and Now.

it seems like

the ones that pass through are missed more

than the ones that are still here.

but those damn eyes 

keep you hurting.

Who Knew?

It's hard to talk when the walls
have no ears
and inside those walls
are wires, pipes, wood and switches
thousands of little lights
and if you stare at the frame long enough
it's a waterfall coming down
and it's hard to breath out here
when the air is so thin
and you're tired of talking at it
talking and talking and talking at it
listening to it talk back
but only in words
that hurt your lungs even more
and static fills the the air
and overwhelming sense of doom
the night ain't like it used to be out here
the signals get mixed up if out in the air
then not maybe in our heads.
put it all in a coffee can
and float it out there into the morning dew
roll it down the long curvy hill
until the coffee can comes rolling back one day
filled not with me but with you.

Over & Under & Between Two Cities

out & in somewhere they lost

it

Brandy was a mean mother

especially this one

tonight.

This morning, this goddamn cold morning, 

spreading peanut butter onto toast

reaching into the fridge for the jelly

and a chill to my bones

made me sad

but i smiled anyway, because that's what you do in those situations.

and somehow, we've outgrown the bed

sheets

this time.

but you try to make things bigger and better

for worse

or worse for the better?

who knows anymore?

not this fucking guy ------->

go, somewhere alone or stay home

but do it alone

and you'll learn what its like to eat grass

with the puppies

and swallow your pride under and inside

and i'll swallow mine too,

because that's what you do in these situations.

The shake in the hips, the lip curl

the twist of the neck and eyeballs wide open waiting to inhale the world.

Who me?

Nah, i'm not looking at you. Okay i am, but what's the problem?

You're a pretty lady

and i'm looking at you

Looking and looking, but not starring at you

not thinking of you naked, but just admiring you

what's the matter?

smile now

because that's what you're suppose to do in these situations.

i wonder over and under about you and whats going on in your head?

why's it like that?

i'm spent dear,

i've had about enough of you

as i'm sure you've had enough of me

ears full

time to sleep

in separate beds

in separate houses

in separate cities 5 miles apart

and a continous droning will fill your ears

as the house is lonely

but i am not

because i've got me

and that's enough 

to keep a smile somewhere inside.

Amadeus & Amelia

      I sat down at the desk and began to think about writing a story. But that didn't seem to be hitting to well in the old gulliver. It had been awhile since something good, and I knew from previous experience, these things were best when not forced. I debated with myself. I now refer to myself as "we". So we went over story ideas, things of that nature, nothing. We debated having a drink (how cliche). We decided not to. We generally just felt unmotivated to write, or even do anything really, we wanted to just crawl into bed and pull the blankets up and say fuck it. I guess we were motivated enough to do that at the very least. The hamster began gnawing at the plastic of her cage, so into her large plastic ball she went to roam the room. The ball rolled and rolled back and forth across the room, making a loud plunk noise as it hit the closet door and banging into the guitars resting on the floor. She is a very pretty hamster, golden with beady little black eyes, and she acts like a bitch sometimes, all high and mighty, but that's why i like her. She's a classy bitch. Her name is Amelia. That bitch.

Did i mention she's a bitch sometimes?

Probably.

Before her I had a black and white long haired teddy bear hamster. His name was Amadeus. I find it amusing to give pets names after great people, as if they end up becoming that name and taking on that personality (Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Amelia Earhart). Here is the story of Amadeus.

I had been kinda lonely at the time, this was about fall of 2010 or so. Something about the holidays just depresses the shit out of me. It's not the holidays in particular, but more so the space in between. Those days when it gets dark early and theres really nothing to do but either go sit in a bar or sit at home with the TV. But i guess that's all just my own thinking, there's probably plenty of things to do, but none of those seem to interest me. So there.

Anyway, so i was thinking about getting a pet. A dog seemed like too much work and probably wouldn't fit well with living in an apartment. Plus my roommate already had a dog, so yeah, no dog. I dated a girl once who had a nice looking bird, I don't really know birds too well, but this ones name was Mojito and he was green with some yellow in there. He lived in a giant cage in her living room. It was kinda cool to see him come out of his cage and sit on her hand. She would put her hand up to her face and gently rub her cheek against Mojito's beak. She'd use her other hand to pet him and occasionally pull back her hair behind her ear. I always just wanted to reach over and kiss her neck since it was exposed at this time, but i held back because i knew it was her and Mojito's quality time, i didn't need to get all up in there. It was really quite a loving thing to see. It made me feel warm inside. The bird seemed to enjoy himself as well, so good for him.

But i also wouldn't be able to care for a bird, and he'd be cooped up inside my room. Finally one day my roommate came home and said, "hey man, they're giving away free hamsters at petco, go check one out."

I had owned a hamster when I was younger, and  he died on  me pretty early on in. His name was Speedy. If you don't know, hamsters have a very short life. 2-3 years max. So you have to be able to cope with their deaths and realize it's just something that happens. In the time they are alive, you do what you can to make them happy, and they're better with you than they are living in a pet shop with some asshole kid tapping on the glass trying to get their attention in the middle of the day when the hamster should be sleeping.

Amadeus was in the corner of the cage, trying to spider-man his way up the glass and out of the cage. I watched him for a couple of minutes, he was relentless in his pursuit for freedom, i took this as a sign from the hamster gods that we were meant to be, so home he came. The conversation in the car went like this.
"Hey little dude, we're going to my house now. I'm gonna take good care of you, don't freak out, everything will be okay...."

on and on like this until we got him home and he got settled in his tiny little plastic cage. The next day he upgraded to a 10 gallon fish tank. Then I decided to make him the ultimate cage. I teamed up with my dad and we took a large 22 gallon clear lexan food grade box (which i "borrowed" from work) and cut out the center of the lid, replacing it with screen and some support rods. I drilled holes in the sides of the box for ventilation and took some of my dads pvc pipes to make him some cool digs. This was a hamster den if I've ever seen it. He seemed to enjoy himself.

We grew very close, Kay and i would split the cleaning duties. I didn't handle him much, but she would come home every night and scoop him up and spend time with him. I don't think he liked me touching him (it's probably because my hands got sweaty and hers didn't) and that didn't bother me. I knew that my job was to give him the things he needed and provide him with :
a. shelter
b. Food and water
c. a decent and peaceful living enviorment

In the morning before i left for work, Amadeus would wait for me to feed him. I gave him dried cranberries as a treat. Rubbing them between my forefinger and thumb tended to make the cranberries plump and warm, just how he liked them.

I noticed that he would sneeze occasionally, and figured it might just be the dust from the wood shavings we used for his bedding. I tended to put too much in his cage because he liked to burrow down in it. Eventually it led to his death.

It was this past summer that Amadeus died, i believe the heat had something to do with it. The heat combined with the dusty wood shavings did him in. He was sneezing so much, it got really bad, and it hurt me, it pained my heart each time to hear him suffer. Finally one day Kay turned to me in bed and said, "He's really sick, we should do something". So i got up and did some research on google, found some holistic stuff that would help him out, and we drove down to whole foods to buy his medicine. The medicine seemed to help Amadeus, but he was still lethargic, and the next day Kay called me over to his cage, and there he was, laying on his side gasping for air. I picked him up and sat in this swivel chair i kept by his cage, holding him in a towel in my lap. It hurt me so much inside, my eyes welled up with tears. He was trying so hard to live. There was a bit of alcohol concentrated in his medicine, and Kay suggested the idea that if he was going to die, we should get him lit. I thought it proper, so the three of us got lit together,  Amadeus with a dropper in his face, Kay and I with the bottle. He fought and fought, there in my lap, and Kay began to cry, we both kinda cried, and i thought about the time I brought Amadeus home, and the conversation him and i had in the car.

Finally, sometime after midnight, he rolled onto his back, and i swear we had a moment together. There he was, this black and white, long haired, classy fucking hamster who didn't like to be touched by me, and would you believe it? He reached his little hand out, and grasped my finger. Starring at each other through clouded eyes, his clouded by sickness, mines clouded by tears, i could almost feel him inside of my mind. We became one that day. It was like the episode of Star Trek when Capt. Picard and Spock mind meld. He held my hand for awhile like that, and finally died like that. I put him up to my cheek and remembered him dearly.

I had bought some handkerchiefs to wear with some of my suits and pulled out one of three white ones. I have a thing for handkerchiefs, first using my dads, which somehow always smelled like him, and when my grandfather died, my mom went back to El Salvador for the funeral, and brought home my grandfathers handkerchief,  in a zip lock bag, preserving him through that for me.

Amadeus was wrapped in a stiff white handkerchief, and placed in a cigar box. I was starting a new job the next day, and Kay and i placed the cigar box in the cage, and tried to get some sleep. Kay swore all night that she could hear him running in his wheel. I believe she was more emotionally attached to him than I, although for Amadeus and I it was a different kind of love. My love for Amadeus was a fatherly one, but at the same time I also respected him and understood that i couldn't coddle him all the time. He's his own animal, as are we, as am i.

I've grown to understand and appreciate death. I understand that people leave, and we have to cope with that in whatever way we need to. I believe in this time i began to understand that Kay had a problem letting people go. That manifested later. But that's another story for another night.

All this for a fucking hamster you say?
Yes dear reader, i loved him as you love your father or mother, or as you love your favorite little piece of peace on this earth.

The next day, after work, i went to Kay's fathers house and we buried him in the backyard. We played "Rock me Amadeus" by Falco and "Dead Flowers" by Townes Van Zant (which is played at the end of "The Big Lebowski", which associates Amadeus with Donny, and hell, come on, we all love Donny.)

Kay bought what i believe to be Jasmine to plant atop his grave. It was a very beautiful service, we all said some words, Kay burnt some sage (hippy dippy shit i don't really agree with, but we're all different people right?) and down into the ground the poor bastard Amadeus went. Along with all the other people i've put in the ground my whole life.

We all deal with grief in different ways, and as i was starting a new job, i threw myself completely into it, which i believe helped to make me better at it. Kay dealt with it in a different way, how, i'm not sure, she just dealt with it.

The next week we went out and took a look at some different hamsters, Amelia stood out the most, and she looked the healthiest, so home she came.

People come and go, and the going part is the hardest, this is true, but one cannot only think about the going. There's so much in between that accounts for so much more. There's substance, there's something in there, you just have to work it out. Your emotions are like a dough, you need to knead them until you can form them, and then bake them into something tasty, to share with others, and not only be caught up so far into it, that you spend all your time starring at the dough on the table and not doing any actual work. It takes strength, and the salt from your tears only make it be balanced. It's not too fucking sweet.


Here is Amadeus, trying to crawl out. That cheeky little bastard.

   
   

There's, something out there,

some

thing.

Some Say You Ain't the Same

There's the person you were
and the person you are
and if you're worth anything
they're about the same.
Anything that matters at all will be there
when you come back.
That's freedom isn't it?
The ability to walk away, or the ability to move freely
between worlds as you choose?
"But you must think of the other people!"
"Aha! But what kinda life is that? Living for other people?"
I wonder, why, its so hard to see.
When you stop drinking so much,
smoking so much,
being mad for so long,
wanting to die for so much.
You grow up to want to live.
It's selfish to be self destructive.
It's a greater impact on the world,
if you can raise some free thinking babies
that can cause a stir
and give someone hot pants.
but this kinda shit doesn't make great writing.
It doesn't.
come on.
you want to hear about the hot nights
the rum sweats, sticky shirt to your back and chest
you want to hear about wanting to die and wanting to
destroy
you want to hear anarchy and destruction.
but that shit doesn't last.
It's not about becoming complacent
it's about being aware
of what needs to be done
on your own part.
and so what if it doesn't make for a great story?
i can always do like i did
and say,
"if you don't like it, then why'd you come here and read to the end?"
fucker.

E&F

there are some things you gotta be okay with.
there are a lot of things that you don't have to be okay with
and you can change those
those willing to be changed.
its not easy to be okay when you've believed their own lie
or vice versa.
move somewhere quiet
no traffic car fumes gasoline alley horns construction hipsters or
cops
maybe park rangers
but no cops.
is that what happens over time?
you become whittled down
into this nub of a human
a stub of compromises and validation?
or maybe your beliefs aren't in line with the world around you
your morals may be different
and you fit nowhere
because you don't like the way it fits.
the man is a creature of habits
consistency
ride the wave to the shores of a soft sandy beach
and lay down
face first
as the warm sand sticks to your face
and you want to be swallowed by it entirely.
some people never even get a chance to stand up on the board.
or paddled out.
some are still waiting for their wave.
and some,
i feel
like me
are just trying to keep from falling in the water
and be ripped to shreds
by the shark humans.

Either Way

Doesn't matter what you meant.
or how well you handled the situation
in your
head.
The fact of the matter is that even if you're right.
you're not.
because you're right isn't the same as their right.
and we overlook that.

I Want, to be, a Jedi (vandals)

      The house had a bald tree in the front yard. It was May, that strange time between seasons where it can rain 4 days straight, be hot in the day and windy goosebumps in the evening. It was that mid-time then, when the last crust of the sun was shooting rays faintly over the hills and the moms were rounding up their kids at the park. Helping them get sand out of their shoes and climb the tall deep stairs up to street parking level. The park sat at a slope, and at the top of the slope was this wide road, where cars roared down back and forth parallel to main street Figueroa. The houses across the road had witness several people get run down by these cars. The people in these houses had put up signs every few feet or so. These big poster board jobs with dripping spray paint tapped to telephone polls reading, "Slow the fuck down!". Laughing to myself, i thought of curse words being seen every few feet by small children, and then realized, it was always this kind of neighborhood, and that's why i liked it here.

       Oh, that's right, the bald tree. It was a small house. A decent house. Everyone always describes their house as being a modest home. That's bullshit, you don't have a modest  home. People can be modest. But homes? nah, save me the time. You know why a home can't be modest? - Every home is a modest home in relation to the block it's on. Ever seen a mansion next to a 800 square foot shack? Nope. So in relation to the other houses which are built to fit it's block, which is why it's called a neighborhood, they aren't even the least bit modest. They're decent. Decent is like eating a nicely put together sandwich. You don't hate it, and you aren't in love with it, you wouldn't shoot someone for a bite of that sandwich, and you're pretty sure the guy next to you has the same ingredients you're having, that leaves it to decent. 

       I can't tell you the color off bat, lets say it's that nice earth tone. They had a modest lawn. (heh). With the roots from bald tree creeping up and mounding the earth in some spots. The porch was a wrap around, with this long 6 seat cushion couch that you eventually soaked into when you sat down. You felt yourself being sucked into this giant void of pillows as you starred ahead at the bamboo privacy screen covered with black plastic. The trick was to try and make out designs and faces in the black plastic. At times i saw a totem pole with different faces. Some Aztec like, made me think of Montezuma. As you went further and further around the porch, less sunlight became visible, and it went from being mid-time to a warm night, despite the breeze. The drastic lighting change and warm corner nuzzled like atmosphere of the porch to front door end made you feel like you were walking into a cave. I removed my boots at the door and stepped through the blanket that was hanging between the screen door and it. 

      It was cool inside (like a cave) but warm and damp. The air was heavier in here, more viscous, I could feel it in my lungs, it was like breathing in butter. Rich. Yeah, that's the word i'm looking for, it was rich in there. I stood with my hands in my pockets for awhile just standing there breathing, soaking in atmosphere. Basking like a lizard in Death Valley. Or like Han Solo before they freeze him in carbonite. You remember that scene right? The air was thick in there too, the lights coming up through the grates reminded you of sun blasting through venetian blinds. Slits of light, heavy on the air. Enough about the air.

       I sat on the couch and laid my head back. It had been a hell of a day. Lots of things seen that made me feel not normal. Like putting on a new pair of jeans. It was foreign to me. The ceiling was covered in Star Wars memorabilia. I'm talking statues, plastic action figures, comic books in original plastic sleeves, Tie Fighters and Millennium Falcon strung on fishing wire in mid battle scene with the Death Star looming behind it all. 

"Holy Shit!", I thought to myself. or so I thought. I had actually said it out loud. I then had to flood into conversation about how all this looked. Just the shear amount of items strung, taped, and rigged up made my eyes wide. We talked then, about the movies, and the characters, our favorites and the ones we would fight hand to hand if they really ever existed. We talked about Darths and Jedi's, we wookie called, and made light saber sounds. All of us grown men. And not ashamed in the least bit. We were nerding out.

      I got up and lit a cigarette, stood by the door, hands in pocket again. Head tilted up chewing it over in my mind. I thought about Jedi's. I thought about Obi Wan. And in life there really isn't ever one Obi Wan. Our lives are flooded with several Obi Wans. We're all Jedi's, learning from different Jedi's and no Jedi Master seems to be apparent or visible. The voice in our head is made up of advice passed on from different friends and family members. Maybe something you hear in a song, or on the television. Life has it's influence on us, and we can pick and choose what we think is right, what we think is our Jedi way, and the line between light and dark is very thin, the more we press towards the dark side, the harder it is to come back over. Some people can ride that thin line and never topple over to one side or the other, some spend their lives trying to make it over, only to realize they want to come back, only to then realize that the way back is twice as hard as the way over was, so they just say fuck it and move further in towards madness. 

      I want to be a Jedi. And I want to help other Jedi's when they need it. The force is making the right moves. Be it whichever way balances out your selfless needs. At this time, I felt that I was in a room with other Jedi's who were willing to hear me out and help me if need be. I wanted to return those good vibes, but did not know how at the time. All I could do was wait, and enjoy our time together. So I did.

the Glass/ Wooden Door

in life you get 2 doors
the wood door and the glass door.
wood door you can't see through
so whatever is happening on that side,
nobody on the outside knows.
there's a bit of mystery behind the wooden door
a bit of suspense
like a long pair of running
ladies legs
mystery to whats under the skirt
when we all know whats under there
just another cunt hiding
like the cunt of your wife
the cunt of your lady
or the cunt of your girlfriend
no surprise.
but suspense builds nonetheless
and every inch
is a mystery
wrapped in a dense
cloth.
but we still suspend
in that small moment
as she walks out the door
and the sunlight hits that lower body
in such a way
that it makes your imagination
run wild
wild over so many hills.
the glass door is no mystery.
the glass door lets you see what they are doing.
all secrets are revealed,
there's not sense of discovery
no
non
fiction
it's all out there
swinging in the open
like a mans balls swinging
in the winter winds.
theres a difference there
to where the women with short,
see through skirts,
and the women
with knee high
dense
cloth.
i dig the suspense.
i dig the build up
i dig the wanting.
that's what makes life worth living.
seeing just  a bit
of a whole piece
that makes you wonder
when you really know what is
up there.
you look up a leg
and end at the same place.
it's food.
it's mystery.
it's playing clue.
you know.
but you still are along for the ride
still along for the long pulling sensation
that drives a man wild
and makes him want to maul you
to the bone.
and that's what makes life worth living
is what you don't see.
the piece that ain't there
the infatuation.
wishing
that
that one
would sit on your face
and imagining the moans
the griding of her
private parts
in your face.
her naked body
walking slowly
from the bed
into the bathroom doorway.
a small piece of living
breathing art
that nobody but
you
can understand.
her
walking softy
hearing the floor creaking
with your eyes closed.
and you
imagining
what that all looks like.
the all,
encompassing
power
of
his brain
of you.

Scream Piggy Scream

when the doors are all locked and the only audible sounds

are the train horn rolling off the hills

and the old dude next door

sneezing and hacking in deaths face.

when the eyes have become clouded

from  reading in bad light in a dim room

with an even dimmer man

at the helm.

breathing

slowly.

as the days roll forward and blend into

nights

damn well bleed into nights

everything is a smear

one giant

ugly

fucking

smear.

as you stare into the ceiling

wishing for something to happen

something

anything

some kind of madness

some kind of chaos

a sign that life didn't give up on you

that you've still got a little fight in you

dim flames burning behind those eyes

you can almost hear your brain liquefying

jelly for toast

the hum of machines and orchestra playing

as you defend your life.

all the while, with everyone's knees on your chest.

Get me  out of here.

I need to get out of this room. Hey! You there!

don't crowd me people!

please

step back

step away

give this man some air

he has a heart condition!

Yeah! I have  fucking heart condition!

fan him with your newspaper sir. does anybody know a doctor?

I'm a doctor! Help him doctor!

Son,

Yeah doc. Tell me I'm gonna be alright. Say it's all gravy doc.

You're fine.

shit.

As the tv shows all turn into tv ads and late night

schemes

the movie channels flicker on that soft core porn

some woman boobage

but not enough to get a mans blood going

the starring contest continues between you

and that immovable wall.

Finally,

you cannot box yourself in.

If she wants to come in

she will

But one must be a proper host

or

in a second

without notice

it'll be you and that fucking wall again

starring off into nothingness.

Type Monkey Type

the bottom fell out from under
the crutch
and as the paint falls away from the walls
in sheets
small crumpled bubbles
aren't any different
from here
or there
you
or i.
locking the door to this ice box of a room
and pouring into pages and pages upon pages
books have a way of making sense.
linear thought
a complete
thought
a comforting
thought.

heat rises in the throat with nervous tension

things appearing in corners where they shouldn't be

and noises coming from where they shouldn't  be.

anything

but carpet

lint

and toenail clippings.
some men make bad choices

and by the time they're 50
theres nothing left for them
but a cigarette burning it's last glint
of hope
on an empty workbench
in a garage with broken windows
and cold, hard, concrete floor
in a suburban sprawl of hell.
some men fight to carve out a piece of their own
life
or the illusion of that in itself.
the men all die
and the women all die also.
the birds who shit on your car die
the debt collectors die
the producers of shitty movies die
the restauraters, yelpers, and foodies
yes
they must die too
and my faults
are faults
with no fault
but my own
and i will work at them
until
i
die.
it's hard to relax when you're dreaming big
and have the strength
to try
and hopefully go all the way.
or at least part of the way,
falling short
is not a bad thing
if you're reaching high.
thats all one has
to keep one sane
in ones own fucked up way

One for the Greats Playing With Themselves Around that Blazing Fire-pit in the Sky.

Carlin's gone
and that's enough to make a smart man
sob
so is Chandler and Hammet
who make modern writers
seem like a skid mark
in a bums shorts
we've got to look out for Bryan Ferry
and not let him check out too soon.
Bukowski's time was up
he was living on borrowed time anyway
so not like nobody didn't see that one coming.
pffttt.
Thompson shot himself in the head.
Or maybe it was the CIA?
Nahhhh.....
He put a bullet in there
and who can blame him?
Have any of us taken a good look around lately?
It's not a far off thought.
Thompson and Hemingway may have been onto something there.
the word Suicide has a nice ring to it doesn't it?
But you have to be checked out
in order to check out
and walk into the great river
like
Jeff Buckley
"and i feel them drown my name 
so easy to know and forget with this kiss
i'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow "

written so well

it's almost sad

to listen and read

at the same time.

Buckley and Elliott Smith
running in the same vein
playing with themselves
around that blazing
fire-pit
in
the sky.
Something about
something around the house
that makes me want to posses
to learn to live
and brain art
like those men.
it' ain't easy
but nothing ever is.

Champ.

your phone stops ringing and the rain starts in,
you smile at the dead phone now
the dead phone line.
the rain starts in,
and then the people start in
and everything seems like it starts to start in
to try and kill you.
You know the problem with writing?
it seems almost impassible to write about something
other than yourself
and how you feel
or perceive all this shit
it's selfish
writing it is
to be I I I and I about all this.
But in doing that
someone feels that
and they feel more at home
knowing that they're not fighting this
ah
aha
on their own.
sometimes i read other writers
and want to yell out
to throw the book into my toilet
and spew morning shit on it
but then i realize
some people like this
and maybe i don't.
just like some people can sit here
and read this
and some will eventually shit
on these virtual pages.
hey man,
that's cool.
i can dig that kind of dissatisfaction.
writings a bitch
and i mean like true
honest
reality writing.
heartfelt writing.
i haven't had anything good lately
it's all been pretty safe
they're drawing me back from the edge
and comfort
overtakes madness.
i didn't have that much madness to begin with
but at least there was a bit
to enjoy.
how am i suppose to indulge now?
other than indulge myself?
i guess there's the rub.
trying to come up with something beyond
my own bullshit.
but aren't we all?
neh.
i don't think so.
guilty

D squared

When the drinks are done, the dames are one, and you're still a perverted little deviant bastard.        

      Slowly it crept up on me, like a spider stalking a fly, i am not aware of the precise moment when it ran up my spine and into the rear head nucleus but nonetheless it did. It was a slow ride, not an instant change, but a change over many days and countless hours, it came upon me like a bad drug cocktail, the wickedness was extreme. I came to a point, as i starred off of the dinner table and into the china cabinet behind so and so's head that i found what it was. What happens when you run out of bad women to write about? Or when your sexual misadventures are no longer adventures but journeys into ones dedicated vaginal canal? Whoa is me, or is it? What does an ugly write about when he's run out of ugly? It doesn't strike me like the kind of person to write about puppy dogs and unicorns. Or how the sun is a beautiful being and the gods are here to protect us. When you spend a chunk of your life written about your dissatisfaction with humanity and humans alike, you block yourself into those brackets. And what hell-bound brackets those are. At this time, life seems to be on an up swing, and i know damn well it'll reach a downswing, and that won't happen gradually as this upswing happened, but it'll be more like a snowball rolling down the snowy hill on that snowy day at 100mph. Fucking speed demon.  As for this upswing, like i said, it came on like a bad drug cocktail and in a seemingly wicked way at the time.
      Maybe this is all apart of growing up? Realizing that the world is a fucked place, no matter which way you turn it, but there's something here to get out of it. Optimism is for brainless drones, and being pessimistic is simply put being a sissy. We dismiss what we don't like out of some stupid selfish desire to not step outside of our bubble. You won't catch me dead in a Hollywood bar or at a Jason Mraz concert, because those things don't appeal to me. Comfort and beauty lay together in a small bar with a couple of seemingly human beings who have something to contribute to a conversation other than Jersey Shore updates and an onslaught of useless causes and nonprofits as they drink their $12 red bull and vodka while simultaneousnessly twittering and facebooking their awareness to the preservation of unicorns in Saudi Arabia and checking in on foursquare. Does this really sound like something i want to be apart of? Yeah, didn't think so, but if i had to be there, well, there's got to be a way to make this work, and i can't hate those people for doing what they do, they're doing what they think is right, and maybe it is wrong? Who the fuck am i to tell them how to be? Can't change the world and can't change the people in it, but you can manage yourself, and isn't that what really matters anyway?
      It sucks to not be angry anymore, i always felt that letting go of that anger would deprive me of ideas in use for writing. I was scared. I feared happiness would be the downfall to passion. These weeks have been a lull, but i'll tell you what, damn i'm feeling good on the inside, better than i've felt in the last 3 years of my life. Clarity is no longer a rarity at this point. Now it's no longer about searching, but maintaining. I feel old and settled.
      Self indulgent writing (such as this) isn't done on my part for an applause or comment. I know i'm not the only person here who has too also felt this way. I write for me, and i write for that poor schmuck out there holed up in a shitty hotel room eating crackers and watching the lead based paint peel off the walls. If he can read this and feel better about himself than i've done something with my life. I actually hope he reads this and says, "this guy sucks, i can write better than him."
and i hope he does. Let me know where you're at man and i'll send you some 8 1/2 x 11, a stack of envelopes, some pencils and a razor blade to cut your coke and sharpen the lead with.
      Some people come into your life, and some fall out. Those who fall out don't fall out forever, they'll be back around, sooner or later they've got to come pick up the shit they left at your house. Those who come in are harder to manage, because at first you want to push them away and out of your box. They don't deserve to be in your box, you built this fucking box, it's your box, box for you, need i say it again? Yes. it's your goddamn box that you built. But hey man, maybe that box you're in is starting to crinkle and split at the seams, maybe it smells like urine and puke? If they're willing to come in, than maybe you should. If they take a look around and leave, well, no harm no foul. But if they come in and sit down, don't comment on the stench and condition, and pull a loaf of bread out of their coat, then you can't turn away that kind of goodness. It's easy to think all people are shit (because most of them are) but in grouping the wicked, there will be some strays. Those strays are where it's at, they got fucking soul man, the right kind of vibe. Surround yourself with real, honest, good people who have their own opinions and that's the kind of party you want in your box. Then tomorrow, you can visit their box, and share that moldy piece of cheese you've been hording, you fucking rat.

Brain is melting.

Damned if you Do and Damned if you Don't

I never wanted this thing to be open to "invited readers only". that's bullshit that people do to make you feel like you're part of some kind of exclusive club. Oh, i don't want so and so reading what i wrote, i don't want them in my head, it'll give them too much of an edge against me. But sometimes i can understand how that can be your only way out, keeping things private, because this is the internet, and people stumble across this thing every so often and read. If you don't know me personally it's much easier to just take it for what it is, but if you are around me, than i can see how these words can affect our relationship as friends, confidants, and even lovers. I took this site down several times, changed the name, moved to a different address and such, but i always felt an emptiness after that, as if by doing so i was cheating myself. Finally i said, "fuck it." and figured that if someone can read these words and find some solace in them, or read these words and say, "hey, i feel like that sometimes too." than maybe i was doing something right. This is what i know, and this is how i sift through the madness of life. Some people paint, some people write, other people drink heavily. I cannot drink heavily (coming from an alcoholic family.) so i've got to find an outlet that will make me not want to destroy the world. We all have the liberty to click that little "x" in the corner of our windows to close out this box and clean our minds from this. But for some reason, it always seems like whoever it is at the time, refuses to do so, and they continue on, into the layers of this bullshit to try and find some meaning in it.

I'm trying to be the best guy that i can be, and always trying to be a better person than what i am. I want to find at least some kind of tangible truth in my life, and writing it all down seems to me like the positive way to draw a more peaceful existence. But words do hurt. But is that not the price we pay in order to move forward? Am i selfish by indulging myself in sex, violence, women, fine drink and madness? Yes i very well may be fucked up int he head, or i may like these things the same way some people like sports or backgammon. We're all different.

My point is that i've hurt several people with the things i've written here. But alas, if i get rid of these words, then i may have no where else to rid myself of all of this, and it may come out in other aspects of my life. I was an angry man, a mean person, a loner for so long, and just when i think i may be doing something right, i turn around and become brave, too brave perhaps for my own well being. Now i have a choice, do i take the site down to satisfy those in my life who feel hurt by me? Or do i keep it up and let them keep reading, keep judging me for who i really am  under the black shirt and jeans i wear everyday? 

In the end, you have to live with yourself for as long as you got until your time card gets punched. And by doing so, do i live for others or do i live for me? It's easy to say, "Oh, Live for YOURSELF." But in reality, does it really sound that great? Do you know how many people i've pushed away with simple words? Do you know how much flak i've got for a story that wasn't even true, but i made sound like it was my own? Do i even care that you care? I do care. I'm not a heartless bastard for god's sake! I'm a human. and you're a human. 

anytime someone is mean to me, hurtful, or just downright vindictive i look at my own behavior and say, "What did i do to make them react this way? Why are they so mad at me? How did i hurt them?" 

I think that when reading what i wrote, you shouldn't be pointing your finger at me, and telling me that i'm a bad person, or that i judge people, or that i'm just a drunk stupid asshole. Maybe, if you think i'm talking about you somewhere (which is self indulgent on your part) maybe you should ask yourself what you did to piss me off in the first place? I have never heard a heartfelt apology from anybody in my life. Maybe instead of judging me for what i wrote, you should be asking what it is that made me want to write these things?  A book is a book and words are words, none of it matters unless you make it matter. What's that saying? For the one finger you point at me there's three pointed right back and one pointed to god (if you believe in that fucker).

maybe the world's just fucked up and i'm trying to figure it out one word at a time? That's more than you can say for yourself. Or is it?

pull the safety off and cock and Que your thumb for action.

Now What am I going to Do for a Friend?

Give me a few minutes of your time. 
Just as a heads up, this will take at least 20mins of your time, so if you can't spare that much, then don't even try.

and now watch this:

I started thinking to myself about movies that made me cry. I don't remember the last time i cried in real life. It must of been at least when i was 18, or before that. I wondered what it was about these movies that really got to me, and after a few good pints, a few slugs off the bottle, i got to thinking, and it led me way further down that hole than i ever wanted to go. 
      Lets start with the ending to Gran Torino. Lets, for a moment, put aside all of the bullshit about bad acting and story arc and blah blah blah. Let's go straight for the heart, straight for the core of the movie. This isn't a father-son relationship. It came across more as two people from different cultures, different times, and different lives who somehow stumble upon being friends. In any case, one wonders why they are friends with  someone in the first place? I believe that ground lays upon selfishness, you obviously see that the person has something to offer and inject into your life, something that you would like to be exposed to, so your curiosity wonders what it is about this person that intrigues you? They both exchange from the benefit, Walt gets someone that he can sift all of his shit onto and Thao gets a friend who can show him the ropes of the real world. Through the madness they tolerate each other's opposition but refer back to their initial tether, which keeps them both at bay together. They have this basic acceptance, not a racial acceptance, not a gender acceptance, not even a generation acceptance, but an acceptance as a human with something to offer greater than the slow drawl of life. 
      What makes me cry at the end of this movie, each and every time, is the scene above. Walt is a no bullshit kind of guy, he calls it like he sees it, and although everyone tries to put that label on themselves, when it really comes down to being honest and knowing that you'll possibly hurt someones feelings, Walt pulls through and spits it straight from inside without any kind of filter. A man like me can appreciate that. "The Unforgiving Truth." As the lawyer reads his will, with straight honesty from a deceased Walt, his grand daughter has a look of hope in her eyes. This makes me happy, because as the crushing blow of reality comes down on her, and the following words are said: my friend... Thao Vang Lor. On the condition that you don't chop-top the roof like one of those beaners, don't paint any idiotic flames on it like some white trash hillbilly, and don't put a big, gay spoiler on the rear end like you see on all the other zipperheads' cars. It just looks like hell. If you can refrain from doing any of that... it's yours.
   ....   Disappointment washes over her dead eyes. I often wonder how women react to this part of the movie. This is where i begin to tear up. They as friends, have gone through so much, and now, something that was merely an object has this unobtainable value that no one except Thao can understand. That my dear friends, is like giving a stranger a rock, and they toss it onto the curb. But giving someone who you helped dig that rock out with the same item, holds value in it, because you both have this understanding that is only between you and them. A friend. It's a gift that you can never say "thank you" or give back to. A final blow to the heart of love.
      Now lets move onto Slc Punk. Steve-O and Heroine Bob are friends since early years. Bob strikes me as that kind of good hearted friend who is slightly naive but also critical and logical, although when drunk, can become way to critical of himself and wonder about his existence.  I clicked with this movie, because I can share Bobs look in the mirror, wondering just what the fuck was going on, and how it got this far? And also riding home and spilling my heart about marriage, parents, and all the other horseshit babble we had to grow up with. (i understand that i am not special. We all had these problems growing up and dealt with them in one way or another.) But what really kills me about this last part is watching Steve-O realize that his only friend he ever had, his only friend that shared any kind of connection with, is laying there dead. It is true, that no one is ever ready for that, and it is also true, that only posers die you fucking idiot. But on the first plane, the thing that grabs me, is that no matter how much they battle through, (bobs dad trying to shoot them. Bob falling in love with Trish and leaving Steve-o out in the cold, bob moving on with his life, steve-o trying to move on with his, but feeling beaten by everyones happiness) they still revert back to that tether they had, that friendship, that simple thing that can never properly be described with justice, but only hold static in the air forever. 
      Both movies hold the same traits for me. Acceptance, understanding, a comradery that runs so deep it could never be fully understood except by the parties involved. I have this now with my roommate who i call my brother. Theres this thing between us, that no matter how far we push each other, we know when to come back and how exactly to come back in the right way. There's inside jokes, small bits of humor that anyone outside of this apartment will never understand. Walt and Thao, Steve-o and Bob. I wondered why these movies made me cry, and i figured it was the loss of someone who only you truly know. My next step was wondering how i could transfer those same feelings that are shared with a best friend onto a relationship between myself and a woman. That's a tough one.
      Women were always a mystery to me, a mystery and a prize. I don't see how a woman can ever really be attracted to a man. We're fat, we smell, we're sweaty and somewhat dense, in short, we have nothing attractive about us. But a woman on the other hand, well shit... come on now... you're soft and sensual, even if you're rough and hard, you still have those frilly edges whether you like them or not. Your skin is soft, eyes like diamonds, hair like a Persian rug and the style of a cat. If men are dogs, then i'm glad women are cats. Sexy fucking cats. 
      Friendships involve a certain amount of respect and honesty. Everyone in a relationship demands honesty to a point, but is it really honestly honesty that you can handle? Yeah i said it twice. It makes sense. Go back and read it again. Okay, i feel that i may be dwindling off to a track on the wrong line. So give me a goddamn break to grab some more rum.
      Alright, so first things fucking last, we've come this far, and all of this heavy drinking has seemed to clear my mind a bit as oppose to fogging it up. What is this mysterious air that keeps us from loving our wife like we love our brother? I believe it involves power. There's a power struggle in relationships between men and women. It's there, you can always feel it. In my life, i always had low self esteem. i fucking hate myself, and that's cool, i learned to live with it, i can't really see why a woman would like me or even be attracted to me in any sense, but i do know that i've got some value, something to offer, something solid and noteworthy, but i also know that i'm not any different than the other millions and billions of people here, so i don't really sweat that part of the equation. I'm good to you if you're good to me, and that's what it comes down to. Respect. Respect over power. But the tidy line is that you cannot demand respect or power from me, but must earn it. You've got to show me that under all that beauty lies something worth taking the time to figure out, understand, and ultimately fondle under my flannel blankets in our cold apartment. When I'm sick you come to me, and when you're sick I come to you. Soup for you, soup for me. Whats that? You just got in a car accident? Well shit, let me call work to cancel the day and come right over. But i won't do these things for you unless i know you're willing to go to bat for me, and the only way to know these things is to tackle them as they come.
      I think about the previous women in my life, and although they were beautiful, and wonderful, i couldn't ever really see myself being honest with them. Because my honesty is to a fault, i bleed negativity and cynicism with small trace elements of hope and wonderlust. My humor is dark and makes sense in my head, but probably comes across as some gurgling sound. I am a difficult man to understand (or so i think) but i also don't make it easy for others to become close to me, because i cannot tolerate any kind of horse or bullshit. But you have to give in to get a little back. Vis a Vis.
      Then i wonder if perhaps i came to this conclusion out of trying to find a peaceful understand in my relationship with the woman. This is a two sided street. On one hand, the alcohol and cigarettes mixed with the amphetamines may perhaps be making me delusional and stray away from reality (i just caught myself drooling). 
      On the other hand, maybe i am trying to take the small bits of my life that are true and decently understood, and honest, and finding a way to incorporate those into something that i know inside feels real, but is clouded with my previous inhibitions about the opposite sex and their mysterious ways of doing things. I feel as though this may be a step forth in the correct direction as i'm growing up. I see myself letting go of all those things i thought were great before, but now just seem lost and childish, and embracing things that have a value, a genuine purpose, something that is no longer abstract and vague, but solid and i can really grab a hold of. I want what  I damn well want and don't want what they tell me i should want. Life is not without it's time wasting ability to live until you've driven yourself mad.


     

I Actually Enjoy This Kinda Response

On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 8:58 PM, Alex Rocha <alex_rocha83@hotmail.com> wrote:
> Editor,
>      My name is Alexander Rocha, i'm from Los Angeles, and here is a nice
> poem dribbled from the mind of a 25 year old pervert. You guys have been
> real good to me before, i dig your style, so i figure i'd send along the
> good ones that i write out every once in a while.
> please enjoy
> -thanks
>      alexander rocha

Response:

Mad Greetings, Alex Rocha!
Well, we gotta say, although we appreciate the grit and honesty in
"Separation of State", we feel it's a bit raw for the Swirl.

We like your previous submissions and ask you to continue submitting
your poetry.  You've got a unique voice and point of view we think is
great for the Swirl.  We just feel that this one will likely peave
more folks than it pleases.  OK, it's our opinion - we editors are a
subjective lot.

Let's see more . . .

Really!

Peace,
MH@Mad

The Poem

Separation of State

my cock and balls are calling for you
they long for your warm embrace
they want to be held and fondled
and smothered in your face

my cock and balls are yearning for you
burning to be in your mouth
as the saliva drips down from your lips
and lands on the stripped, stained, comforter of my bed
and all the while
you stare at me with those big doe eyes

my cock and balls want to be held
in your hands, in your warm loving smell
they want to be nuzzled between your legs
as we spoon on that forgotten cloud
until they can't take it anymore
my cock and balls,
they want to scream out loud

my cock and balls want some action
they want to be apart of your party
be apart of your sex
to bathe themselves in your juices
wiggle between those luscious thighs waiting for you to call them in

and crawl

my cock and balls don't care what you've done
what you've said
what you are
or what you claim to be
they merely want you to fuck them
and squeeze the juice from the tree on my trunk
onto your face, your chest, your back, and anywhere they can reach

my cock and balls don't care that you're
empty inside
as long as those juices continue to flow
my cock and balls will be there for you
but me,
my honesty
my longevity to you
it never won't

The Hearts of Men

I'm not tall,
I'm not handsome,
I'm not good looking at all.
I don't have a nice smile
i don't have a great attitude,
neither do I have money
a sign of upancomings,
or any kind of stature.
I'm losing my hair
at the tender age of  25,
I thought this shit wasn't suppose to happen until i'm 30 at least?
but better than i know
i'm losing it now,
than losing it at 35
or 40
and create some kind of bullshit
mid-life crisis
or 1/4 life crisis (which only fools have)
to try and feel better about themselves.
I'm tired,
I tolerate everything
my job
my girlfriend
my friends
my life,
because i have to.
I have to tolerate all this shit.
and that in itself
proves a mans worth.
We have no choice to.
If not, we'd end up like Thoreau
writing some sorry collections of words.
Stringing together some bullshit recollection of how things should be
and how we can't live with them.
So we have two choices now,
either we move away from all the bullshit
and eventually become Ted Kaczynski
or we learn to live with it.
I want to love (which is a preconceived notion planted in our heads by society)
I really don't think you understand it.
We are not manwhores
we are not bad people
that's just your inner defense pushing us away
but sooner than later
we'll stop being patient with you
and just walk away
because that's what we do.
Don't be so cynical
or jaded
you're getting old and i can see it
from here
don't be such a bitch
so bad inside as a person
we're trying the best we can
the hardest we can push
and if that's not enough for you
than go fuck with somebody else's life
because at least
at the end
we can say
we did everything in our power to make you happy.
Do you know
how fucking lucky you even are?
in this time and age
to have a guy who will even listen to your babbling bullshit?
We're trying to be good
but your cynicism makes us bad
so you
EVE
made us eat the apple
that damned us forever
and it goes on
for ages and ages
until we can't go with you any further
and we hate you
you made us hate you
with your jealousy
with your lousy stupid attitude
with your questions
with your stupid fights over nothing
with you wanting us to be respectful
but still be men.
We are men
trying to be good to you
and you're so fucking blind
that you can't even see that.
and when we walk away
from a bad situation
we are damned the bad men in this
when in reality
you did nothing to help
you did nothing to understand
you only pushed
and pushed
and fucking pushed
us until we were gone
and you have no one to blame
but your fucked up self
you in the inside are rotten
while at least we make an attempt to be good.
we try
we try oh so hard
you on the other hand
just expect.
expect everything.
and that,
well,
i could be honest
but i rather be good.
that's just rotten to the core.
you've got worms
infecting your brain
and your head should be fumigated.
don't be so horrible
don't expect us to be perfect
because we're not
but at least we fucking TRY
we TRY to be the guy you could love
while we
we have to love you for all your faults
all your fucked up inhibitions
all your badness
while you only point out the badness in us.
we want to love you fully
completely
utterly until death
but you
are the one who complicates
everything
and this.
this.
this.
leaves us with no choice
but to be dicks.