the tender melody of an unaccompanied cello captures the subtle sound of a lover's lie. a joyful sadness found earnestly in a fraction of space and time. the moment is sustained in our hearts and souls to match each and every breathtaking, vibrating note-until the feeling of euphoria fades with a fulfilled whisper. we voluntarily trick ourselves into replaying the same cunning song as if it were the very first time we've heard it. smiling knowingly as we bend as each string pulses when plucked by hungry hands.

I prefer the company of strangers, because I finally have the pleasure of meeting myself each time. The more I know a person, the less I know about myself. I'm too busy rustling away secrets under some green leaves and twigs in a freshly dug hole to pay any attention to the symptoms of a dying identity. The dirt lodged underneath my fingernails discourages me from carrying on this cautious love I have for the familiar. People are big balls of mud waiting to be stepped on, molded into some ugly public art for the world to see and I'm the cowardly voyeur with his hands strategically hidden in his pockets. A stranger's love is dirty and beautiful, because like it's abrasive honesty it is absolute. There are no strings attached. It is bare and unashamed. I prefer the company of strangers because I'm reminded of how I am cast in the same mold as I watch the others merge with their energy. I am relieved and I am grateful that I will never know any of these beautiful creatures, because it would only cheapen the thrill. In the end, they share each other, but they will always belong only to themselves as I do when I meet myself each time.

the morning bird song inspires me to drag my sluggish ass from bed, but then I think, fuck the birds, I'd sing too if I didn't have a nine-to-five job.

sneaking around in warehouses, sipping on free wine until I'm buzzed, I travel in packs as the rest move like cattle. I flirt with trouble the way I always do, but the thrill I used to feel has been gone for sometime. I still drink and have outlandish conversations with googly eyed strangers hanging from the scaffolds, but I know very well what I'm missing. The darker the night the hazier my memory. I'm chatting with beautiful people whose faces are a scrambled static and I'm sleeping in a strange bed with familiar memories. I think of the past and she has a name, but at the present time, I'm in a place where her name can't exist. A place where my words makes less sense as I slur my speech. A place I allow myself to visit only once a week.

I've been adjusting to the move for little over a week now. I feel like I can stabilize myself here. There were too many a night when I found myself mulling over a spiral of thoughts. The same introspective questions most people ask themselves when they over-analyze the hell out everything around them. The biggest question I have for myself is obviously, WHAT NOW? I can actually make the time and think that one out. I'm writing a few things, potentially long term projects that may or may not be picked up, but I hate to think that far ahead anyways. I'm submitting work to a few contests just for kicks. I've stayed in to write for the most part this last week, ignoring phone calls and reading Bukowski, which is always refreshing in small doses, but ultimately leads me to take several showers a day. Life is at it's simplest. Which plainly means that I'm bored out of my fucking mind. I'm trying to behave, but like any normal human being, I subconsciously crave complication, but those will soon come like uninvited guests. The guests that drink all your beer, break your toliet, and steal your cat. Until then I'll rest comfortably. There were a few notable things that occured at the beggining of the week. I saw my sister intoxicated for the first time, which not only made me happy to see her unwind, but also embarrased me tremondously. I have to say that at one moment she found a large inflatable whiskey bottle, stumbled on over to some random tall guy and told him, "hey, you should have this. fe fi fo fum!" I was proven once again that we indeed share the same blood and are awesome. I also got to see my friend's new place that is conviniently next to churchill's pub. I don't know if it's convinent and/or depressing. I don't have much love for that place, but hell it''s good as any place when there's a decent show. I ended up smoking entirely way too much pot, and somehow got in a discussion about old yeller with her roommate's friend. It beats the conversation we had about reptoids running the government, but who can keep up. I had fun, and I'm honsetly pretty satisfied with how things are going, even if the pace is grudgingly slow. Modest Mouse is coming down next week and I might just go. I can forgive them for the last two albums. Issac Brock is still the one of the best lyricists out there and one more thing - fuck the haters.

I spent some time with my mother and grandmother while my sister was away this afternoon. I can't remember the last time I've had a conversation with either of them. I've noticed how peaceful my grandmother has become since the last visit with her doctor. She had pulled me aside and assured me that I don't have to worry about her bad temper, because she's learning to be care free and tolerant of our actions.  She told me this with the polite smile of an old pacifist and then she looked away to stare out the window. There is this air of acceptance around her that is bittersweet and fills me with a joyful sadness. I sat in awe and wonder as she sat there listening to my mother and I chatter on about politics and the economy. I've learned to be patient with my mother and this is not an easy task. I find myself biting my tongue more than I liked and if I was doing so in a literal sense I wouldn't have much of a tongue to chew on. There are times when I feel that it's not important to prove someone wrong just because you can. I'm sick of arguing and I rather let my mother speak her mind than interrupt her. She respects my ideas and beliefs, so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. She's a kind woman and her intentions are genuine. Living on my own these last couple of years have really helped shape me into the human being I am today. I'm learning to be patient and compassionate and I hope that I can find my own peace someday, but until then I'll continue to live an honest life -- and this is my final gift to my grandmother. I wanted her to know that's she's done an amazing job in raising me and when I see her smile, I know that she's grateful.

my mischievous lustful heart
is a trapeze artist in disguise
swooning faceless crowds
with death defying stunts
awe inducing thrills
and overwhelming joy
yet after the show I remain
magnificently monotonous
with these cheap tricks
once the three-ring circus
has packed up and gone

I almost always hide behind the vagueness of my stories and poetry. I've come to accept that it's the only comfort in my life. I used to feel in tune with the world and other people, but I've become so disheartened with everything that I can't continue on with those sentiments. In retaliation I simply shut myself out. The hardest part is sitting with family or a good friend and having absolutely nothing to say because I don't know what to say anymore. I can try to dissect myself like I usually do, but what is there to find. I rather write abstract poetry and embrace my eccentricity. It's easier for me to develop an idea than to develop and maintain a healthy relationship in my community. Sharing this on a blog feels like a chore. I used to think that people were distant, but I've realized that I've been miles away in my mind. I guess I can call this practice.

I'm moving back with my mom, because my grandmother is deathly ill and my sister needs help paying the bills. My mother lives off her disability checks and honestly she's been shafted by the government since she filed for it six years ago. I've distanced myself from them because I was selfish and unsympathetic. I used be afraid of having to take responsibility, and even with my negligence and my ungratefulness, never did they divorce themselves from me. I've lived with this guilt my entire life and I don't care if anyone tells me different, but I've been a terrible person. Now, I can make up for the past and be selfless. I had to stop being self-absorbed and sadly it took a recession and my grandmother's health to direct me to this point. I think back and I can't say I regret my decisions, because they have molded me into who I am, but I can't make excuses anymore. Most things in life seem so trivial to me now. After seeing my family in that state and knowing what I have to do, its sobering. The pettiness of this world and it's ugliness is laughable. I'm trying to do my best and avoid it all together. In the end I can't even tell if this ugliness and pettiness is instilled in me. I question my motives all the time. Am I doing this for them or am I doing this for me? The human condition never fails to amaze me. Regardless, I still have to try and be that rock and not be phased with what will follow. These will be tough times for all of us. I just want to do the right thing.

Switches and levers
Rusted steel
Leaking excess oil
Piles of nuts and bolts
Burning breaths of steam
My heart aches
Struggling with complacency
Click and clack
Type, type, type away
Playing piano on a keyboard
Fingers attached by strings
Stretching out to a dark cloudy sky
I’m the first loose screw to be found
In a heap of broken down machinery
Attempting to play the thieving magpie
Euphorically high off the cloud of fumes
Repeatedly failing to charge a dying god
Made of faulty circuits and damaged sensors
Ignoring that this fuse burned out years ago
Click and clack
Always type, type, typing away

resting in my seemingly convenient niche, I ignore itsy-bitsy bugs that indicate impending doom with their flashing, florescent lights. I casually swat them away and meticulously muse in my freshly dug abode, comfortably lost without the creeping hands of time. the world can go on and turn in it's mundane cycle for all I care. I never desperately needed to belong in it and I in return was consequently not needed in it. So, here I lay in this simple hole in the ground, laughing to the point of exhaustion, knowing that I cut some corners and skipped a few years that led me all the way over here and all I needed was a steel shovel and the patience to dig. I laugh some more, but this time it's forced and almost nerve-wrecking. I have dirt clumped in my hair and there is something definitely crawling up my leg. I try thinking about something pleasant to entertain my mind, but then I involuntarily whistle "Winds of Change" by the Scorpions. Once I catch myself doing so I stand up and look outside my seemingly convenient niche for anyone that might have heard. Man, that would have been embarrassing. My stomach begins to twist and gurgle and then I remember that I forgot to feed Lieutenant scruffs. Okay, maybe I should grab a bite to eat, feed my dog, and then buy some bug repellent and spray about five cans all over my body. Honestly, what was I thinking. How can I seek eternal oblivion on an empty stomach in addition to being guilt-ridden with the thought of Lieutenant Scruffs dying from starvation? Shit, you know what, forget it. What kind of anti-climatic, ass-backwards, non-romantic message am I trying to leave? I mean for crying out loud! Who the fuck is going to bury me? I'll dust myself off, jump in my car, grab some taco bell at the drive-thru and then go home and watch "Lost" with Lieutenant Scruffs.  I can always try drowning in a kiddie pool tomorrow.

days like today leave a paralyzing smudge of complacency where my heart should normally be, speaking of which, I have to invest in plain sleeveless t-shirts. I now carry a small umbrella with me where ever I go and it hasn't rained in weeks. I guess I like the feeling of security when most two-legged mammals throw feces at each other, whether literally or metaphorically speaking is left for the umbrella to decide. I am successfully predicting the approximate moment when people are about to throw their wild, shit-tossing tantrums. I usually buy myself a beer as a reward and because of this I find myself always broke and strangely intoxicated. I wonder if on one glorious day I'd find myself miraculously immune to the ugly throes of the human condition. I ponder this as I hold up my walkie-talkie and answer "over and out" , covered in tinfoil from head to toe then continuing to make whoosing sounds with my arms extended as if I were soaring through space (or whatever it is astronauts do) Sigh. Another day is clipped effortlessly from my existence and I stumble upon a world of dirty dishes and sounds of costumed villains tinkering with my toaster. I then realize that it may be time for a leap of faith where I can bite the bullet so I wouldn't be so miserable when I buy the farm. Oh, and when that does happen, a celebration of coherent thought will be had.

Her delicate hands sew singular thoughts into a timeless quilt.  Although strange and unusual, these thoughts are very calm and rewarding. A single thread is used to tie up the loose ends. However, the fragile yarn can be easily broken with the lightest touch These weaving needles glide through and through, dancing fluidly with the sound of music. My hands are rough and cruel. Clumsily tearing through the fabric with my unfaltering, bitter cynicism. She continues to blend the past and present, carefully knitting with bruised fingertips as my impatience grows and forms into a stubborn blinding rage. Her delicate hands, soft and graceful, intend to stitch every hole, every wound inflicted by my careless words and by my undeniable pessimism. She silently searches for a future somewhere in her work, one that I'll never learn to let go.

let's play the role of lovestruck fools
even if it's just for a brief moment
feeling each others smile lines
whispering sticky sugary sweet words
pretending that we're miles away
from everyone
from ourselves
from this backwards world
let's strip ourselves from these weights
dragging us down to this century's bleakness
and paint a veil over it together
laughing and singing to drown the static out
breathing in each others smoke
tucking ourselves under the starless night sky
basking in the serendipitous silence that follows
even when we know life will not be the same
let us

Al Pacino is yelling at everyone
somewhere in the moving pictures
my apartment was broken into today
imagine the world's tiniest tornado
holding a size 10 crowbar in it's grasp
Al Pacino is rambling in metaphors
somewhere in the moving pictures
I am happy to be a minimalist
cooking my mac and cheese
while my roommate has to call in a claim
for expensive electrical devices
Al Pacino is undeniably a great actor
somewhere in my broken in apartment
the repairman is late and I'm stuffed
staring complacently at the screen
drinking a sprite because the booze make me sick
my roommate finished off the mac and cheese
I'm watching The Godfather on his big screen t.v
left untouched by a speedy nervous thief
who neglected to take this four year old laptop
what would Michael Corleone do?
my quizzical mind distracts me

the musty stink radiates from the concrete
clinging to the red satin curtains in my room
the streets of Killian Parkway fill my nostrils
bubbling with the uneasy history of old souls
dying to be cast out from their mosquito infested tombs
smelling like cheap gasoline on a humid Monday night
my a/c burned out, sputtered it's last breath
leaving me with sweaty thoughts and a melting heart
my five senses are altered with whispers and moving lights
from outside my balcony through the sliding door
pleading with me to stay awake as the ghosts of my mind
wander aimlessly playing with sticks and bottles
banging a fucking sultry rumba on my eardrums
and all I wanted was to fall asleep in comfortable silence




 

what is vibrant youth?
would we cherish it
if it were not for
the decaying feeling
we experience in
our hearts and minds
as we grow older?
yes, there are those
who age gracefully
and are forever young
carrying a seed that
can blossom into
a field of purple lilacs
but that is so rare
the death of innocence?
is the hope of youth truly gone?
the curious children
venture through life
with dreams as bright
as golden stars hung over
cradles
their tiny hands once reaching
up for symbols that represent
the birth of wonder
we struggle to accept that
our dreams are not in arm's reach
as we learn to use our bodies
to keep each other warm
in a world that is callous and cold
but there is always that shred
that light that shines dimly in space
the one that distracts us from
our busy lives
and cradles our attention
in it's arms
reminding us that we still
have that admiration
for the mysteries of life
proving that we are still
a young civilization

the neighbors are flocking outside
to the sounds of incessant screaming
she slaps him twice without hesitation
lost in some muddled confusion
light acoustic guitars echo on the radio
he punches the wall until his knuckles bleed
bashing his head against the nearby wall
yelling incoherently until he falls to the floor
she runs over to him and embraces him
to keep him from hurting himself
he asks her to please let go
asks her to please leave him alone
she quietly holds him until his anger subsides
the neighbors return to their lives disappointedly
the radio buzzes awkwardly as his heart slows
she holds him tighter never saying a word

Standing at six foot and seven inches
Roxanne mingles with the patrons
whistling a little tune stuck in his head
he wears a vintage pink tee
displaying two cartoon ghosts
hovering over the word "BOObies"
call him Roxanne and he'll swoon
buy him a drink and you're boys for life
he's a tough as nails ex-marine
with a knack for spring flowers
because it reminds him of his mom
call him a fag and he'll beat your ass
tell him he's beautiful and he'll giggle
like the gradeschool girl you had a crush on
when you thought God cried when it rained
remember to say goodbye to Roxanne
before you leave the rock club tonight
no one will ever fuck with you again

let it sing for lost love
the subtle hum vibrates
palpitating neglected organs
swimming in plasma
increasing levels of dopamine
charging the cells
until the body is so abused
from static electricity
thatyou fall asleep
only to wake up and find what was missing

My soundtrack to running around town on lonely nights