Silent Chaos

The Aegir Ridge

2010-08-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

I am prisoner to humanity's most creatively crippled monuments. Rotten parts and crossbeams whose only pulse is the steady thrum of termites and the gelatinous fear of movement.

Every time we build this barn, we have to watch it fall apart.

The families of cockroaches and cows surviving inside don't even bother filing out; they'll survive the fallout, and we'll be dumb enough to still cook and eat their flesh. The roaches won't even touch us without cleaning themselves.

Our parents smile again as we erect these pillars, the local priest and all his parish will pat us gratefully on our backs again.

"Ya done good, kid. Ya put your daddy's place back in order."
I grimace and can't wait to watch it burn.

There's a thousand different endings. Outside, the wind still whips; I watch the mercury crack and slide slowly out the bottom, pooling in mock disgust and laughing at my naivete. I don't know what to make of it anymore.

"What's so wrong with glasses?"
"Nothing. Unless they know you're coming."
Werewolves and shapeshifters--some call it paranoia. I know they're all after me. They look just like my bro. Their fangs seem to smile even in their sleep. They're tossing and turning on my borrowed couch. I know it's coming.

What in the hell are they waiting for?

We pry open car doors. My friends don't bother locking theirs. The vehicle lurches into the night. I should feel gravity giving up as we're climbing through the timberline. It's a bumpy ride. And the lead that replaced my lungs and stomach slips deeper down inside me.

"This is where we lose reception," he says, pointing to the display on his cell phone. My other friend nods in acknowledgement. The driver presses on, and I feel the world slur drunkenly. The car seems to vomit and barrel roll through the night.

"Remember the last time we were here?" I ask. Quizzical stares. "What? It was the same as now. We were running for our lives then, too."
"You feeling okay?"
"I don't know how you can be so fucking flippant about this."
If we could jump right over the river, ignore the coming crevasse and float right on...We'd float downstream. Would our souls wash ashore? Would the local police know how to identify them, strap tags onto our dreams, ambitions, and best intentions?

I realize what's been eating at me when every dream is nothing but a metaphor for descent.

The driver turns the dial; the music is more brooding. It's louder than before, and I have no choice but to settle further back into the leather and hope this drive will be different from the last. I can already see us at the end crawling out of the car, scrambling for something still.

And where the fuck did I lose the last five years?

This mountain grows deeper every year. I sleep in the wake of its shadow. And my body is the divide.

Samsara

2010-05-02T23:16:00.000-07:00

And calmer than the face of a woman telling lies I watched the way you were transmogrified.

"For the greater good," they said.

I look around and all I see is Eliot's Waste Land. I look around and wonder how we even have convictions anymore.

"Is it feedback you're looking for? You're fucking up."

Thanks, brother.

The soiled napkins, the excuses for progeny in which we spilled our seed, float downstream.

Have we sinned against God and Nature? Against ourselves?

Fishing in the black hole, where a moon ago we drowned, where a moon ago we borrowed every semblance of suicide, what can we expect to keep?

Oh, God, why did this ever have to happen to me? You know you mean everything to me. And you could never be a mistake, your will could never be policed.

Apollo's existence is a fallacy. But science proved that long ago. Heliocentrism and all of that.

Helios drives the chariot; I watch the sky.
Daedalus demands; I abide.

"But, son, please keep a steady wing. And know you're the only one that means anything to me. Steer clear of the sun, or you'll find yourself in the sea."

The promise of release, safety, your grandfather dreams. Somewhere between abomination and his only progeny.

I fell flat and prayed to the gods of yesteryear. I fell flat and prayed on a kitchen floor soiled from years of grease and childish grief. Do the stains of my tears reach you still? I'll just let your silence speak.

Don't forget my name. Don't forget to tell them I believed. Even if I couldn't be the one who held you in my arms.

"But I've got a plan and some wax and some string; some feathers I stole from the birds. We leap from the cliff and we hear the wind sing a song that's too perfect for words."

I hope you were smiling, I hope you were crying, I hope you felt it all. In that second with your mother, the one who wouldn't have me, I hope you had it all.

Don't lose yourself in the throes of the sea.

Chaucer Rocks My Emo Socks

2010-01-18T02:28:00.001-08:00

"But thanne felte this Troilus swich wo
That he was wel neigh wood; for ay his drede
Was this, that she som wight hadde loved so,
That nevere of hym she wolde han taken hede,
For which hym thoughte he felte his herte blede"

~Chaucer - Troilus and Criseyde bk. 1, lines 498-502

"I'm cuddling close
To blankets and sheets
But you're not alone, and you're not discreet
Make sure I know who's taking you home."

~Dashboard Confessional - "Screaming Infidelities"

"Thise wordes, and ful many an other to,
He spak, and called evere in his compleynte
Hire name, for to tellen hire his wo,
Til neigh that he in salte teres dreynte.
Al was for nought: she herde nat his pleynte;
And whan that he bythought on that folie,
A thousand fold his wo gan multiplie."

~Chaucer - Troilus and Criseyde bk. 1, lines 540-546

"Wandering this house
like I've never wanted out
and this is about as social as I get now.
And I'm throwing away the letters that I am writing you
'cause they would never do,
I would never do, never."

~Dashboard Confessional - "Saints and Sailors"

And you thought those emo boys were annoying. No, no, no, they weren't the first.

God, I hate Chaucer.

Post-?

2009-11-19T23:07:00.000-08:00

"Your poetry's so...poetic. Sincerely, I'm impressed."

We break the molds stitch them back together to fill them up again with the same old drivel.

Didactic is a word that's been bouncing around my skull for days now. And it's the agenda I just can't get behind. But what am I?

We have this nothing, and it's nothing because I say it's nothing in spite of all your protestations otherwise (which makes you equally correct, of course). Well, we're both correct. But we can't be entirely correct because, you see, so is everyone else--correct, that is. And if I'm correct, and you're correct, and they're correct, all of them, too, then there must be some grand amalgam we can, for lack of a better word, call Correct.

But that's not right.

You see, there is no right, there is no wrong. You start with nothing and you work from there.

And this all made sense to someone (perhaps a few too many someones), and they rode on the backs of fiery Truth and told us all there is no Truth.

You will never make a difference.

It took the modern world posting itself before they came back around to the idea Zen Buddhists came up with hundreds of years ago...or something like it. Speaking strictly metaphysically, I suppose I could get behind this. But, please, will someone tell me how to live?

It does me no good to reach the end of the guidebook and find the pages being eaten by a nest of roaches. Imagine reaching the end of the Bible and there never being any mention of a New Jerusalem. Where do all the people go? It's useless.

And maybe that's the point.

And then, forty years later, people like you and me come along and are pissed at the way things have been going and want to know what's the point in proceeding any further down this path. So, we start writing. And now, we have an agenda. And we'll show them, we'll stick it to them, won't we--you and me, all the way? Won't we?

And just like always, I get distracted by the curves of your body, and you get swallowed in the deep sea blue of my eyes. And hours later, we lay exhausted, trying to figure out how all this happened. We don't care about dismantling the universe to the last speck of dust. We don't care about nihilism, absence, lack, and nothing. It's procreation we're interested in. We've gone back to our most basic instincts. We have to not just ignore, but obliterate the past. We negate the negation which has already negated itself. And even that's not enough, unfortunately.

We're post-post-post-apocalypse...or something. But isn't that playing right into their hand? I swear, it makes me want to tear my hair out. We've been painted into a corner and find it nearly impossible to make our way out.

Is this the way they must have felt when they started? When the realists rejected the romanticists (pshaw!), when the modernists pushed forward from realism and naturalism, when the postmodernists said, "Fuck all!"?

So, seriously. I know this question has been lingering in everyone's minds probably since the 70s or 80s (and poststructuralists are no answer), but where do we go from here?

Because I can't make the same mistake they did. Postmodernity wishes to escape the binds of Modernity, but then lacks the foresight to even remove modern from its name. Or maybe it was intentional. Maybe because it signifies nothing. Or everything. All. Absence. An absent parent? Maybe because in any age--past, present, or future--postmodern will always be an anachronistic word.

So, we can't go with post-postmodernism (though, certainly, the label has been applied before). But by this point, doesn't it all lose its meaning (and wasn't it supposed to have already?...of course not).

So, what, what, what the fuck are we doing? And when we wake with the morning sun, how will we live with ourselves? And who is going to show us how?

Regret and Ailing Health

2009-11-06T03:23:00.000-08:00

On Death and Dying. We compromise. The megalomaniacal leering head hovering just outside my step, and my overwhelming desire to punch it in the face (not because that's all that's there, but more because I simply want to punch something in the face).

Sleep is the madman's dream, his only fix. I miss it all. I wake up sick and coughing and wonder if the drugs coursing through my veins will keep me going for one more day or drop me dead where I stand. I really should have been there, and now I can't (or won't?).

Things have changed. Dear God, they've changed.

I miss the humidity, the sweat on your forehead from a hard day's work of simply sitting in the shade. I miss the drives to nowhere that always ended somewhere (probably a Waffle House). We had friends and family, and now we don't know how to hang on to either. I really should have been there.

And why now, of all times?

I need some sleep. I need some peace.

"If I don't get some shelter, oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away."

I've gotten ahead...finally. But I feel years slipping off my life, and I wonder if I can make it another two.

This was a mistake.

Even Angels

2009-06-06T16:09:00.000-07:00

Running through the garden again. And breaking stained-glass windows. I like to watch the light cascade down. And bless the people inside. They never know how to react. Everyone just stares. They're missing their chance. I don't know what else I can do to tell them. I've tried everything.

I see you inside. You're standing on the pew trying to get a better look. You always were the type.

I begin to turn away and make my exodus. Before they come running carrying stones yet hurling only insults. I love this intimidation game. I find your eyes. And their intentions are unmistakable....As always.

And I know I'm bringing you with me. My hand through the window. And your feet taking flight. Neither of us really even sure where we're headed anymore. But one thing is for certain....

By the time we're through, even angels will shake, fall, and shatter.

What Will Happen?

2009-05-30T15:46:00.000-07:00

It's been some time. And now we're standing together in public places. There are a thousand electro-light fads walking about sneering in every direction. At least half of them want you. I just want you to know that I know absolutely nothing. Don't think I don't perceive your reticent behavior.

And I find myself inquiring if physical touch is a permissible action that may be taken in such a place as this. You confirm my suspicions. It's OK. If only we were OK.

I'm not so sure I can handle this. I still think I want to try. But things cannot remain this way. Because I promise you that I'll drop you just like yesterday's bad habit.

.

.

.

.

Just to pick you back up again....

"Done, done, and I’m on to the next one."

Phase

2009-05-12T14:02:00.000-07:00

One of those school kid crushes. I think I held it for years. And I never did make the first move. He came in eventually. My friend tried to save me. Of course, I didn't listen. Do I ever in these situations? Actually....He couldn't have known that yet. I was just getting started....

Just a phase....And I want to forget....

I was running out of ideas. Thought I'd give love a try. Got lost in the mix-up, toss-up, throwing up when I got back. Giving him back every feeling I ever once held. Because I didn't want them anymore. Too heavy and most definitely not ready.

Just a phase....And I want to forget....

And I can listen to death metal. I can. And I will. I can hate everyone. The animosity bleeds out from under my eyelids. And everybody knows it.

Just a phase....And I want to forget....

He tells me that he lied. I want to know why he's disclosing this now. I want to know. Just like I always want to know everything. I want to tell him it's OK. But I've already changed. And I want to take him in my arms. Slowly smooth his hair....And tear his limb from limb; rip that beautiful face apart. Because I know I stated this several times before we ever even started. I only asked for one thing.

"Don't lie to me."

He took that offer and ran with it. Ran straight down my throat. Sometimes I can still feel the footprint scars and the pain that accompanies them....I try to not make such stupid requests anymore....I want to know why I changed for another. I only make one promise to myself these days.

Never again.

But, as always....

Just a phase....And I want to forget....

.

.

.

.

But what will I remember?

Five Lifetimes Ago

2009-05-08T17:36:00.001-07:00

The best option left for you now
I'm warning you this time

Is to leave me far behind

I suggest you form some strategy

To erect impenetrable oceans, continents, and even lifetimes between us, angel

Because I've always been the worst of you

I've slowly been the death of you

And even I never realized it

It's good to put your faith in something

But I choose to be co-dependant on no one

You know, I'd walk straight through Hell for you

But I have to make my own way to Heaven some time

"As if I’d fall to pieces in the wake of your design."

Planned Obsolescence

2009-05-03T03:45:00.001-07:00

We've been transfigured into the muted words stapled along their jawlines
What they never remembered or thought to mention

And the word escapes me at the moment, but maybe it never existed in the first place.

And local color, and spectral forces, the grotesque and absurd. Myth and structure and degeneration. Family and new forgeries.

I am become a demon.

But there was a time, there was a...
Blood spilled, choirs sang, and I'm afraid I must have been asleep in a ditch somewhere miles and miles away.

He Takes it in His Hand, and....

2009-04-26T04:52:00.000-07:00

And I pass the man with all the answers. He knows absolutely everything. He told me so. He lights his cigar and waves it brilliantly before me. Then, he sends it to the ground. Ashes we all become.

God's busy doing business things with other busy business people. They're trying to get back in the Garden again. But those flaming swords seems to introduce a minor problem. They never stop. They're always levitating, rotating, blocking entrance. Always. Perpetual motion.

And in my sin I look up and pray to the sky, and there I behold all I ever had wished to know. Every bird struck down in midflight through the fiery sky. Every cloud punctured like worn material. The damage of age dealt in an instant. And everyone around me blessed with fire. They appear to be so innocent as they sink to their knees and cry out for mercy to the omnipotent heavens raining judgment. I wish I could be like them. I wish I could catch the spirit of the flame....I do.

In my skin I see the way. My Tao. It's in grooves. It's in everyone, everywhere. Weaving in and out, past follicles. Imperfections. Scars. Wounds that time could never really heal. It's nice to know the fire could light the path. And maybe then I could see where my feet should tread....along my own skin. Such a delicate process. It's nice to know the fire could scorch the hairs into nothing....smooth the way. Makes everything so much simpler....But it always leaves its mark. And once again, I can never forget.

He kept it from us. So, I had no other choice.

I burned the Garden. It's in ashes now.

Left the man with all the knowledge in its center, and ran away laughing into the night. I watched the sky turn black just before the heavens painted themselves richly with life and vibrance. Transcended us, our state, and changed to red. Just before it all came down, and the world was ripe with destruction.

And in my sin, my imperfection, I had to question why I was never to be allowed access there again. If we can't have it, then no one can. I'll send everything into oblivion.

75% Screaming, 15% Singing, the Rest is a Tragedy

2009-04-26T04:50:00.000-07:00

Matchbook this romance
I'll get the gasoline
And you can gather the pieces
As the walls and ceiling converge
Then "Come a bit closer, and I will hand you a shovel to dig yourself out."
All I ask is you give it back when you're done

Truth Speaker

2009-04-22T23:05:00.000-07:00

Tell me what I'm supposed to be
Because you could never tell yourself

Tell me what I'm supposed to see

In this crumpled paper cut-out of a figurine

Tell me everything you want me to hear

Because I'm no longer listening

So, why don't you go on and tell me what you're really thinking?

You Don't Have to Take the Advice

2009-04-07T06:45:00.001-07:00

"Consider this a sign."

It felt good to confess all my fears and feelings
My sins and innermost secrets
We laid all pretense aside
And there was nothing left but bare soul
And I've never felt so naked, so powerless in all my life

I never knew there was so much of me my skin could hide

Pepsi on the Side

2009-04-03T03:43:00.000-07:00

A boy used to play, used to stay here. Used to roam freely here. I wonder if he's gone away, too. I wonder what ever made him stay. I really used to worry about him.

He tells me about how to start a family. I tell him about how to preheat the oven to 450 and throw that bitch in and incinerate her. I really do still worry about him....He tells me she reminds him of a girl he used to know. Thankfully, I cannot say the same.

I really wish I could explain this feeling, but even if I could, I don't believe I'd want to.

"Make me feel again. Slide across my skin again. Let me uncover you to rediscover you. And I will open up if you promise to give in."

And I make my smooth transitions. Out of drive into reverse and back again. There's something mechanical, automated in the actions we take. Something so seductive. The way your fingers glide so precisely across the keyboard makes me want to vomit out my soul. These spidery motions seem all too natural, and I have to wonder where the line is drawn and where we cease to exist....except virtually, of course. These human beings are dying again. They're simply not listening again.

And the splash of Corona washes over my tongue. A taste I cannot stand. I take mine with a side of Pepsi to cover up the taste.

.

.

.

.

I take my tears with a side of pain to cover up their intent.

"I would leave it all so far behind just to be with you today. So make me feel again. Feel your every breath again. Nevermind everyone. There's only me and you."

A Present Something

2009-03-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

"She just wants to love herself."

And maybe she just needs this. Just needs to cry a little. To take another by the coat sleeve in the cold winter chill and bury her heart in a warmth ever flowing. Maybe she just needs someone to listen.

She's been listening to herself so long now that everything feels so overwhelming. And the answers aren't coming. They don't seem to care. It's as if the solution forgot its role and simply allowed the problem to linger uninhibited. She's been listening to her heartbeat every night. Lying, sitting, standing awake all hours just listening to the echo of the blood rush to the temples.

I'm so afraid that someday I'll find her with hands uplifted. A cross attached to a chain around her neck, praying to the east and carving pentagrams into some unwilling surface. I pray myself sometimes. I pray this never happens.

She's listening to those sad songs again. And pretending they don't affect her. She's behaving as though she just enjoys the chorus, always singing along. Somewhere deep inside, she's hurting. And she's masking it well.

I'm praying that someday she forgets her inhibitions and her worries. I'm hoping she lets it go and has her own release session. I'm praying.

She's waiting.

And tomorrow breaks over the horizon again. Just the same as yesterday. The sun sends its rays through half-sheltered windows. The blinds are almost working....I wish they could keep away everything....But the new day still rises. And we can't block out everything forever.

"We grew up too fast; falling apart like the ashes of some flag."

Looking for Purpose

2009-03-13T11:36:00.001-07:00

Maybe it's the lack of a stigma, nothing to overcome. I wanted to write "character," but I think stigma is more accurate.

I've met some exceptional people, some truly remarkable individuals. And they give me a glimmer of hope for humanity. But I can't be here for too long. It's far too neutral, impotent, really.

I just...need something greener, maybe? I'm a night person who loves the long days of summer. I've never claimed it makes sense. Maybe it's the diminishing presence of darkness that makes me appreciate it more.

I keep having this dream--even when I'm awake. My friends are smiling all around me. Their closest loves are crowded close by. Outside, unrestrained winds beat everything into the ground, and the Devil eats his own.

Do I venture forth or remain inside?

"When I'm Terrorist Inside"

2009-03-07T06:54:00.000-08:00

"At my best when it's all me."

I'm driving right through the eye of the storm. Waiting for it to finish me off or die trying. I absolve myself of all risk in this.

Another chapter closes tonight. Now I can breathe again.

Most importantly, I can still look in the mirror....and smile.

With Claws and a Fierce Determination

2009-03-04T08:24:00.001-08:00

An old man dies tonight. He's slipping away, and we all know it. We don't care. His own family just doesn't care. We drive back in these metal chariots twenty kms per hour slower than we would make this trip were we just going to the mall. Somewhere far away I can hear him crying. He's begging God to intervene. He's asking Death on his knees to spare him the sight of darkness. A little girl cries in the front yard. Her face all stained with tears and her heart rending itself open. Small children are always so empathetic like that.

Go back to sleep Go back to bed I heard that he can't anymore I heard him say it I heard the word home I heard it I did

They don't give a fuck about They don't They And I lean my head down now Carve out this pain I feel it in my chest But I know exactly where it's coming from Where it thrives and throbs and pulsates Breeding and ensuring its own survival I want to cut away this mass of nothing I want to take it I want to give it to you I want you to feel this It's getting worse And I know where this is heading Staring Glazed Still driving Feeling somehow invulnerable and yet like the weakest creature Feeling their drugs darting through my veins Telling me Go back to sleep Feeling it tell me things I never want to hear Picking apart my insides while simultaneously making bold statements about stabilization and recovery Bold The pain in my arm tells me I should be on that stretcher It simply refuses to go away

If I could just take this word salad emotional shove it make some sense get life and take a pill remember once a day and PRN I need this can't believe asleep on the couchfloor I'm slipping her shoes flying I hear he hates her he her he he he never told me I hope

I hope

Go back to sleep.

If I could just be ignorant. If I could just be someone. If I could be my someone. Someone else's someone. Someone at all. Why? He tells me I'm the better man. He tells me. He told me so. A better man than he. These poison dreams. I'm awake. I'm asleep. I'm awake. I'm not aware. I'm doing this. I'm not aware I'm doing this. This. The knife will slip right in. I promise, if you can just get on your knees. If you can just get on your knees and pray. I'll protect you. He'll be the one. You'll be OK, protected, OK? Pray for rain, pray for blue skies. Pray for sanity. I'm losing mine. It's going away, and there's not a fucking thing I can do about it. It's leaving me. All I can do is watch the symptoms appear and multiply until it's gone. I've been fighting this cancer in my brain for so long now. But now I know I'm fucking losing.

Fashionably Late, As Always

2009-02-22T02:19:00.001-08:00

There's some unique phenomenon associated with the transition out of adolescent fable. A ridiculously grueling process complicated by the many manic throes of modernity. Some specific point when you realize that not only are you enough of an individual to be yourself in the face of others' discrimination and rigid standards of conformity, but that you're also anomalous enough to dare to be something other than yourself in the face of your own rigidity.

Helper Blah Cells

2009-02-22T01:53:00.000-08:00

Like a prisoner. It's a cell, for certain. Every logical analysis yields concurrent results. There's a shelter. A place where they say the adults run and hide. They call it a home. But now one can't help but wondering if running there is just the same as a child with insecure attachments running to its maternal figure. There is no mother. Only something remotely maternal. It could be a wire mesh doll just as easily as a person.

As a person.

Certain obligations and requirements and do this/that blah/blah bullshit. And that, mein Freunde, is what it all boils down to. Right there at the bottom of the pan, next to the remaining pinch of salt, is Blah vs. Blah. Those are your choices, no exceptions, no debate. Get into groups of 6...wait 4, oh, I mean 6 again....Well....maybe 5 will just have to do....And discuss it for yourselves. And decide amongst yourselves which Blah you prefer. Which one you personally prefer, that is. But understand that your Blah will not be the one chosen.

Understand, that like a prisoner, you have rights, too. You can choose the company you keep (for the most part), the layout of your cell (to an extent), and how distraught you will allow yourself to become because of circumstances. This is another group activity. How many members are left now?

And that's not even the important issue.

We Pray for God to Stand

2009-02-21T15:12:00.000-08:00

"The latest story of my life is that the devil's at my door tonight."

And it's times like this we pray. When our lips forget how to give forgiveness--or how to say please. And every prayer starts off the same way:

"I know we haven't talked in a while..."

And we make our cases, we make our demands, we damn, and we curse. We remember what it was like to be eighteen. Sing the songs; don't forget. But we're growing older, hoping we're growing up.

And people tell me God is not great--that he's not even good. Mots doubts, and then, without even touching the wounds, proclaims, "My Lord and my God!" We beg for signs, but we don't want the answers. Never cared for a response. We have faith in nothing.

We pray for God to stand. To come down off that cross; to stand up in the garden and take this cup like a man. The cup he just offered to his disciples as his own blood--the very same one he asks to be taken from him as he falls face first to the ground, weeping great drops of blood.

How does a man three times predict his own death and then three times ask to be spared? Why is Peter allowed to deny three times and then three times reaffirm and lead the flock? Meanwhile, Judas hangs, swaying in silence until he plummets to the ground, his insides bursting open and flowing over the soil. The field of blood is bought for thirty pieces of filthy silver. (And just where are those silver pieces today?)

How does one man fix all the world's problems in a weekend when I can barely get the lawn mowed?

If we are the body of Christ, must we all be just as broken? Which of us are the holes in wrists and feet? Who among us the chasm in his side? Can we be blood and water both? Can we be Beloved?

"I know you think that I'm someone you can trust, but I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up. I know you're coming for the people like me, but we all got wood and nails."

Minesweeper

2009-02-15T23:06:00.000-08:00

With a record number of false starts and losses. Lack of mobility; fell face down. Hit the floor. Turning now to solitaire. With a record number of cigarette tips and shots and breaths and incense burns I couldn't seem to find a way to force down. Just until my head starts caving in, and I want to quit. This is the closest you'll ever see me talking with the priest again. They couldn't get me to go even this lovely morning. The sun peeked through at 6:38 today. In through the screen, the blinds pulled half open, half ass repaired. Still a little hurt. And some things forgotten. An "I owe you" to father. Wonder if it will ever materialize. If he'll ever get that wicker swing. If he'll ever figure out what it is inside that's been eating him alive. If the vacations to the doctors with their random postulations will ever pay dividends. Before the bones decay, and the mind not far behind. I want to turn myself to sand. Build castles on the shoreline. Somewhere to retreat and hide away. Somewhere forever home. Island refuge. Peaceful slumber. My home.

Until the crashing of the wave.

Confessions

2009-02-13T00:02:00.000-08:00

___________________________________________________
I'm sorry. Am I boring you? You seem suddenly disinterested. Just nod if you're awake and listening. Nod if you care for me to continue....Oh, that's right. I forget myself. I'll go on.
___________________________________________________

Most people have never experienced a desert first hand. I've had both the pleasure and misfortune of finding myself in either kind. In one, through blazing hot sand, threatening to melt itself and you into glass by day and take you with it to a netherworld of crystallization. By night, this same abyss looming portentously with no solace granted by a black canvas of eternity ahead; a freeze straight through to your bones. In another desert, you find yourself battling geography and the impending loss of sanity. Exposure a constant threat, just trying to keep the blood in the tips of your fingers leaves you feeling numb from head to heart. Like nothing is possible, and the plight of humanity becomes overbearing. I suppose you really face these issues in both regions, but, for some reason, I always found the tundra the less pleasant of the two. Something not even water could cure.

But my challenge this day planted me in some Middle Eastern bad lands. I wish I could tell you where I was, but that would require me telling myself, as well. And I'm interested not in the least in possessing that knowledge. It's a place I'd like to forget. I can't. Some large bird of prey gliding patiently over me all through the day. Just waiting. He knew it was but a matter of time, and the feasting would be ripe. The gorging, the gouging of the eyes, stupendous. I had no options but to keep walking. Gone too far now and headed toward no civilization. Lost. The raptorial creature plodding along on his feet now with intermittent bursts of flight, grown weary from the effort. Confused as to why I had not grown weary with the walk. I'm worn. Weary of life. I hear that familiar grumbling. My stomach? No. That low laughter reverberating round me. An echo....re-echo, echo. They're all expecting me to die here. Soon. Now. I hit the sand, displacing it into my mouth and eyes. I can't feel the taste on my tongue. Just penetrating hotness. Arid and lashing through my gums. And now I'm blind. I wanted to bathe myself in this useless bath salt of nothing, of Hell, of discomfort and discord. I'm fading quickly. But a vision comes; presumably, my last.

From behind me two great angelic wings expand upward, straight into the sky. The feathers ruffle, and I can feel them begin to embrace me. I'm being sheltered and granted reprieve from this harsh fate. The deadly sun no longer tearing cancers in my flesh. My father had talked of angels before, but mostly he spoke of his god. The god of war. Be it Tyr, Odin, Mars, Enlil, or Ares. It mattered not. The prayers and petitions were always well-received. In every conflict raging, his god was there. He could feel the presence of some omniscient being. Quasi-omniscience. All-seeing tunnel vision. Betrayed by the lack of the peripheral. Never even saw an alternative coming. Never even knew it could exist. The voice of some celestial being begins calling out to me. But my ears, already severely handicapped in the execution of this task, being but mortal and badly injured, are unable to clearly discern the modulation proceeding forth from these celestial lips right before me. No mortally comprehensible voice or pitch. So, this is the end. He's come to greet me, and I can go to heaven after all....He caws in response.

I don't know why I didn't know then. Demons I had seen, had heard and felt. Sweeping past me, jeering all the while. Of angels, there were none. Not here. Not in this barren wasteland of my soul. A swarm of hatred sweeping over me, touching and gnashing its teeth and talons into me. Tearing at what little bit is left. A synthesized collection of demonic visages enveloping me. This was my lot. This was my plague.

Consciousness greeted me with a sharp stab to the calf. Another caw as I lunged forward instinctively and grasped the feathery wing of my assailant. It was my raptor. My angel-deliverer, afterall. Come to carry me to death. He must have been young, too. The attack came far too prematurely. My hand caught hold of his arched wing and with all the force left in my body, I threw myself backward, breaking bone and sinew. But it was all I could do. Although I left him badly injured, I was still no match while unconscious. Which is exactly what I was headed straight back to. Darkness sinking in. The edges of my vision blackening slowly. A bird of prey skulking laboriously over to my body. Pitch black.

___________________________________________________
Are you afraid? Can you feel this? Can you imagine what I felt like? Giving in to this creature. Affording it certain victory. Not even dying in my own land....I didn't have a land. The vagabond versus the scavenger. I gave up that day. It was the first time ever. It was also the last. My father's god of war descended from the heavens. And his righteous indignation brought about my deliverance. Favors such as these aren't granted liberally.
___________________________________________________

A thud right next to my head. Jolting awake once more, I see the rock still stirring up dust from its fall. The creature lying stunned right next to me. Not dead. A congregation of these unholy predators had assembled above, and they fell quickly upon the body of their brother. He cried out in agony. But his gods could be nothing greater than himself. Just as merciless and ravenously stricken with insatiable hunger. For blood. The flock soon turned to me.

A deep-throated scream in a language incomprehensible to me momentarily frightened them away. Looking up, a man. On a horse. A camel? I couldn't discern. Far too dehydrated and exasperated to focus on anything other than the blazing sun and the rustle of black closing in around me. A cloth bundle thrown to the ground by this man atop the beast of burden. The agitable scavengers jumping backwards briefly. Then circling round the package. I was hoisted up in front of this man then. He told me his name as he instructed his friend to run, quickly. It was a camel. I couldn't tell you anything else about it. How it felt, the sounds it made. It was all I could do to hold on....and thank the man. Thank my father's god.

I heard cries as we raced away. Terrifying wails. Looking back to my place of salvation, the cloth bundle now torn open and exposed. I saw something inside moving. And heard the cries of a baby begging the heavens for some miracle. I winced. Vertigo taking over. Wind piercing into my eyes as I turned forward again. The whines of the child silenced, dead now....The child....

I would have cried then, but there was nothing left to give. That day, all emotion faded in me. Every bit of justice silenced. Dead now.

We raced onward. Presumably to some encampment or oasis. So this is all it takes to get to paradise. This is all it takes to be delivered from the salivating jaws of Hell. I fell asleep.

And later awoke to find ashes in the place of paradise.

Living Long Enough

2009-02-12T15:31:00.000-08:00

And a whistle in, a rustle... Well, darling, it's just the wind.

As we try to carve a niche in the aftermath of Eliot's Waste Land. As we try and fight, we try and...well, darling, we survived. I'm underwhelmed but mystified. The nervous tics will tell. Our blood collects in puddles between the drops of rain. And I catch you bathing in the cleansing spill.

Ponce de Leon? Can you hear me still?

The doors collapse, the uniforms flood through alongside bullets and preconceptions, preconditions. Fundamental beliefs we could never argue against. Or with.

He says he likes long walks through, well, whatever. The underbrush will do. Among the snakes and leaves and crab apples and holes I bashed into your head.

Tell me you love me still.

An inviting hand extended to a prostrate corpse. Brother, will you stand? And if not, I could dig through my skin and claw out these very veins--if that's what it takes.

A cosmo in the summershine. A rum in winter climes.

Dumping poison after poison after perfect pissing choir boys drunk on the front lawn have said all they have to say on personhood and palpitations of the heart.

Tell me. You love me still.

It's only our souls I've been speaking of. That and leather straps I locked around your wrists. And all the things we'd forget given long enough.

You sway gracefully from blood puddles and back into the rain.

Stripped

2009-01-29T23:03:00.000-08:00

In the corner, he's rocking back and forth.

"I hate you. I hate you!"

There's still a crash, a scream from the other side of the house. From the other room.

"And I'm tired of this!"

There's a door slamming. There are bills being paid. And there are silences being answered and accounted for. Millions of non-sensical thoughts and emotions spewing forth and giving life to a scene. To a moment in history inexplicable. To a dance of flame. Only there is no beauty in this fire. It's the little boy's first introduction. And it burns like a bitch.

"I hate you! I don't ever want to see you again!"

Across his floor: torn stuffed animals, a lifeless goldfish, a broken glass, and his bleeding hand. His bleeding heart. He keeps talking. Keeps mumbling. Keeps hiding.

The front door opens and slams. He can hear the ignition fire in the yard. He can hear the keypad on the telephone dialing. He can hear the television making important life decisions for everyone in the living room. In the living room. Where we played out our lives. Where he avoids. In his own living room. His room. In the corner.

It's over.

His father is gone. He'll be back tomorrow. Like always. His mother crying.

He's still in the corner of his room....Rocking melodically now....Still whispering....Still staring in the mirror. Glaring intently at his own reflection....Whispering....

"I hate you...."

96 Words Lacking

2009-01-28T01:25:00.000-08:00

I've become stronger. And I do not like it. Some part of me I have allowed to die, and it's been replaced by some collective whole bargaining for control of that bit of my soul. Although this seems irrational since it is the very nature of survival. Adapt and thrive. Still, I wish I could cut my wrists and bleed this poison from my heart, straight out of me, and right back into the environment that forces change. Although I exemplify exactly what it is to be human, I feel like more of an animal, or worse, a machine. I want to pull this under with me. So, I can ensure its death.

How do you live, rolling in these razor blades?

"If you knew some of the things he's done, it would completely change your opinion of him."

"Hold your tongue. You can say that about everyone. We all have our secrets. And if you're capable of knowing everyone's secrets, and you can still morally accept everyone's actions or thoughts....then I don't want to know you."

In My Hands Now

2009-01-27T15:36:00.001-08:00

And I cannot seem to move you
For I'm forced to cradle your now broken skull
Between these two callow hands
While you deliberately, gently caress
And run your hands along my severed spinal column
Taking notice of every little bump along the way
And we consider these moments Golden
When it's safe to say we are entirely broken
. . . . Together

You Have Become My Dreams

2009-01-27T15:32:00.000-08:00

Our phosphorescent tongues flick in silent procession
As heralds of the coming Hell
And they're screaming in the night, empty bottles, broken glasses
"God, where have you gone?"
And coursing through our veins, the drug gives us meaning
Animates our limbs and arteries; our hearts beat as one
In the pitch black of this artificial winter
We're feeling through the dust that fills our lungs
For something tangible, something we can touch, feel, and stain
The mushrooming pyre rising in the distance
Our eyes hope to clear for just an instant
A second more
Let me see the way your face could break
Let me trace the lines of worry and defeat
Know the weary skin that once was beautiful
Before we forgot to be
Giving up

Oh, God, where is my pillar?
Where is my fire by night?

Your perfect eyes shine catlike, level with the horizon
And with feline ubiquity, you survive (and so will I)
I will be with you always
Forever and a day
My face will haunt your grave

Everyone's Wearing Your Eyes

2009-01-26T07:50:00.000-08:00

No one should read this. It's for everyone and no one all at the same time. It adds nothing. It may take away much. But then again. They're just words. And how much could those ever really say? I give myself too much credit. I presume too much. Everyone will leave this just the same as before. And maybe that's part of the problem.

"The faith you found, I've never felt. The terror held in wedding bells. The comfort in there's no one else. The truth be told, I'm never gonna know."

We have to make the same mistakes again
We have to stop making the mistakes
Falling short of the glory and all that not sinning not since
We want to do it again
It's nothing better, but it's what we have to work with

"Tell me just how dangerous is second best?"

It's the way you like it
The only way you'd have it
Face it
You smile and nod
You lick your lips in satisfaction
You tuck your head into your palms at night and feel a sick sense of bleak satisfaction

"Came as a gift from a good friend that disapproves but understands that you represent and actively encourage all of my worst habits--they all are proof that we're both capable of the most terrible things; don't test me."

We bitch and argue
We beat each other down
We've reinvented what a touch means

"Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole just like a faucet that leaks, and there is comfort in the sound. But while you debate half empty or half full, it slowly rises--your love is gonna drown."

The timer started
And I care that I don't want to care about not caring
The god damn timer started
And it's bargaining chips
And stupid, futile prayers
And you don't even know what you're praying for
You're just bitter it could ever happen at all.
And the eternal debate ensues
Between who would give a fuck and who should really bother
It's different, it's the same
It's all always just the same

We make little promises
To ourselves and others
We're sending up prayers to heaven
Whether we want to admit it or not
We're kneeling at the pews
Praying for the sins of our sons and daughters
Before they've even begun
We reach inside our souls and pull the sins out
Set them on the altar and call it an offering
Good little children fall in line on the way out the door
Terrified and desperate

How do we get back into the Garden?
How do we take a step back when we're already leaning off the plank?
How do we keep these little ones from dying?

They smile, they laugh, and they wail (Good God, do they wail)
And all I can think about is how they're going to die
How one day, the earth is going to open up its greedy jaws
And suck them down in one conclusive gulp
And we'll cry, we'll go about our ways

"It's like you can't give up, but you can't go on. And all you can do is just sing along, but it's someone else's melody that's eclipsing the sun in front of me. And I'm wandering through an endless sea of enemies 'til I find myself sitting down. Soon I was a ghost in my own dreams, and I like the way it feels. No matter how far I've wandered, I won't know what is real."

And This Is How You Will Know Me

2009-01-23T07:29:00.000-08:00

"Well, Jesus Christ, I'm alone again
So what did you do those three days you were dead?
'Cause this problem's gonna last
More than the weekend"

It's only in isolation that we can truly find ourselves
And it's only in the company of others that we can express ourselves

For forty nights and forty lives, I must have been eating from the still-beating hearts of the dead. They were gone and never knew it, so I took out all their arteries and wrapped them around my arms. And in between the cross-work stitching of their souls, I found a spark of life, and I kept it warm, tucked underneath my chest as I curled in on top of it in the cold and prayed to the corpses surrounding me for an answer, for a reason for this Purgatory.

And it was there I learned to let go. The whispering winds dragged along the unwilling rasps, the anguished voices of the celibate, of the pure, the cynics, the zealots, the beaten, the saints and sinners and gods and devils and demons, and dear God, my demons, my demons, they screamed louder than all the nations of the earth on the day of Armageddon. They stood--gargantuan, impassive. They loomed taller than Jesus Christ.

And I must have cried; I must have been lost then. I loved so much, and I lost so much, and knew that I had become so little. And unknowingly, nervously, I picked at the scabs left of the arteries around my arms, and I felt the wind puncture through and chill my skin. And I could not believe what I had done while staring down my demons.

All around me lay the arteries, the broken bodies and dreams of the dead. And I knew they were the voices on the wind--one and the same, all of them. And I was nothing. I was laid bare for all to see, and there was no one left to see anything. And so I stood up, and walking through the wind, I battled it down into a breeze. And successive steps led me from the desert of dead voices.

And in the distance, I saw the setting sun, the changing skyline. It turned from red to orange to purple, black and same. It was a slippery slope. And I was walking toward it--clothed in white. No one. And out there, I knew.

I knew I could be anyone I wanted to be.

The Stones Cry Out

2009-01-22T07:22:00.000-08:00

It's a long ride home, and some of us won't make it. Unfamiliar turns, unforeseen pitfalls, and we evolve. They say we're better than this. We stop to leave behind the weak and wounded. I watch in dismay while doing nothing. Time and this river roar on; the future's already forgotten.

They carry their own crutches; hand-over-hand, they tow useless legs behind them. A snake path winding through the sand. They beg us for salvation. But we'll make them our martyrs. We'll paint words onto their tongues and pour passion on their lips; we'll infuse it in their veins. And when they gasp in agony, we'll insert our own theology.

"Father, forgive them."

Have mercy on their souls. And let the children preach. Let them wander from town to village. Let them stumble in the streets. And when the bombs go off, let them remember what we've taught. Let the fallen lie, and thank Providence for another day.

"Let the dead bury the dead."

For we have two swords. And we know how to render another corpse. We know how to rejoice. And forget the ones we're here to save when we can just find a different cause.

"Let the dead marry the grave."

And leave it at that.

I Guess You Don't Have Faith

2009-01-21T08:44:00.001-08:00

Apparently, we're flies these days. Pulling wings and that sort of thing. It's only a matter of time, crash and code.

For someone who believes in the power of chance and random events, it's a little hard to lose a faith that flagged years ago. We only pray when there's something out there worth asking for. So why is it so important to proselytize the atheists?

I'd say prayer would be appreciated, but positive thoughts will do.

And stop black-and-whiting reds and blues.

Justifications

2009-01-20T06:53:00.000-08:00

Her face sunken in. We're all wondering if she's dying. Sick from something. Her family sick on something. The sixty year old little sister. Always the incompetent. Always the inferior. Less successful. Tragic stories of mediocrity filling pages of a deteriorating memoir. We all ask why she's losing so much weight and if she's been to the doctor. Decomposition setting in on all fronts. Big Sis's only response....

"No, she's starving to death. They haven't got any food down there."

"Then, why don't you help her out? She's your sister."

"I'm not feeding her two kids and her grandchild, too!"

She's not even half the world away. She's thirty miles down the highway yet completely out of reach. Visits her sister at least once a week. They share a cup of coffee; it's all her stomach can hold, shrunken as it is.

"Have you lost weight?"

She smiles, seemingly pleased with her "accomplishment." "I have, but I didn't think that anybody noticed."

She's a world away from salvation. She comes to its edge every week with physical evidence confessionals. Sits right there on that couch; on the edge, in case she must make a hasty retreat when her welcome has worn itself thin and out. An entire world away now. She'll never recover.

Help is on its way away.

Choices We Make That Only Come Back to Kill Us

2009-01-19T23:33:00.000-08:00

And the goddamn timer stopped.

The ground is getting closer. It's coming on so fast. We try to fight it. And that's it. We do nothing. And that's it, too.

Is this a test or warning? Will I wake in the morning to the same-same world? Will I fade away?

And the wheel turns; we're earning merit as a feeble old lady's solitary tear winds discreetly down her cheek. No one smiles or drowns or notices.

Life's lesson number one:
Dukkha

Just look away and don't ask about her Lover. Look away and don't ask who she ever loved in life. Don't ask how it felt to lose them. What is grace, and how the Hell do we get it?

"There are places
Some of us can't face yet
And even though we see it
We just swear God's sleeping
So we say,

'Ash to ash, dust to dust,
We're all gonna die so we have to trust in something.'
But it's probably nothing
There's gotta be something"

It just keeps going until you give up. You'll keep going through it.

Will I miss him? Will I remember? I think I'll relate, and that's the scary part. That's the part that brings it straight into the marrow and picks away like nails on a chalk board. A memory that can pry your eyes wide open. The flowers won't be there. The temple, mosque and church will be miles away, and there will be one giant doorway there into the earth. And I'll see my own vacant eyes staring back at me. I'll see how simple he wanted it, and I'll relate. I'll think of all the things I could--and don't want to--become. And then all the things I could be anyway.

Saturday night I'll be drunk out of my mind. We'll celebrate that next day that marks the accomplishment of not dying over last 365. Then Sunday, I'll go see one who didn't make it. And after Monday, no one will ever see him again. How sick do I feel?

"You say, 'All you ever talk about is dying, and it's getting so old.'"

This Round's on You, Destiny

2009-01-17T22:51:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I'm busy feeling invincible
So, just keep quiet and don't disturb
Purify myself in the bottom of this crucible
And drive this through necessary motions
Feeling like one-eighty at seventy-five
And take it with unflinching gusto
A night like no other before
But many will fall in succession

When the knife comes out, I'm still sputtering blood
But still kicking, breathing
So, press a little harder next time, bitch
Or don't bother wasting my time

The Face that Launched a Thousand Ships

2009-01-11T04:03:00.000-08:00

Staring in the stars. To heaven. Looking for the secrets there. We used to pray for these sort of things. We got our answers, or we interpreted them as such. I punched the wall, broke my fist, watched cars drive off. He dropped my ring back at my feet. Which were at the same level as my face. I don’t think my ankle ever recovered from all the shivering and shoving, but there’s a dent in that door now. Sunken in, windows barred, there is no exit.

I can’t stand the sound of it
When I speak, I unleash the sea
Watch the words set you to the pyre
And raze you down to nothing
Hold my tongue tonight
In my own mouth this time
Could a weakness ever feel so strong?

Asking me for everything, anything? Pull away. My hand on your arm as if to hold you at bay, but you know I’ll do no such thing. Like I said, just a matter of time. Before I’m eluding all the banqueters, leading you away. I am Paris enflamed. Oh, damn you passion. I’ll have my rant for you yet.

Answer me this: "Do you think he’d be better doing what I do best?"
Don’t answer. Don’t even ask the question. Because I don’t want to know.

Everything is Down

2009-01-10T08:55:00.000-08:00

He's out back again. The white smoke rings ascending into some higher plane. I'm enthralled. The slow arc of the red cigarette tip against the black backdrop somehow heightening my awareness. In some way, it's the most erotic scene I've ever witnessed. I think she agrees.

We all have our stories to tell. Taking turns, passing out and around in some amorphous semi-circular reasoning pattern until our words are no longer logical. Until our words are no longer audible. We all just smile and nod. Sound familiar?

I'm rich. I'm less than sober. And I'm counting the leaves of grass. There's another cancer sex stick lighting up. He's striking it now like a well-oiled ignition, watching its unexpected combustion. Its expected combustion. And dragging it all the way home. He tells me I'm kind of an asshole. He should have caught me earlier. I would have laughed and told him I didn't care. Instead, I apologize again and we commence a conversation. I later heard that he was losing his stomach in the downstairs bathroom.

I'm rich. And ending. But I had to make a promise. I won't do it, if you'll let me keep my freedom. And all I can think about. That one obsessive thought that I just cannot escape, that I simply cannot let die, is now right here for clarity.

"They don't give a fuck about you like I do."

Everything is Up

2009-01-10T08:54:00.000-08:00

No speaking, no elaboration
These momentary awkward pauses
At the ends of conversations
Leave me feeling
.
.
Just a little bit more empty
Than a mere few moments ago
I hope you're paying attention
When I do let you know
I really hope you're taking me seriously
I watch you turn to go
I watch one tear chase another to the floor

"Wait. They don't love you like I love you."

The Mentally Challenged

2009-01-08T06:47:00.000-08:00

"No love is worth the hate that you feel."

On bicycles. Riding. Through country paths, over broken dirt roads. Like broken limbs and lungs. Out of breath again. He almost convinced her. She almost convinced me. If only we'd had a bit more stamina.

She runs away. Cutting through the forest. Tearing down the trees. If they catch us here we'll never see the day again. We'll never be able to face them again. In the woods. Down by the stream. By the water flows. She said she'll take us there. She said she'd take us.

There's the kid on the hill. He lies and steals. Don't trust him. Can't bring ourselves to believe in him. He broke my nose. I broke his fingers. Bloodied pride on a hill in the woods all alone. I left him. I heard them coming. I just left him. I never saw him or heard of him again.

He stole my friends. He stole my life. I stole his sanity. And now I steal away....laughing. It's all his fault, anyway. Caught now in the rabbit trap screaming. Screaming bloody murder, holy terror. Please, God, save me. Bail me from this prison I've constructed. I laugh.

You run me over.

Like a rag doll.

"Yet I'm nothing more than a line in your book."

Walk Away

2009-01-06T07:34:00.000-08:00

It's over once again. The empty convenants echo around his hollow room. This only reinforces her resolve.

It's unfortunate how she became the helpless satellite. Revolving now around him spilling out unrequited affections to a broken receiver. In times like these one has to wonder if there was ever a single moment when the other party joined in the communication. Perhaps they did listen once, but there was never a response. It was blind faith, it was senseless devotion that kept her soul entranced, kept her moving on. Now she's so far off course, and he still isn't providing any insight.

Filthy walls and windows decorate the world in which they live. Everything around is too painful to gaze upon, and it's impossible to squint hard enough to catch a glimpse of anything going on outside. She thinks she can hear the neighborhood kids again. They're playing basketball in the streets, and they feel so alive. And they are so innocent. She wishes she could be innocent again.

We are all anything but.

His chest pumps up and down lazily, his eyes closed, his mind turned a million miles away from her. She says a prayer to the man upstairs. It's not some overbearing plea for salvation. It's not an unshakeable faith in something she hopes will someday plant her gardens and wake her from her terrible nightmares. It's more like begging for some pity.

Now she's standing up. The sheets are falling round in perfect cirlces. She's never witnessed anything more beautiful. They're doves and angels all at once fluttering softly to the ground for rest after some weary endeavor; rushing gallantly to the abyss trampling over everything along the way simply to light her path to freedom. They are her answer. Lying about her feet in quiet submission and absolute servitude to her will. She's up....and walking out the door.

She's up. And she is never coming back again.

Happiness and the Fish

2009-01-05T08:00:00.000-08:00

I had oh so many thoughts crammed in here. I did. What does it take for a thought to be heard?

Heaven is a defunct reliquary for impassioned prayers.

I swear, everything is right. Dreams are dreams, and I am me.

"I live at the end of a five-and-a-half minute hallway."

The obnoxious bright glow of a cell phone pierces the dark. I fumble for it. Another prayer. Nothing. More silent mirth somewhere, I'm sure.

As faithful children, we prayed much harder then. "God, when the chicken eggs hatch, please, let dinosaurs crawl out." We are foolish now as we were then. And even more disappointed.

Even with my hands full of holes, I still couldn't feel less close to you.

I bled the demon out. I thought I let the demon out. We tried the drink, we tried the leeches. The binges, the cases and cases of nicotine, the silence, the fury, the miles and miles and the god damn miles under our heels. What were we chasing, anyway?

I spoke my mind a million times. Just never thought to mention it aloud. Tell me again the difference between a tactic and a strategy. It doesn't really matter. I lacked them both. I think I've finally figured out the latter, but fumbling through the dark hardly seems a likely means of achieving the goal.

It's probably still the best I've got.

Like a Repeating Rifle, I Take All the Taste Out

2009-01-04T07:10:00.000-08:00

Can I say, "I miss you," again and mean it? This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I can't wait until this city goes down in flames. Sometimes, it feels like, for me, it already has.

Note to self: Quit bitching and keep quiet. Use words constructively. Never sell out or conjugate verbs properly. Continue using cheesy lines from songs that you just can't seem to resist quoting. Sing in head all day.

"I'm here for you to use, broken and bruised. Do you understand?

It's only you, Beautiful."

Refractions

2009-01-04T06:24:00.000-08:00

So.
Color me something beautiful.
An Impression, soleil levant. Compose some Mozart. If attitude is but the by-product, then let's agree that we're all beautiful.

"I want to hear you scream you like me better on my knees.
So, let us pray."

My Suicide Antics Grow Tiresome Onstage

2009-01-03T05:06:00.000-08:00

I'll be your number one. And you'll be quoting me. In every memory you'd like to relive then forget, I'll be camping out in the background. Against the wall, pulling you against the grain. Shave this down to naked flesh like it means something to be just two bodies again.

"Forget everything you think you know about me.
This isn't highschool."

Fidelity

2009-01-02T06:51:00.000-08:00

So glad we've come this far
And even nearly made it
I love the way you always crumble
Give in, and open up every time
When held under this ancient pressure
Makes me feel a little irresistible
Makes me feel somewhat invincible

"You know I don't love you, right?"
-"You know that doesn't matter."

Cedar Chest Dreams for All Liars and Fakes

2009-01-02T06:48:00.000-08:00

Take your cynicism and shove it in a cedar chest
We'll call it a coffin and you can crawl right in
You were so dead wrong
You were a lie on tip of a mute tongue
Nobody's listening
Nobody cares
And no one believes you
No one believes any of this
I've got something to make you cry
And I'll give you more reasons to pretend to kill yourself
(I wish you would)
(I wish you would)
I just wish you would go ahead and fuck up and send your veins' memories coursing out along the cracks of a tiled bathroom floor

Of Morality Falls

2009-01-01T07:48:00.000-08:00

Hand it over. There's a demon child angel in my head. Her wings so glorious. Feathers ruffled as she hits the ground in desperation. Nowhere left to look but up for the sun to burn out her eyes. And take her feathers now. One wing of beauty, another of flesh and sinew. Her face is broken. Duality.

There's a man on his knees with his back to me. A fire licks the clouds of devastation above his city. Cinder blocks smoking and in pieces. People crowding around the periphery of the picture asking, "Why, God?" He just cries and rips his clothing. Shreds himself down to nothing. Job in Despair.

A man-child in the corner. The cigratte smoke in the sneaking shape of a serpent dragon. His hair disheveled. Dreams all in pieces on the hard wood floor. He just tells himself the same. That he's somebody's failure. Is he yet his own? Contemplation.

Two children running through a pasture. Slip and fall. One's knife goes in the other. A man stands in the distance with a hypodermic needle. The children struggle against gravity. Walking with the weakened one braced against the body of his brother. The knife still in his side pulling a balancing act. They'll make it to the doctor, but will the doctor make it to the effort? Cogs in the Machine.

A man standing in a cleared field. Woods around. There's a myth that in these woods you can find salvation. Or at least the greatest scare of your life. 'JD' simply hadn't quite done it. Neither had highschool upstanding role models. He looks up to nothing, to the night sky. Will he find God floating there tonight? Seeking Any Purpose.

Intro

2008-12-29T05:11:00.000-08:00

"Five Five, one forty five
Black hair with blackest eyes
Wheatish skin, twenty-two
Status: negative

In search of conversation
Name withheld
Just drop me a line, I will get back to you all right in my sweet time
In a dry spell

Ideal: hot lips
Versatile, club kid
Eighteen to twenty-nine only need reply"

In here, I can hide. This, my dear sweet indulgence, is where I thrive. My confessions run rampant. They overflow. You get them or you don't. But it doesn't bear repeating. So, please, don't bother asking. Yes, in here, I should surely hide.