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.