuce wrapped washed down with protein muscle milk so my ripped abs can gather mass amounts of beautiful women to claw and come to me at every beckoning, living the good life and spending what i don't have, getting backstage and making out with the groupies.

civilization will fall and i will be the first one to witness it.

if i'm not getting a blowjob from the Juicy model as i sip on this fine champagne and ride my hummer limo into oblivion.
.
they don't realize how cheesy, fake and just utter bullshit their lives are. how transparent and without personality.. they posses nothing more than reproductive organs and a fucking smile... it's fucking everywhere and somehow, these people just don't understand anything outside of their boundaries.

oh man, and when they do try to step out of their boundaries, they are so out of place that they just latch onto other people to see what they are doing.. for god's sakes man, find your own way and quit being another cookie cutter bullshit AMERICAN.

some people just don't get it.
and they never will..

fuck, that's even sadder than me.

Enough of this Sappy Shit, Let's put a Little Fire In our Belly

scotch drunk
both
fumbling in the dark
long blue mass of car
parked on her lawn with
one headlight hanging out of it's socket
"tell me about it bud"
i motioned to the car
hearing the pins click
as the key pushing in door
a forecast
for moments to come
her dogs rush me
and i fall flat on my ass
as they lick my face
"you filthy, filthy animals"
smiling
she reaches down and helps me up
guiding into the bedroom
as the dogs pitter patter behind
us
we slowly undress and slide together under
cold sheets
sharing stories and experiences, lovers pillow talk
my face is right up against hers
suddenly
she licks my face
and i am taken back
...
i go with it, and lift myself over her
it's hot and animalistic
i begin to sweat and growl
she moans small whimpers of fragile innocence
i hear pitter patter
bulldog named "Devo"
jumps onto the bed
and begins to lick my ass
i push him away,
but the little bastard keeps licking me,
finally i push him off the bed, and she frowns
"sorry"
back to the thrusting
it's getting good
i could feel her vagina closing in on my penis
hugging it tight
she turns to jello in my hands
as i support the back of her head and kiss eachother
until our lips swell
the dog again
that persistent little shit
this time
fucking my leg
i cannot concentrate,
so i flip over and let her ride me
she is tall
with pierced nipples and short scruffy hair
suddenly
dog
licking her tits
i push him away
and she says,
"no, it's cool"
...
...
...
i go with it.

For 5 Minutes, I can Be Alone with the Gods

it seems,
the only time one can feel at peace is
when he is here in front,
of this wretched machine.
spouting out images and words,
lines get crossed, dabbed and drivel
pours,
out of every pore.
i feel the hair falling out of my head onto
the flat smooth keys
pulsating with me.
and
we dance together like this each night as
i feel you up,
feel you down.
but for all of these frail moments before
sleep eats me alive
there is a small rush
building
in me
that cocaine
speed
or coffee
had ever supported me.
for those 5 minutes watching
the cursor blink and waiting for the air
to be sucked out of my personal space
light headed floating palms into gelatin mass.
it's beautiful.
it's me

-don't venture far out enough that you can't find your way back. those who lose it easy get lost in the shuffle of life.
-it's the shit that happens in sitcoms and everyone laughs at it. but you never want it to happen to you in real life.
-you have to prove to me that you are okay to feed.
-life with one leg is merely a limp
-it's okay to do stupid things, it's not okay to do them when you notice they are wrong.
-i got no problem lifting sand out of my dune each morning to make it, i actually enjoy it.

Ali.

i looked up just in time to see Ali walking towards the door. i had been secretly watching her out of the corner of my eye, just being casual, not drawing too much attention, other than the fact that i was chewing on my tie, but that's natural when a guy with too much time on his hands spots a lovely lady across the restaurant. as she approached the door, the sun reflecting off of the cars parked along the curb etched her shadow into the ground with so much depth that i almost lost myself in it. i had to squint in order to make out the hourglass shape she left burned into the concrete floor.

i would never see her again. she would never know about the moment i shared with her, and i'm sure if she did, the weirdness in it would turn to creepiness and i would automatically be dismissed as a potential mate.

don't go near that boy, he's an "undesirable". weird and slightly off, damaged goods, bad fruit, mal carne and deeply devoted to nothingness.

moments later it began to rain. i drank the rest of my beer and stepped outside into the storm and let it engulf me.

Karen

you never judged me.
we were both outcast,
beaten down at a young age,
by what?
i'm not sure.
you came closer to humanity,
then any of these women ever will.
i could show up on your doorstep,
at 3am.
drunk,
with a six pack of beer,
and some gummy bears.
welcoming me with open arms,
and when i was too drunk to remove my clothes,
you would remove them for me.
we never hugged while sleeping,
but i could feel your warmth radiating
off of you
and breathing in your scent
made my brain mad
with laughter.
you were my lush,
and i was the drunk,
together,
roaming bars,
consuming like thieves.
pinning you to the floor
in the middle of the living room
and removing your clothes
piece
by
piece
slowly letting momentum build in us,
and the night would flame
with that eternal fire.
rug burns marked with lust.
in the morning,
over coffee,
we'd talk about anything,
and mid sentence,
i would stop,
and see you,
gazing at me,
with love in those big brown eyes.
my insides would melt
and my heart would tug at me.
my heart tugs now,
it tugs at me,
because those moments are burned into my brain,
and although your last day here,
i was at another woman's house,
i secretly wished i would of made the right choice,
and stuck by you.
the way you stuck by me.
i knew what was right,
what i should be doing,
and where i should of gone,
but i lied
to you
and didn't listen to my heart.
when you fly home pretty bird,
i'll be waiting for you at the gate,
with flowers
gummy bears
and open arms.
i know for you and i
it's never
"too late"

Night Terrors

the death of the last cowboy,
riding the plains,
with leather bound book
hanging from his neck,
where every incident worth recording,
is done with the uttermost importance.
he who falls last,
settles the dust.
the great prize fighter,
fighting himself.
the lone gunmen,
wishing someone would shoot him.
the plastic woman,
wishing someone would give her life.
the scotch in glass,
waiting for me to drink it.
the lonely cock,
smashed, bruised and bloody,
rolling around in the back seat,
with no one to play with.
the bank teller,
on welfare.
and the hopeless
watching the sky.

I Love It When,

i love it when,
women say they love me
on a deeper level,
but go home to their boyfriends each night,
slide into bed next to him,
and let his hands glide all over your body.
i love it when,
people ask me
"what's wrong?"
like if they can't see for themselves.
i love it when,
no one apologizes,
or if they do,
they haven't a clue what
the apology is for,
and it's a half assed one at that.
i love it when,
people lie to my face,
even though i knew the truth,
and never confronted,
because i wanted to see,
how they would worm their way,
out of this one.
i love it when,
people use the word
"inspire"
as a cover up,
to lift anothers idea,
and do not have the intelligence,
to make it their own.
i love it when,
people pretend that everything is fine,
even when i can hear
their heart
screaming
for me.

The Sorrow in That.

and what would happen?
if i disconnected all the cables,
that carry sentiment and empathy?
by choice,
putting the bottle away,
selling the typewriter,
and checking out
of my own mind?
letting
everything
go
nowhere?
watching Greys Anatomy, American Idol & the Jersey Shore
eating healthy,
organic,
and plastering
the friendly passive smile
to my face?
losing all value
worth
longevity
that i fought for?
buying a new car,
using women
like currency,
and never pushing farther out,
than comfort would allow?
becoming everything i loath,
allowing the venom to
postulate
in my veins.
i would become
the greatest
walking ball
of shiny
mass
that this world
had ever
shit out.
oh,
the sorrow in that.

Nothing Comforts Like Your Own Validity

&
Nothing destroys like silence.
when everything written,
all things collectively accounted,
dismissed and value relinquished,
enslaved by judgement
and
force fed by sinister eyes,
as they shovel the sloth
from hand to mouth.
as the savages reek havoc,
validity ensues,
the score of man
will be settled
3 - love.
tension mounts,
as the weak minded,
are sucked into the whirlpool of falsehood.
he will stand alone,
overlooking life,
forged by enduring the
hate
that is washed down from the gods
to separate
the deviants
drunks
and undesirables,
into neat little stacks,
of clay.
clay men fighting molten wars,
and
plastic women
indecisive in action,
with smiles molded
into their blank faces,
as their pupils dilate,
and recede into contempt
for anyone muttering words
about existence
that isn't their own.
time will run,
according
to those who make the rules,
and everyone will wallow,
through shit,
with heads slumped on chest,
and bullet wounds
will be a welcomed pain,
back to reality.
we'll be reduced back to grunts
and eventually
silence
will cover all of us
in that
long black veil.

-silence is the killer more so than a long handed blow of words.
-everyone loves the writer, they admire the writer, want to be nice to the writer. it's all fake. at the end of the day, the writer drinks from his bottle, racks his brain for ideas and sleeps alone in his bed, with no one around to extend a hand. it's like watching someone self destruct themselves from behind glass. it's voyeurism on your side.

She Took My Cock With Her

when she left,
she took my cock with her.
i am now sex deprived.
it's shameful really,
that i could let her walk out the door,
down my steps,
climb into her blue car,
and take my cock with her.
Porn doesn't help much,
and women don't really seem to want to touch me
right now.
they can smell the desperation,
reeking off of me like i stepped in a giant turd.
even the cute blond stripper,
with emeralds for eyes,
couldn't get me off.
it was sad when i handed her the $30,
and she gently padded my shoulder,
offering kind eyes and a half smile.
the whole drive home,
i thought of that girl
who walked out of my apartment,
with my cock in her purse.
i wonder what she did with it?
maybe she threw it out the window
on the drive home,
back to her boyfriends house.
or,
perhaps,
she forgot she left it in the car,
and all during these cold winter nights,
the temperature would drop,
and it would turn blue,
then in the morning,
the sun would bake it to a hot proximity,
maybe my cock would eventually disintegrate
in her backseat?
either way,
it was a modest cock,
nothing oversized,
just your average run of the mill cock,
with a little extra bonus,
of being complete.
anyway,
i could tell she took it out of malice,
and has no plans on returning it.
and well,
as a trophy,
as a rite of passage into womanhood,
perhaps it's hanging over her mantle,
with plans to sacrifice it to the gods,
tossing it in the fire.
either way,
at least she's not a total heartless bitch,
after all,
i've still got my balls.

You Can't Force Greatness, so Put the Fucking Bottle Down & Go Do Something Else

this sure is one job i hate,
having to sneak into my room,
plug the laptop in,
pour out a little Scotch Whiskey,
and have to come up with something
"great"
oh, the misery.
haha bullshit!
it's a fun way to pass time,
and you damn well know it.
prick.
some nights there's a fire burning,
ideas flow too fast,
some i lose,
some make it in,
and in the morning,
before i go slave for some cash,
i sit here and read them,
sipping on my coffee,
and i don't seem so great.
meh.
just another night,
sipping at the glass
and pounding on the keys.
maybe when you read it,
you think i'm sad,
lonely,
happy?
full of coyness for life!!
whatever,
it's honest words written at a time.
be it i was
drunk
horny
or
angry.
either way,
i know i'm going to drag myself
to this goddamn machine
and do it again,
night after night,
until someone makes me stop drinking
and being alone.
oh god,
oh
no,
then what?

Inching Towards the Typer

i'm forgetting what it's like,
to love a woman,
to actually be trusting
of myself
towards other people.
i'm forgetting what it's like,
to share experiences with people,
to go home feeling complete.
and i'm forgetting what it's like,
to be sober
and deal
with
outward pushing
and inward
pulsations.
i'm forgetting what it's like,
to be human
in any form.
going through the motions
and pretending that my self preservation,
is of the uttermost importance.
i forgot why i was built,
so i wander aimlessly,
through hallways,
up strange alleyways,
reeking of piss,
down corridors,
that were once closed to me
as a young bastard
but now open to me,
as a aging, dying hyena.
so i ravenously devour,
anything put in front of me,
dependent on drugs,
fixated on fine young woman,
who will only prolong
my desires.
we're a strange breed.
i'm forgetting what it's like
to be hugged
and appreciated.
this must mean i'm becoming human
just
like
all
of you
machines
marching
to the beat
of big brothers drum
sleepwalking
is better
than just sleeping
i just wish we could sleep together.
a prince in his drywall kingdom
and a princess
getting her feet rubbed.

For the Women

i don't blame you,
for being what you are.
perhaps in your head,
rationale is different.
perhaps in your head,
the moves you make,
don't hurt anyone,
and make sense,
more than this world.
you are beautiful creatures.
capable of bringing a man down
to his knees
and withdrawing into himself,
but we cannot show you that,
you've been blessed with beauty,
and we have been burdened with a brain.
our thoughts are constantly racing,
changing
manipulating
figuring
working
and fighting
we are machines made for one specific purpose
be it
writing
cooking
fucking
joking
or
bumming.
i think,
perhaps,
we look at ourselves as men
with a penis
and women
with a vagina (such a beautiful word)
and not as humans
with feelings
and emotions
i stick my penis
in your vagina
and everything else
is rudimentary.
simple and clean,
not too messy,
if it is all taken at face value,
you can never lose that inner being,
if there is one to begin with.
but if i stare into your eyes
and express a single emotion,
i am automatically canceled
out
of
our equation.
i appear weak,
timid,
and too open.
having to be Cary Grant all the time is
exhausting
but you love it,
don't you???
you ask for so much.
that's the finer point in life,
asking for everything,
but never getting it.
that longing feeling
that sticks in your side,
is like the thunderbolt from god
shoved right up your ass
it hurts
but awakens your heart

He Who Flings His Shit at Others

to the men out there,
fighting the wrath
in forgotten dim rooms.
to the men out there
scribbling in their notebooks,
getting laughed at.
to the men out there,
who squirt ketchup on their eggs,
and pour hot sauce on their spaghetti.
i can see you now,
fighting with yourself,
as you eat that cold fried chicken
over the trash can,
or if you're a classy gentleman,
you eat over the sink.
there's more of you out here,
it's not just you,
or me,
there's thousands of us roaming the streets,
in and out of bars,
every night.
feeling bad for ourselves
disappointed in everyone,
searching for that next high,
that next rush of fear,
as paranoia strips us of everything,
and our throats are scraped dry,
from our constant agonizing screams.
you're not the only one.
feel joy in knowing,
that others share what you're doing,
what you're experiencing,
and ultimately,
what will make you
tougher than iron.
through all this,
you will walk around with steel reinforced balls,
and stand up to every task
with a rational head,
and a good heart.
to the men out there,
who feel
that your books,
that bottle,
and your brain will save you.
they will.
but you have to still leave a piece,
to share with others,
choose wisely who you share with,
because some of them,
will displace your hate,
with blindness.
so now
as you wallow in yourself
drowning yourself,
let a smile creep across your face,
in knowing,
that there is solidarity out here for you,
but we are a vital part of a secret society,
we do not talk,
do not acknowledge,
it's merely a head nod,
if that,
as if saying:
"hey,
i get it."

the Mid-Break

as the nights come down
bleeding into delirium
the wives all lock their doors
and the husbands load their guns
as the children lay in bed
with feeding tubes hooked to their mouths.
the teenagers make it out the windows
and into parks
meeting with others to neck behind trees
to let their hands wander all over
in excitement
oh, joy, the frail whimpers of optimism
as his hands nervously claw at her bra clasp
as the nights continue to blend
after a long while, the tv's get turned out
and books get closed
people wrap their arms, entangled, under felt sheets
melting together,
becoming one single entity
breathing simultaneously
and i sit
in front of the machine
recording all of it
full of envy
feeling empty
as a marked man.
and i'm left
out on the stoop
waiting for the mid-break
that small moment,
when the night becomes as possibly cold as it can,
the frost has formed on cars, leaves, my cigarette
and even me
shaking from this
excited by it
and then it happens
that first small light coming over the hills
first beam bringing warmth
like a hot sexual breath on the back of your neck
and i tingle all over
as it unfolds
nothing
will duplicate this moment
and i hold it close to me
wrapping my arms around myself
i am content with knowing
that this happens
everyday
and it is my moment
for me
a present to myself.
but i am also ridden with sadness,
knowing that so many people
everywhere
are asleep at this time
so they can make it to work
before the boss catches them coming in the back door...
getting up
and stepping inside
i push the button on the coffee maker
hearing the first "putt putt"
and stream of luscious liquid hitting glass
and i stop,
think to myself,
"someone else was watching that with me, i wonder if they felt it too?"
do you feel?
i know i do.

and as the bluebirds and the sparrows envy me, todays the day, that you shall rise, and the feelings so good it made me want to lay down and cry, and now, we can fly, forever..

-Hendrix

Give it a Rest Kid.

you don't really know what should be done, do you? the blank page starring, waiting. ramble on.

just then it was a sudden gush, the relief washed over me in waves. hope was not lost, we were merely on a side track, not running the race on all cylinders but qualifying, qualifying you say? for what? the nights were quiet then, every sound was audible, the tick tock of alarm clocks and the swaying of palm tree leaves rustling against one another, waiting for those hot sweaty sticky nights to return, sleeping with your shirt off. walking the streets too late into the night almost the crisp mid break between nights coldest moment and the sun coming up over the hills behind the freeway, the backdrop was like no other, blades of grass frosted, the mirrors frosted, windows, people, cement and cinderblock all as one, frosted together, with an even layer waiting to evaporate and fall back into it's place, it'll be back at the same time tomorrow, in the same way, just you wait young man, just you wait.
it was a sad state for a 24 year old, these mid twenties are a tough break, but not tough enough to sway me, i'll be damned if i let something this mundane overtake my thought process.. but i hear you yelling at night, the hills shoot the sounds of laughter right back at me, here, in the canyon, even with the rain, late at night the calls come echoing off the hills and into my bedroom window, it was as if we were all collectively yelling for the same idea, the same hope, at that exact moment in time, the mid-break, between frost and dew. there's thousands of us, good strong young men, locking ourselves in the apartment buildings each night fighting with the machines. welcome yourself, to the hate machine, with open arms, and expecting nothing less than a good thrashing. thousands of us, drinking, fucking, whining, singing dancing and puking in unison, i can hear it in my sleep. we'll gut the fishes and have a nice picnic, just like brothers.

any drunk will tell you that the glass is always half empty, because we can never have enough.

you wouldn't understand what it's like, to sit in front of this goddamn machine every night and beat yourself if words don't come, and i will not get up until at least a complete coherent rational thought has produced itself and made it into the thinkers book. if i miss today, i might not have it tomorrow, you've got to hold that fucker as close to the vest as possible and never release deaths grip on it, it's vital to your survival that you take this all in stride but still have a little fire left to bring it into the real world. positive people tire me. when things get tough they pretend that everything is okay, everything is dandy, and they imagine themselves as these pure entities flying above the craters of our souls. some folks can do it, and i applaud you well, blocking out reality and substituting your own for it, congratulations on becoming one of the many. that's not my road, and i know exactly why.

as things get better, there's less and less to write about. i purposely chose bad women, it was a conscious decision, i needed perspective, a time to wind, it gave me something to write about, as women are my vice, i lust after you like a drug, you have no idea how deep it runs in my veins. i regret nothing, and knew that exactly what has happened, was my choice, my decision, my desire. looking back over the last year of pure exhilarating life, it brings me to my knees and destiny, fate, mankind, it's nobodies fault except your own.

the scotch whiskey never tasted as good as it does now.

Life for me isn't about fitting in, conforming, becoming one of the many. i see this as a blessing, it's easy to say live every day as your last but how many of you can actually do that and still lay down at night without your conscious starring back at you? can you say you've come so close to death that you can feel her hot breath fogging up your sunglasses as you drive into the darkness of night with your headlights dimming?

there's something beyond money, materials, and love that push me. it's the fear that motivates me.

To quote a movie:

"Fear is an awesome drug.
Don't let fear take control.
Use it as a motor.

It takes practice.
Put yourself into a situation
where you're scared stiff.
First there's panic.
But after a while,
the body's self-protection
system kicks in.
You do things you never dared.
You overcome you limitations.
You believe you can do anything."

this life is rich for me, it's a constant struggle but rewarding at times, i know nothing will ever turn out as i want it to be, and for the most part, for every push forward, you get an equal or greater one back at you.
that's the point of the whole thing though, it's a constant test, and those who fantasize themselves into unrealistic terms, will fall one day, they will fall hard and fast.
that in itself is a lie, they'll always be someone there to catch you, you've done it before and will do it again. people are funny like that sometimes.
i don't blame them though, i can put myself in their shoes, and perhaps their thought process is a little off tilt, so be it, they believe in their heart that the choices they make are true and just. but from where i'm standing, back here in the real world, where there are no fairies, vampires, or unicorns, it all sounds like self serving bullshit to me. but then again, who am i? what do i have? at the end of the day i'm still alone so how does that prove i'm correct in my choices at all? that's right, my choices are my own, but maybe it's not me who is cynical and jaded, but the world that has become so self absorbed that it no longer lets a person be open because all the doors for him are closed?
closed you say?
oh.. no..
time to kick those fuckers open and come busting in.
which is exactly on what i plan on doing.


i'm a pusher
pushing until the last breath
getting every drop out of the bottle
every toke off that last cigarette
i will test the limits
and go out a little further

"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center. "
-Kurt Vonnegut

Who the Fuck Wants This Guy?

it's true
i drive a shitty car
and
drink like a fish
to write like a fiend
i do it for the words
not for me
i do it for the vision
the drive to put ink to paper
it's so much more important
than anything i have right now
smoke cigarettes
am not very good looking
prone to self loathing
and judgmental
cynical at times
arrogant
confident
and i depreciate in value
every nanosecond
i get it
who wants a guy
who looks like a total wreck
from the outside
who doesn't look responsible
dwindling his life away.
little do you know though
dear readers
that even though i write
about all this sad sappy crap
i am a man
who knows what he wants
when he wants it
and how he wants it
and either get in the car
or i'm half way down the road
and you're in the dust
i believe in one maxim of life,
"don't be a moron, but don't hold anything back that should be done, said, or expressed"

nobody is ever ready for that
so they think i'm some kind of weird
alcoholic
deranged
imbecile.....
that's okay
i know
at the end of the day
that my friends come first
i'm willing to give more than myself
for a piece of heart
to place in my chest
and that's the sad part of it all
the lonely stay alone
and the assholes
get all the fun
the good guy never wins
but that doesn't mean i'll change
my view on life
i don't ever expect anyone
to fully understand
or accept me
but i'll accept them
for all their faults
bad breath
ugly toes
ear infections
mucus in the nose
dirty hair
it's all part of loving
a person
total
utter
enjoyment
of their flaws
you know those bad guys?
who always end up with the girls?
yeah
well...
fuck those bastards

3:45am - Hollywood and Cahuenga

the Women
with short skirts and high heels
blending in with the trannies
blouses hung low
tits exposing themselves to open air
the clock is ticking for you my dear
become Cinderella soon
They gather on street corners
hailing taxi cabs
driven by armenians
smoking bad cigarettes
bathing themselves in extravagant amounts of cologne
please.. please get me out of here
people randomly walk across the streets
and all the pigs resemble cops
the sexy women all walk with these guys
with Ed Hardy hats
and suits
these guys
"doing the things with the thing"
"making things happen"
"calling the shots"
big shot players
who are nothing really more
than their business card
and their $100,000 loan
from their parents
i pity everyone here
"get me the fuck out of here"
i scream
to my driver
and he dumps me in the backseat
as i mumble about wanting french toast
and hard boiled eggs
while the bottle of whiskey
is zip tied to my wrist
we drive u-turns
over curbs
up and down the hills
until finally i feel the freeway racing under us
and we slowly glide into Burbank
as the music gets lower
and my heart beats at a normal pace
the drugs are exiting my system
and i feel the horrible grips of a
deep crash coming on
the buildings around us
shining through the windows close in
and i can feel the whores starring at me
asking me to be invited into our car
wanting to come home and love me
and i almost want them to
i want all of them
to come home
and taste
what the good girls
should have
but don't want
they are clawing at my goddamn heart
those filthy whores
we swerve on the 134 towards Glendale
to avoid semi trucks,
big 18 wheeler motherfuckers
carrying gasoline
get me home god-dammit
and i will get solid straight
just get me back to the castle
my fortress
of dear solitude
get me back to my fucking typewriter
and my fucking room
i look back through the rear glass
and i see a deer crossing
or what i think is intended for deer
in reality
it's a squid crossing
through a field of goddamn mail boxes
go figure.

it's a sad state, when in order to give perspective, things must be taken from you. the less you have in your hands, the more you can keep in your head (heart?)
the windows are passageways to failure, doors are just entrances to hallways where they pass like strangers at a middle school, neither letting the other show that they acknowledge their existence but secretly would like for the other to grab the others arm and push them against the opposite wall.
take what you must,
but leave enough for me.

Taking a Step Forward

since i can remember, the words i always heard were: "i can't" and "not now". my father was a drunk and the first 17 years of my life, he was a blur, passing in and out of the house like a ghost. my mother with her short fuse would throw the nearest object in any direction, to add action to the pain. one day, she couldn't find the remote for the tv and started tearing apart the living room. throwing pillows this way and that. my father sat there with a beer in his hand laughing to himself and infuriating my mother. who in turn started throwing items. lamps, pillows, and chairs, anything she could put her hands on. then a lamp flew in my direction and i ducked. there were two crystal candle holders on the coffee table, candle holders that were given to my parents for their wedding, and i saw it all happen in slow motion. the lamp hit both of them and they fell to the ground, shattering on the hardwood floor. i looked over at my father, as my mother stood there foaming at the mouth, and i saw a lone tear roll down my fathers cheek. his heart broke along with the crystal and my mother walked out of the room. at a time when my parents should of been teaching me the ways of life, i was a witness to chaos.

throwing things became a way for our family to communicate, my brother once hit me with a lamp in the face because i kept talking aloud to myself. i had a black eye for several days. there are several pictures of me when i was young, alone, out on the steps of our house, or ducked in a corner sulking, to my parents it was always funny, they would take pictures and laugh at me because i was feeling bad. they thought it was cute that i would take things so seriously. i had no idea that the way i was treated then would determine the way i dealt with pain now. i had no friends as a kid, and the ones i did have, would usually stop coming over to our house for fear that they might be hit with something next. eventually i started building small fortresses in the back yard with cardboard boxes, mostly just sitting inside reading, or drawing people on the walls and talking to them. it seemed like a much better alternative, here i could be alone, and nobody could make fun of the cute goofy kid with glasses and a crooked neck.
its funny how things never change, even when we grow up, we're still those little ankle bitters running around never breaking our old habits.
i then learned that it was up to me to do the things i've always wanted. i rebelled hard and fast, not fearing consequences if only i could feel a little fear running in me for just a second.

there's a good heart beating in here
but it always seems
like no one is ever ready for it.
and i can't force those feelings
in someone.
for me,
it's i can
i will
and i have
and i will continue to do so.
not everybody is alike,
that i understand.
but maybe it's much easier
to walk away
while the cut is fresh
than to let it bleed out
too long
and it will never heal?
if you don't play the game
and sit on the bench
you'll never get hurt.
but you'll also never
celebrate
when you hit the ball
out of the park
over everyones head
and into that girls heart

sometimes, when the blank page stares at me, the cursor blinking, hoping for me to string together a sentence or two, teasing me, laughing at my desertion from sanity, i can sit down and read another writer, and know that he also fought with himself. he sipped from the same bottle, smoked his way out of trouble, and struck his fist against the bastard machine, because no one else was around to understand. it's a constant surrender of your intimate thoughts, you air out the dirty laundry hoping that somehow the other humans here will understand you a little better.

that's stupid though.

they just want to stay away from you even more.

because you're that guy nobody wants to be around at the party. you lack the ability to lie, bullshit and indulge.

so you make your own party, off in the corner somewhere, with a bottle between your legs, and you make funny faces at people, create stories and conversations, day dream about the women and observe from far.

hence:

the words.

welcome to my party

Look at this Asshole over Here...

look at this asshole over here,
preaching on his soap box
pretending like he knows something
24 year old punk
thinks he's a man
you're no man
just a whiny little boy
look at this asshole over here,
thinks he's a writer because he can arrange some words,
make "stories" out of them,
things with "Feeling" and "truth"
feel this.
look a this asshole over here,
complains that he can't get a girlfriend
when he drinks, smokes and has to make a conscious effort to smile
i don't completely blame you,
you do have a knack for choosing the wrong women
married, just divorced, moving away, just separated
you've got a sorry looking track record kid
look at this asshole over here,
he's going to make it out okay,
even if i am just a voice in his head,
i'll carry you through this
just like all those other times
asshole.

westward bound
highway
low ways
lot's of ways
for us to cope
dangling at the end
corpse blowing in the wind
five o'clock high
and my boots are moist
with
dear
tears
talking to oneself
conducting conversations with oneself
talking to the pictures
the tv
the trees
hugging anyone
who will take one
and i feel it regressing
the air thinning out
nights growing colder
windows fogging more so
now than never before
i surrender
way to easily
to things i am passionate
about
if only
i were more of an asshole
and could dispose of people
without remorse
or guilt
stabbing at my brain
then i wouldn't be
yelling
at the walls

i can hear the frail scratching of sympathy at my door, keep your whimpers and hope.

as those pixies dance
upon my forehead
i try to look up and smile
to look up and laugh
to try and displace
all my disposition
that is directed towards you
and it's true
i could be false
hopeful
and full of life
leave the bottle at the store
wait for some other sad sack of shit
to spend his money
on deviation
but Goddamn somebody has to say it
somebody has to bring it full circle
and i may be pushed aside
by others
but i'll yell my truth
at the top of my lungs
until somebody
shits on my chest
and then
covered in your feces
i'll jump up
and yell
yell so the who room will reverberate
with the sorrowful sounds
of belief
in oneself

a Poem that is not Cynical, Judgmental, or Written While Sipping Whiskey

a finer moment in life:

breathing.

This Could Be My Last Day

being content
with everyone
laid back about all things
and unsure of decisions
creates mass problems
the fight is taken from you
going through the movements of life
celebrating what you're suppose to
sleeping when you must
waking and crawling along the floor
begging for a cup of coffee
never being angry
raising your voice
or willing to fight
for anyone.
to vacate your mind
empty yourself of emotions
deprive all sorrow and sadness
makes for a boring existence.
i may be dirt poor
but my debts are my own
not my parents
but i'm living a rich life
and that's too much for some people to bare
you can acknowledge the wrong
but until you say something about it
you're not better than those lost souls
bouncing around this marble
searching for instant euphoria
blaming their lack of character
on timing
time is shit
it's a frame to keep you scared
to keep you under foot
and unsure of everything
there are no second chances
no call backs
no reruns or hiatus
embrace it while you can
and let go if you must
some things
you must hold on
to with dear life
it's easier
to wallow through shit
when you're deaf dumb and blind

You Don't have to Give Up, Just Give...

the key to writing, but dirty righteous writing, is being able to release all inhibition into just one being, be it music, art, books, or love. a complete surrender to the unknown without fear.

fear is what stops us.

but now, in this time that we're living, swimming with sharks in the open waters as our bodies bleed out into the vast ocean that is our lives. we stop only ourselves; and we can blame only ourselves for what we've done. at the end of the day, as we lay down and stare blankly at the ceiling, recounting the days events, wishing for this and that, hoping for what may happen, and praying to a false prophet that our horoscope tomorrow brings a better day; control is automatically taken from our own hands and placed into the lottery, anticipating the universe to work itself out for us, and not the other way around.

scared to fall in love, for fear that the other person may harm us, putting up these fences and walls, barricading ourselves with stones and mortar, becoming cold and fruitless, futile in our efforts to form relationships beyond passable friendships, at best, sharing becomes a sign of weakness and honesty becomes a negative aspect, everyone is ambiguous and free floating, rushing along with the current no matter if it takes you off the cliff and smashing a hundred stories down into a pool of rocks, where you will lay bruised and bloody, suffering the same death like the hundreds before you, all because you were scared to break away from the crowd for fear of rejection, mockery, and isolation.

this is all because in moments where we should be letting ourselves go, we keep asking, "who is looking at me? and how should i be acting? what's the right thing to do? should i feel bad? did i do something wrong? i'm sorry, but what am i sorry for???"

we are so out of tune with ourselves, and i partly blame society for offering us endless amounts of distractions, but i fully blame ourselves for not noticing how disconnected we've become as humans and not making a move to embrace each other, instead of our stupid fucking iphones.


stop asking
and start acting
before every person, moment, inkling, passes through you and into someone else, it races at you quick and leaves even quicker, if you're not firing on all cylinders and have your seats and tray table in the upright position you'll miss it, and not even notice that it blew through, but you'll have a strange hollow empty feeling inside, a longing for something of substance, and looking behind you, the hills will blow and roll with the laughter of the ones you weren't ready for.

To the Top of the Queue

structurally
there are no abnormalities
i love watching
how people come to choices
conclusions
it's like the game mat in "office space"
peoples rationale
differ
from men to woman
good men to bad woman
bad woman to good men
jump on the mat
and all is done
simple as that.
dust off your clothes
smooth out your hair
fluff your jacket
and crack your fingers
back to normal aye?
oh why yes.. yess...
everything alright and dandy on this side
flowers blooming, people moving
cars roaring bicycles chiming
deliveries all made on time
everyone wins
god-bless capitalism!
do you think it's possible
that our jobs
are nothing but wheels
and we're the rats
spinning them?
oh how he
who pours his own drink
can easily divert
from the poison to anecdote
and back to positions unheard of
by anyone
except those pounding away
in his right brain?
listen
yes listen
we are coming to the end
here
for this one
sometimes,
someone must do
something
in
order
to make
things right
hey,
you,
damn
damn,
damn...
damn your eyes...

One Day Too Many

i haven't had a drink
in several days
i'm running dry
my bones need lubrication
the brain needs insight
all words pour out onto page
seem like giant turds and worms
worming their way
crawling along
with no value
no heart
just eating small holes in pages
and leaving trails of feces behind them
the paint peels away from the walls
bubbles and strips
the floors creak and shift
faucets pulled away from fixtures
and door knobs
drawer knobs
all get pulled off
this place is falling apart
the voices call
for justice
and
perseverance
for wicked woman
enormous amounts of drink
for chaos
which will keep them breathing
voices
i hear you
but the less i keep from you
now
the more rewarding it will be
when we both dance
through death
entangled arms
embracing
against cold frail mellow dramatic moments
frozen in time
with our cheeks pressed up against
faces
made of clay
emotionless
stale
and fragile
under
the mistletoe
is a lonely place
for the last
clown
at
dinner for Valentines
Cupid
should be shot
bound
gagged
and fucked
with a soldering iron
then thrown into a gift basket
and delivered
to your job
voices
i'm coming you fucks
so get ready!

you cannot let them see you
suffer
you cannot let them see you
mourn
you cannot let them see you
sad, happy or content
you've got to do all that shit
at home
with the bottle
or on the paper
if you show emotion
a frown
a smile
or some relief
they will rip
your still beating heart
out of your chest
and bite down
stomp down
on it
and shit on your chest
make a conscious effort
to smile
to play the right hand
so that you can slither away
in your own filth
and lock the doors
to cry
like the little baby
the little sad sack of shit
that you are
write about it
strive for it
reach for it
the unobtainable
and when you look at it
it makes all this
pointless
because
in the end
she's taken your talent
your life
your passion
and sucked it
right from the vein
that runs to you

to Be 24 & Write Bad Poetry

to be young
thoughts racing
pounding
pulsating
in the brain
to be 24 and write poetry
about bad woman
with no hearts
to be 24 and write poetry
about lack of connections
loneliness
heartache
and all that other
deprived shit
that we are living
to be 24
and want
the world
in our palms
only to crush it
and blow the bits and debris
towards god
and say,
"look what i did"
to feel weak
feeble
and without hope
the future is dead
past is nothing but
bridges made of straws
that collapsed
and killed every citizen
these days
will kill you slowly
to weed out the weak
the stranded
the death
to be 24
and hold onto everything
in fear that it might
dissipate
at any second
so you place worth
on everything
every movement
every breath
every word
means something
if not anything
and you take it
manipulate it
place it inside your chest
and hope
nothing but hope
that one day
these dead eyed
will grow strong
these heartless
will grow hearts
and we are nothing
but tin men
with squeaky joints
looking for the oil
to lubricate us
define us
empower us
and love us

Sober

hey
woman
i'm sober now
and happy
smiling
full of glee
ugh
alright
that's enough
this shit is boring
how can you stay this way
and never progress?
remaining stagnant?
it's so fucking
what's the word i'm looking for?
oh yeah...
depressing....
ah
there it is

Score One for the Good Guys

today
i fought
tonight
i defeated you
and
tomorrow
will be another fight
worth writing about.

bad form olde man
bad form

To the Whore Who Stole my Poem and Called it Her Own

misunderstanding can lead to war.
while honesty can pave the way
for nothing.
it takes less courage to smile
and pretend everything is fine
than it does to speak up.
it also takes less courage to point fingers
than to point at ourselves
and admit that we are wrong as well.
if we don't speak up
and settle the dust
we'll dance back and forth like this
hurting each other
to make up for our lack of humanity
and understanding.
i'm no better than you.
but you have faults as well.
everyone is broken
but if we can get past the stage of misery
and find a way to make amends
then it's not just two people in a room
yelling at each other.
it's two people who plant the seeds
for something
bigger than
what we can realize
at this time.
but one cannot wait
along the wall
waiting for that someone
to ask them to dance.
he grows tired of waiting
and leaves
to find
something other
than what was there.
he'll never find it
and he knows it
but she came close
perhaps
the closest
to filling that gap.
i don't think it's that important to her.
but alas,
we have to believe in something.

Just When You Step Off the Coals

just when you're out of the fire
they pull you back in
to let you know
they still have the power
to scorch you inside
just when you're wondering out
of the despair
and hunger
they slap you across with a steak
and a fruit basket
go away
please
leave it alone
please
just stop
trying to fix this
it is broken
i am somewhere else now
and you're not here
so go
go
go
down
down
down
away
from me.
it's better

These Days

today will be a wonderful day
but there will be some downfalls
some pits
that i'm going to have to claw my way
out of
and wrinkles that i'll have to iron out
i'll look for the beauty
acknowledge the ugly
and be kind
to those who are good people.
and today will be a wonderful day
full of lust for woman
that i'll try to grab ahold of
full of defiance
and plagued with desire
but i will soak every moment in
and inhale it up my nose
much like the cocaine that went up there
so many years ago
i will not be cynical
negative
or full of pain
but be open to those small
beautiful
moments
i may be broke
but living a rich life.

the Circus of Life

if your life is defined by your behavior
actions
and
emotions
then what does that say
about your life
when you cheat?
are dishonest?
blind to humanity?
and betray loyalty?
when you turn a blind eye
and refuse to acknowledge
the world you live in?
what does that say
about your life
when your actions
await rewards
and your trust
is not withstanding?
when you ask for so much
and give so little
but expect everything
all of it
in return?
for no effort exhorted
no goals met
nothing accomplished
but float
from bed to bed
ruining life after life
and sucking the passion
from every soul
which passes through your hate gaze
icy cold grips
and steel trapped heart?
but these questions
are too much to bare
too much to answer to
so you don't ask the questions
but continue the behavior
hoping for another
to be dim witted
blind
and self indulgent
just like you
so you can show off together
in the middle of the stage
as others who took the time to secure
their answers willfully
look on
from our seats
munching on popcorn and drinking scotch
laughing
at the circus
you call life

No, Fuck That, It's Not Okay

exactly
no
fuck that
and it's not okay
you're behavior
is not okay
and you think you can waltz into my life again?
and everything is fine
no
fuck that
it's not okay
nothing is okay here
between us
nothing is fine
and whoever said time heals all wounds
can take it up his ass
whoa
i feel better now
i'm actually not even angry
or sad
or anything
i feel pretty good
and i'm going to move forward
in a very positive direction
my life is improving with every second!
and i mean that!
fuck i feel great
goddamn i'm in a good mood
but
hey
you wanna know something???
what happened back there
no
fuck that
it's not okay
if maybe you said sorry
a genuine sorry
it would be acceptable
but that fact that you defend your dishonesty
just makes my shell towards you
that much harder
just say,
"i'm sorry"
and we can move on

if
and
when
you
aren't
here
then
you'll
be
somewhere
you'll
want
to be
and
if
and
when
you're
sitting
here
next
to
me
you'll be
thinking
of that
other
place
you
wish
you
were
because
no
where
is
good
enough
for
you
change
into nothing