Been a long time since a.....

Rock and roll. Yeah, you heard it here first.

I'm a big fan of the font Arial. I love it much more then Times New Roman.

I believe that Arial is the way of the future. As I believe in you and me. I believe that the stars above are all we should be concerned with. We've figured out Earth. Now let's figure out how to get off it. We delay with our personal tantrums. We trip on our indifference, the scope of us diminishing by our lack of team effort. Where the lines are drawn. Where the great divide lurks. In your heart. Each and every one of us.

There is a manifesto sleeping in a server. Waiting in digital form. Unheard but waiting to say so much. Where your heart skips at the site of watching his head explode. Where the blood inside your heart wavers as his blood splashes outward. There is pause.

I have forgotten to write to you. To let you know that it's going to be okay. That this world will spin. With or without us. That its trajectory too lies beyond the stars it currently neighbors. It will become something anew. And we will still be a part of it. In particles. We were born from the stars. A scientist will tell you that. The matter that is you. Every particle and atom born from the cosmos on a long journey of evolution. How we grow from nothing to something to nothing, to something. So how will it happen?

There is something special about watching a child's eyes grow with wonder at the sight of something fantastic, something pure. Unadulterated. That's a good word. It means so much. I remember when I enjoyed Luke Skywalker and Santa Claus too. Even Jesus meant so much more as a kid. Before the wool of death is slowly pulled from across your eyes, and you see, as adults do. When the blood slows, the gravity sets in, and the spin of this world takes us closer, and closer, to the core of things.

What would you give to rewind your thoughts?

I can't tell you what it's like to be a writer. I haven't finished being one. I'm not sure why I feel I'm not old enough to attempt a novel. I just do. I believe there is something inside myself that hasn't matured enough yet. It also can't be about money or livelihood. It must be simply to be. Or maybe the story simply hasn't occurred to me yet.

Some times I worry I simply don't possess the patience.

Disjointed phrases from a heart and mind conjoined.

Inspired

I was handed a small silver token.

With the word Prosperity written along the back.

On the front was the small poorly carved relief of an angel clasping her hands....

My life has completely changed for the better.

Small deeds. Small good deeds.

I will prosper in happiness.

I hope.

These Toxins and Those Defined

h

What defines you?

Is it your clothes? Is it your job? Is it your children?

Maybe what defines you is your sport? Or maybe its your boyfriend? Does your body define you? I've thought about that one too much. It defines me. Some times.

Does your intelligence define you? Or does your bank account define you? Is it your lawn? Is it the size of your lawn? Is it the car? Does the size of your rim define you? Do the size of your tits define you?

When the moment strikes me I feel completely comfortable making conversation with anyone, and I mean any one. But most of the time I have a hard time 'conversing' with myself. Understanding who I am and feeling comfortable approaching what I see. I feel I can approach any one, most of the time. But the rest of the time I can hardly approach my self, and what defines me.

Do the arguments define you? Or does your smile define you? Does his big nose define him? Or how black she is, define her? So many things define us. But what really should?

I've thought about that a lot too. It once was that cigarettes defined her? And now the fragrance of fresh linen and soap defines her? And the lingering scent of Dad's cologne? That defines her for me at least. But they'd feel differently about what they'd say should truly define them.

A definition is, by definition, the meaning. The character of some thing, or something, or someone. I define me. Yet.

I'm defined by myself. And some times it just feels like I have so little control of who I am. And who, some times, I'd rather like to be. Is that future me? Or maybe its the me that will never come to be. The shape of things is always malleable, one hopes.

But this is less about me. And more about you. More about the you that I meet everyday, or don't meet and just knows that you exist somewhere beyond my visual scope doing whatever defines you. Looking like, whatever you 'dream' to be defined as. In their eyes. My eyes. We don't merely dress for ourselves, we think much about what the world will view us as. They are the ones looking after all. From my perspective I'm looking out, not constantly down at my clothes... but you... you're looking at me!

You can some times feel very torn trying to understand what defines you. And what you hope other people see. Some people have the gift of not caring what anyone thinks. Or what even they think about themselves. But one could argue, is that a gift, or a curse. The expectation of what people's response will be to you somehow governs our absolute being. That we live in a world of rules and governments dictates that. But we expect a lot from one another. And one of those expectations is to be accepted.

The accepted.

And what is acceptable. What falls within an expected, or reasonable, definition. The whole thing sounds like shit really.

And WHAT is my greatest addiction? Not reading. Not masturbating. Definitely not smoking pot. I am addicted to being worried about what defines me and feeling unsatisfied with the current definition.

One should always strive for better... and never let one thing define them too long...

Cataloged.

Categorized.

Labeled.

Titled.

Marked.

Tattooed.

Defined.

My Theme Song

Librarian - by My Morning Jacket

I love this song. It's off their new album Evil Urges.

Mother, as Author

You could watch the white linen being shaken out across a summer lawn. That sneeze-inducing-scent of freshly mowed grass that would make you fumble for your inhaler. But you remembered her chocolate hair. When it was long, to the shoulder. Natural and wavy. Unkempt, yet pretty. And when you'd get close enough to her, you could smell freshly soaped skin and soft powder. It tickled your nose. And you could sneeze. But she tugged you close. So you wiped your nose against her navy blue knit.

There were days when you cringed at her footsteps. Marching up and down the creaky wood stairs. You'd here the doors slam in her wake. And you swore to hell the damn carpet outside your door and the sound it swallowed. And then suddenly - The Knock. Those eerie moments followed by the hollering of the Lord's and your own names like thunder. And those lovable enemies that were the snickering siblings at each of your sides. And then, six fingers pointed at you.

And you hated walking into one of her crying sessions. One of those horribly fragile moments when you realize the person that guards and guides your every step isn't the invincible person you thought she was. You started crying by the sight of it, and you did not know why.

I like it when she puts her hard hands on my back, and rubs down my spine. For the brief moments that she allows me to stick my back into her face and plead that she scratch an itch, a horrible itch. Mother, Mom, places her hand on my lower back, her fingers rough with a days labor - sewing, typing, cooking, working, rubbing, scratching, washing, scrubbing, shaking, hugging - the fingers tickle at first but they touch. And that moment of contact completely rubs out the daily struggle and the ache, and the pain, rewinding the emotions, to a point where I am a boy again.

I know my parents miss their parents a whole lot. I miss my grandparents too. That touch. Generation to generation.

Under a chocolate sky of blowing hair caught in a summer's breeze.

The following is a poem I recently wrote. I'm a harsh critic of my own poetry, and of poetry in general. I have written something like seven hundred poems. Fuck, that's a lot. But I can honestly say my view of poetry is that it is a job, not so far off from being a miner, and if that is my best analogy, then this following poem is the only diamond I've ever unearthed in my nineteen years of shoveling coal. Dedicated to my mom of course, but more so, to the art of being a good mother - the closest position, in my opinion, one can achieve towards seeming almighty.



Mother, as God

Pours the milk into the coffee,
his pinkie turned slightly, up and away,
she turns her look into a gaze,
wondering when to stop, say when,
she places the carton back in the fridge,

Dad saw these things about Mom,
saw the beauty in the caring placed
on the simple tasks, making the bed,
her wedding band dull and caked
with last nights dinner preparation.

Knew about the errands and tasks,
was happy to know she cared,
and we moaned, cried and whined,
he sat quiet, asking for ketchup,
she walked again, across the kitchen,

she can think of mother England,
watch her pass by in the Eighties,
sweetly Diana, balanced a kingdom,
for you a household, from a bouquet,

daydreaming in lonely Connecticut
pouring your tea,
after I was fed.

We all tried to see these things
the daily motions of being our mother,
the band-aids, scolding, crying, yelling,
and all the gray, and long lost days
and feeding the mouths, you made.

And the beauty never is apparent
in a wake of countless soap operas,
the television, glowing gross expectations,
daydreaming, as the news flashes by,
and if I saw mother crying, I knew why.

Maybe you wanted someone to say,
something sweet, about what you do,
about the days spent milling and hoping,
that father, and us, would grow to be,
the family, you were meant to create.

Another day in the world...

Cnn.com headlines for August 1st, Friday, 1:17 Am, 2008....

Bus rider beheads seat mate, witness says

Guilty verdict in videotaped torture death
Police: Preacher killed wife, put her in freezer
Rice upbeat despite uphill battle in Mideast
CNNMoney: Economy grows; warnings sound
Sexual assault in military called 'epidemic'
Street fight turned fatal or ugly ethnic clash?
Navarrette: Immigrant killing senseless, barbaric
Ticker: McCain ad too nasty for Karl Rove?
Obama camp denies charge of using 'race card'
Disputed evidence allowed at Guantanamo trial
SI: Manny Ramirez traded to Dodgers
WGCL: Town buys strip club to close it
Felons serve as mortgage brokers
iReport.com: 'Grim' drought situation for Syria
Time: The war against drinking games
People: Jessica Simpson 'loves to be in love'
No shoestring budget for McCain loafers
5-year-olds kept out of kindergarten
Stranded gold digger gets by on bugs
CNN Wire: Japanese leader to reshuffle...


shit reads like poetry don't it...?

Enjoy your day.

The Turning Leaf (Soul Suicide Baby)

In a crush.
You cute lovers.
You magnetic two.
And the earth revolves around your moon.
Around the crescent shaped form,
of the two of you,
leaning into one another.
That gentle curve.

You kissing beneath the Douglas-fir.

If your feet were closer.
You'd look like a heart.
Like love.

But your not.

"You want it, you need it, the words slip away
Your crying your eyes out, your mind wants to break
Your heart is your weakness, your song plays endlessly
Wonder how you sleep, it’s a wonder to me

So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love, then tear your insides up
So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love,
then tear yourself apart."

And the song plays on in your head. You know he's played it before. Played on some old jukebox at the back of another pub. Same story, night after night. You've sang this song before, in your dreams. In your heart, it feels like lightning strikes, with no thunder. And the tears stain your face again.

You've played this game too many times. Seen the nicks in the quarter, filled with grime, before you dropped it into the slot. You thought, what song should I play next. Just to try to erase the last. Still ringing in your ears. Still pulling on your tears.

And the words becomes a hum. Becomes the noise in the still night. When you wake in wet shivers. Your pink tanktop clinging to your breasts. You pull on it. It slaps back against you. Sopping.

You've shared this dream with other nights. With other dead spaces of time. When the world seems asleep around you. When you feel like the only soul awake on the block. In the neighborhood. In the world. You rattle your senses. Grab the bottle of water, swig a gulp. Release a long gasp of breath, and text him again. It's 3AM and you're a zombie.

There's something about the strumming of a good guitarist. Something about the coordination that you haven't figured out yet. You can't get your eyes off his hands. Watching the wrist move like that. How those sounds fill the room.

How the Earth does not circle the moon.

With another inhalation.
And the gasp. The choke.
You cough out all the bad smoke.
Spit out the black phelgm,
until you see pink again.

If you move in circles,
fast enough,
and you let the world spin,
you'll get dizzy,
fall,
and see,
the world ain't so tough.

You'll stand again.