The light radiated through my window as I lay in bed resisting the urge to wake up. I could feel the warmth of the sun creeping across the floor and my bed, like a caterpillar inching slowly along. I knew before long I would not be able to resist the bright sunshine, thinking to myself that it would be a perfect day to take the camera out and see if I could capture a few decent pictures of fall in the city.
It wasn't long before the coolness of the wood floors touched my bare feet and I was up walking around my twelfth floor apartment. Strolling by the bright window I remembered why I had made the splurge to pay the steep monthly rent; the view was breathtaking. I paused only momentarily to take in the landscape before I walked away to start getting ready for the day.
By the time I had showered and dressed, my apartment was filled with the rich smell of fresh coffee. The smell alone is almost enough to keep me up for hours. It reminds me of weekends at home when I lived with my father. I smile at the memory, grabbing my favorite coffee mug; filling it with the aromatic, dark, and steaming hot liquid.
I remember, I had always wanted a very open loft-style apartment with big open windows that would view the city, so it was no wonder that when I found this place that it would be my personal heaven. I stare into the vast and sparsely furnished room with a bed in one corner. Standing in the middle of the room, you could see one large window that covered the entire length of the apartment and through that window, I saw what some people only see in pictures.
At 7 A.M business men already hurrying off to work in their tight khakis and black converse, kids walking with their parents; lunch pails in tow and college students with their futures ahead of them; ready to be molded, carrying books that would talk about famous philosophers and how the West was won. Below, the streets were no longer lined with the nightly musicians that play for spare change. Myself included. People are lining up to get on the next bus to the ferry, but no one is in a rush. Glancing over the city below, I am reminded by the surrounding greenery and the public market what my mission for today is.
As I open the door, the brisk cold air from the October air greets me, stinging my cheeks slightly as gusts of wind howl through the tall buildings and numerous coffee shops. Once outside, the exotic smells of the city invade my senses. Today it's a mixture of freshly baked bread and bus exhaust, with a sprinkle of wood from the fires people burned in the previous night to keep their places warm. I take a step onto the gum littered sidewalk and a billow of steam arises up from streets. The ground below me starts to quake from the roar of the subway.
I set out on my journey uptown to the Golden Gardens with camera in tow and the music of the city ringing in my ear. The music starts with the gentle sounds of steam being released causing a high scream and then a symphony of sounds join in, cars honking, a siren as a police car attempts to squeeze by the lined up buses, people talking on cell phones and bags rustling in the wind. In the distance I can hear the lonely sounds of someone playing a saxophone; the music wails its story of love lost as my steps fall in line with the drumming of the city.
I am tempted by new smells almost every block, the smell of freshly made hot chocolate lingers in the air and a bouquet of flowers lures me and I think that I would love to have this on my table because of a single flower sitting like a lone wolf on a table. However, I know I won't be home until later so I settle for a quick snapshot and enter the corner store for a bottle of water.
I am greeted by a bell; the sounds of the morning news on a small TV set located behind the counter, two Indian men talking in their native tongue, and a strange mix of foreign smells. The older man nods his head towards me greeting me with a smile, "Morning Miss." I smile back, nodding, and head to the back of the store. Again I am tempted by the array of offerings in this small market. I grab a pack of Starburst and a bottle of water then bring my selections to the counter. The younger man rings up my purchases. "Tree-fifty" he says, so I pay and head back out into the chilled air. The bell jingles as I open the door.
Before long I am at a smaller opening into the park, excited to start snapping pictures. Already people have gathered to read their morning paper on the benches and men with horse drawn carriages begin to set up for the day's work.
"Carriage ride miss?" one man offers petting the mane and neck of his mare.
"No thank you, I think I'll do this one on foot," I respond holding up my camera indicating my intentions.
He nods to me and I walk through the stonewalled opening, leaves crunching below me. My world becomes a bit darker as the leaves still on the trees shade me from the warmth of the sun. I pull my coat around me tighter, tying off the waist to hold it, and begin snapping pictures. I pay close attention to the birds chirping and watch how they dart in and out of bushes. I watch particularly close to what I can assume to be a lovers' quarrel among two small grey and white birds. They squawk at each other fluttering their wings and moving about in a circular motion before one flies deeper into the park.
Again, I hear the wailing of the saxophone, this time more upbeat and before long I can hear someone plucking strings on a guitar. I follow the sound through the park where specks of light are allowed to squeeze through the bone like fingers of branches and leaves above. Before long I am at an opening. An old and weathered man dressed in a brown suit sits on a dirt encrusted bucket playing a worn and darkened saxophone. The sounds of the pads opening and closing on the saxophone can be heard underneath the tranquilizing melodies. Next to him is a boy, dressed in jeans and a black hooded sweater sitting cross-legged on the ground. He cradles a guitar in his lap, his fingers work the strings like a painter works a brush on canvas, each note is delivered flawlessly.
I notice the soft clink of change as it lands on the soft but worn velvety surface of an open guitar case and then the flutter of a dollar bill as it slowly cascades, joining more change and bills. Watching them play I am reminded why I love Seattle. The diversity comes rushing at you like waves lapping up on a beach shore.
A cool wind sends chilled fingers across my exposed cheeks; slowly I lift my camera, centering the frame upon the brick wall background and the two men working side by side. The camera clicks I am again reminded of why I am living the life I've always dreamed.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Perspective.
Everyone had their own story. The brunette in the back corner was a single mother working two jobs to support her three kids. She was in for a bite to eat before she would rush home to her waking children, with just enough time to pay the sitter, and get her on her way. The tall lengthy boy was a student, working here to pay his way through aeronautical school. Everyone would have a story to tell of how they carried out their time.
However, she was different, and I instantly knew this. The way she carried her bag in, her sketchbook carefully guarded as she set up shop at the small makeshift office. Pencils and paints carefully laid out, each in its own place. Ashtray handy to hold the cigarette she would occasionally take a puff of, inhaling the smoke into her lungs, pausing a moment, and then exhaling. She was so young, yet she carried the soul of someone far beyond her years.
I didn't know her name, but each time I saw her, I'd pray that this information would be leaked out, and the girl I was intrigued by, would have a name. But only the photographs were taken as I blinked in her appearance. I wanted to dive into her thoughts,leaving no stone unturned. However, I would only observe her and think to myself, what a remarkable imprint, she had left in my mind.
She had a quiet melancholy about her. But the redness in her cheeks almost gave away her secret. She couldn't hide behind her drawings and paints any longer. You could see the pain her her eyes well up when he silently slid into the booth in front of her. Moments later they quietly whispered their tribulations to each other.
She was an artist and because of this, she was untouchable.
However, she was different, and I instantly knew this. The way she carried her bag in, her sketchbook carefully guarded as she set up shop at the small makeshift office. Pencils and paints carefully laid out, each in its own place. Ashtray handy to hold the cigarette she would occasionally take a puff of, inhaling the smoke into her lungs, pausing a moment, and then exhaling. She was so young, yet she carried the soul of someone far beyond her years.
I didn't know her name, but each time I saw her, I'd pray that this information would be leaked out, and the girl I was intrigued by, would have a name. But only the photographs were taken as I blinked in her appearance. I wanted to dive into her thoughts,leaving no stone unturned. However, I would only observe her and think to myself, what a remarkable imprint, she had left in my mind.
She had a quiet melancholy about her. But the redness in her cheeks almost gave away her secret. She couldn't hide behind her drawings and paints any longer. You could see the pain her her eyes well up when he silently slid into the booth in front of her. Moments later they quietly whispered their tribulations to each other.
She was an artist and because of this, she was untouchable.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Greece and Jesus.
"What did you say it was called?" I asked the tall, burly bald man working behind the desk at the pawn shop.
"It’s called Jesus Juice, it’s a bottle of Italian Cabernet from 1867. They called it Jesus Juice because it’s said to be made from the blood of Jesus Christ himself," the pawn man replied. He took the bottle from its glass case and set it softly on the glass counter in front of him. I examined the bottle for a minute, shifting my stare to the contents of the glass counter underneath it.
"What about that coin," I said pointing to a coin with the Greek God Hermes’ face adorning it.
"Screw the coin," he muttered jamming the bottle into my chest. "Lets talk Jesus Juice."
I took a step back to give my sternum some room, he withdrew the bottle and placed it back on the glass counter. "I doubt I can afford unopened wine with Jesus’ blood in it, but I would like to know more about that coin," I said still eyeing Hermes.
"Coin’s a thousand bucks, Jesus Juice I can give you for four fifty," he replied. "Trust me that’s a deal, this bottle has been here since 1967, I want to get rid of it."
"You’re not even going to tell me about the coin?" I asked.
"You said yourself you can’t afford it, why waste the time? This bottle of Jesus Juice is right down your alley." He pulled a book from under the counter and set it beside the bottle, putting on his thick-rimmed glasses and thumbing through it. I stood for a moment in silence, ready to walk out of the store when he finally piped - "See if you look in my appraisal book, you’ll see this bottle of wine is worth fifteen thousand dollars." He turned the book around and shoved it toward me. I leaned in and looked at it, not finding anything about Jesus Juice, or even anything in English for that matter.
"This is all in Italian, I can’t read this," I told him. "Will you just tell me about the god damned coin?"
He put his finger on the book and replied "See right here, 1833 Jesus Juice Cabernet, twenty-seven thousand dollars." He said this as if I had the ability to follow along and verify for myself.
"You just said the bottle was from 1867 and it was worth fifteen thousand dollars…" my tone became impatient. "Do you think I was born yesterday?"
A smaller, more docile looking man approached behind the bald crook. He grabbed the book from baldy and placed it back underneath the counter, grabbing the wine next and throwing it in the trash. He looked over at the bald man and narrowed his thick eyebrows. "Bert, if I catch you doing the Jesus Juice routine with a customer one more time I’m going to have to let you go. I can’t have you trying to cheat everyone you talk to just to make a commission. Now get in the back and sweep!"
The bald man walked in the back room and grabbed a broom. I could hear him pouting as he swept the floor. The small man politely leaned toward me and asked "Is there anything I can help you with young man?"
"Uhh…yeah, I wanted to know more about that coin," I said pointing down to Hermes.
"Ahhh yes," he said smiling with a twinkle in his eye. "This coin is from the fifteen hundreds, it’s Greek, today it would probably be the worth of a nickel or so, if we were going to equate its worth to the present times. It’s very old and it fetches a high price. There aren’t many around."
"What do you gotta have for it?" I asked him.
"I would say no less than two thousand dollars," he stated nodding his head slowly, gazing back and forth between me and the coin.
"Fifteen hundred and I’ll blow you," I said stoically.
The little man reared his head back, "Ummm…whh..what?"
"Shit on my chest?" the bald man in the back room hollered leaning against the broom stick with one arm, holding his index finger to his chest with the other. The little man in front of me confusedly rocked his stare from me to the bald man.
"Why not pops, I’ll throw in a Steamer for you," I replied shrugging my shoulders.
"Deal!" He shouted showing off his brown-stained teeth. "Ring him up Donny!"
The little man, I could see, was at a loss for words. He pulled the coin out of the glass case and held it to his heart, quivering away from me and huddling in the corner with it. "We don’t accept that kind of currency," he said. "We do cash or credit, not…not…this is a store with class, no fellatio! And certainly no…excrement…"
"Well I’d’ve taken it," the bald man said to me shrugging his shoulders as well. "But it’s not my store." He went on sweeping.
The little man dropped his hands to his sides and mustered the courage to approach me. He waved his arms and began to scold me. "Sir, I don’t appreciate you coming into my store and saying lewd things in front of all of my customers! I’ve owned this pawn shop for thirty four years and I work very hard to earn my keep! I take pride in my work and my shop’s image so if you can’t respect that then you can just leave my store and never come back!" he yelled cracking his voice and messing his hair up. He turned away from me and began to put the coin back into the glass case.
"I’ll give you two thousand for the coin and the Jesus Juice."
The little man looked intently at the coin, the trash and up at me. He approached me with fervor and slapped his hand on the glass, frightening everyone in the store.
"Deal."
"It’s called Jesus Juice, it’s a bottle of Italian Cabernet from 1867. They called it Jesus Juice because it’s said to be made from the blood of Jesus Christ himself," the pawn man replied. He took the bottle from its glass case and set it softly on the glass counter in front of him. I examined the bottle for a minute, shifting my stare to the contents of the glass counter underneath it.
"What about that coin," I said pointing to a coin with the Greek God Hermes’ face adorning it.
"Screw the coin," he muttered jamming the bottle into my chest. "Lets talk Jesus Juice."
I took a step back to give my sternum some room, he withdrew the bottle and placed it back on the glass counter. "I doubt I can afford unopened wine with Jesus’ blood in it, but I would like to know more about that coin," I said still eyeing Hermes.
"Coin’s a thousand bucks, Jesus Juice I can give you for four fifty," he replied. "Trust me that’s a deal, this bottle has been here since 1967, I want to get rid of it."
"You’re not even going to tell me about the coin?" I asked.
"You said yourself you can’t afford it, why waste the time? This bottle of Jesus Juice is right down your alley." He pulled a book from under the counter and set it beside the bottle, putting on his thick-rimmed glasses and thumbing through it. I stood for a moment in silence, ready to walk out of the store when he finally piped - "See if you look in my appraisal book, you’ll see this bottle of wine is worth fifteen thousand dollars." He turned the book around and shoved it toward me. I leaned in and looked at it, not finding anything about Jesus Juice, or even anything in English for that matter.
"This is all in Italian, I can’t read this," I told him. "Will you just tell me about the god damned coin?"
He put his finger on the book and replied "See right here, 1833 Jesus Juice Cabernet, twenty-seven thousand dollars." He said this as if I had the ability to follow along and verify for myself.
"You just said the bottle was from 1867 and it was worth fifteen thousand dollars…" my tone became impatient. "Do you think I was born yesterday?"
A smaller, more docile looking man approached behind the bald crook. He grabbed the book from baldy and placed it back underneath the counter, grabbing the wine next and throwing it in the trash. He looked over at the bald man and narrowed his thick eyebrows. "Bert, if I catch you doing the Jesus Juice routine with a customer one more time I’m going to have to let you go. I can’t have you trying to cheat everyone you talk to just to make a commission. Now get in the back and sweep!"
The bald man walked in the back room and grabbed a broom. I could hear him pouting as he swept the floor. The small man politely leaned toward me and asked "Is there anything I can help you with young man?"
"Uhh…yeah, I wanted to know more about that coin," I said pointing down to Hermes.
"Ahhh yes," he said smiling with a twinkle in his eye. "This coin is from the fifteen hundreds, it’s Greek, today it would probably be the worth of a nickel or so, if we were going to equate its worth to the present times. It’s very old and it fetches a high price. There aren’t many around."
"What do you gotta have for it?" I asked him.
"I would say no less than two thousand dollars," he stated nodding his head slowly, gazing back and forth between me and the coin.
"Fifteen hundred and I’ll blow you," I said stoically.
The little man reared his head back, "Ummm…whh..what?"
"Shit on my chest?" the bald man in the back room hollered leaning against the broom stick with one arm, holding his index finger to his chest with the other. The little man in front of me confusedly rocked his stare from me to the bald man.
"Why not pops, I’ll throw in a Steamer for you," I replied shrugging my shoulders.
"Deal!" He shouted showing off his brown-stained teeth. "Ring him up Donny!"
The little man, I could see, was at a loss for words. He pulled the coin out of the glass case and held it to his heart, quivering away from me and huddling in the corner with it. "We don’t accept that kind of currency," he said. "We do cash or credit, not…not…this is a store with class, no fellatio! And certainly no…excrement…"
"Well I’d’ve taken it," the bald man said to me shrugging his shoulders as well. "But it’s not my store." He went on sweeping.
The little man dropped his hands to his sides and mustered the courage to approach me. He waved his arms and began to scold me. "Sir, I don’t appreciate you coming into my store and saying lewd things in front of all of my customers! I’ve owned this pawn shop for thirty four years and I work very hard to earn my keep! I take pride in my work and my shop’s image so if you can’t respect that then you can just leave my store and never come back!" he yelled cracking his voice and messing his hair up. He turned away from me and began to put the coin back into the glass case.
"I’ll give you two thousand for the coin and the Jesus Juice."
The little man looked intently at the coin, the trash and up at me. He approached me with fervor and slapped his hand on the glass, frightening everyone in the store.
"Deal."
Wal-Mart.
“Now approaching the Grocery District,” a synthetic female voice blared from the train speakers.
Anders scanned the light rail map on the wall, watched the holographic model train representing the one he was on fly through the Wal-Care Medical District, then slow upon entering the next zone. He didn’t care much for the Wal-Mart Ultra Mart, this sprawling maze-like-enclosed-mini-city store the size of a small town. But he had to come.
The train abruptly stopped with a jerk. Anders maneuvered through the mass of people coming in and out, stepped onto the train platform and almost fainted at what he saw – aisles lined with food that filled several supermarkets, bustling like the downtown area of a major city. He left the platform and flagged down an electric taxi, watched digital clouds move across a monitor sky as the vehicle stopped. He quickly got in.
“Where to buddy?” the rough-looking taxi driver asked, smoking a cigarette.
“Well,” he gulped, “I need to buy a Venusian Heart.”
The driver almost cried he laughed so hard.
“Look,” Anders said, “I promised my wife I’d get her one for her birthday, and if you know my wife, you know not to cross her.”
The driver nodded, still smiling, “Alright, but I hope you know what you’re in for.”
The taxi entered the thick traffic flow of other taxis and customers pushing carts. Anders sank into his seat and wondered why he even made such a promise. The Venusian Heart, a rare fruit budded from a large carnivorous plant found while the American Alliance fleet surveyed Venus for life. The heart, they say, is so incredibly delicious, so rich with flavor, that just one bite elicits a sensation best described as an orgasm that lingers for about an hour. Oral ecstasy.
The things one does to keep a marriage together.
As the taxi weaved through aisles like city blocks, it stopped in front of a fenced-off area marked “exotic foods.”
“Good luck,” the driver giggled as Anders left the taxi.
As Anders entered the area, it was like warping into a thriving jungle. He maneuvered his way through paths of overgrown plant life, marveled at the blossoms of mango, starfruit, and acai berry. He felt alone in this artificial wilderness, even fought off the occasional mosquito attack while winding through the maze, then he stood before a large green mass wrapped in spiky vines and sporting a large shell-shaped substance. Just above it, a handball-sized indigo ball with shiny skin hanging from a vine. The Venusian Heart.
Even though the plant mass was large enough to house hundreds of fruits, Anders could see only one heart hanging there. A sign next to him warned, “PICK AT OWN RISK. WAL-MART NOT LIABLE FOR DAMAGES.”
With a deep breath, Anders stretched his hand out toward the heart only to yank it back fast as the shell-shaped mass came to life, transforming into something resembling a giant Venus Fly Trap. A large mouth formed and snapped at his hand. He felt adrenaline pump hard now, took a step back from the organic guardian. The plant looked at him without eyes, moved back and forth like a goalie defending their net.
It was then that Anders noticed a small dried pool of blood just below the beast. He thought for a moment then pulled out a pocket knife. The plant reacted as a person would, becoming more stiff and ready for combat as if aware of his intentions. He thrust the knife at the plant, but it easily dodged it then quickly clipped at his hand.
Anders pulled back and let out a whelp. His knife fell to the ground, along with few drops of blood. His face reddened with anger. Then he realized this plant was more than a plant.
“Um,” Anders looked around, “do you understand what I’m saying?”
The plant dropped its guard and nodded lightly to Anders’ surprise.
“Of course I do,” the plant said with a croak. “You humans are not the only sentient life in this galaxy.”
Anders’ jaw dropped. After shaking away the absurdity of it all, he replied, “Wow, um, well I didn’t mean to, um, disturb you, but I really wanted that, um…”
“My child!” the plant reacted. “You humans keep stealing my children right as I produce them. It’s genocide I tell you.”
“Your children!” Anders’ stomach twisted. “I had no idea.”
“Well, no one bothered to ask!”
Anders stepped back, took the scene in. He couldn’t rob this plant of its child, it wasn’t right, even if it’s a plant. Hoping his wife would understand, he said, “I apologize. I won’t take your, kid, from you. That’s cruel.”
The plant bounced around, excited, “Thank you human. You have shown your race to be good-hearted, something I didn’t conceive as possible.” The plant thought for a moment, then said, “As a reward I give you this. Open your hand.”
Anders did, and the plant spit out a pile of oozing spores that felt like slime.
“These seeds, my seed, are far more potent then my children are. You will find it, entertaining.”
Anders smiled, “Thank you.” He pocketed the seeds and tried not to think about what was really in his pocket as he walked away.
Anders scanned the light rail map on the wall, watched the holographic model train representing the one he was on fly through the Wal-Care Medical District, then slow upon entering the next zone. He didn’t care much for the Wal-Mart Ultra Mart, this sprawling maze-like-enclosed-mini-ci
The train abruptly stopped with a jerk. Anders maneuvered through the mass of people coming in and out, stepped onto the train platform and almost fainted at what he saw – aisles lined with food that filled several supermarkets, bustling like the downtown area of a major city. He left the platform and flagged down an electric taxi, watched digital clouds move across a monitor sky as the vehicle stopped. He quickly got in.
“Where to buddy?” the rough-looking taxi driver asked, smoking a cigarette.
“Well,” he gulped, “I need to buy a Venusian Heart.”
The driver almost cried he laughed so hard.
“Look,” Anders said, “I promised my wife I’d get her one for her birthday, and if you know my wife, you know not to cross her.”
The driver nodded, still smiling, “Alright, but I hope you know what you’re in for.”
The taxi entered the thick traffic flow of other taxis and customers pushing carts. Anders sank into his seat and wondered why he even made such a promise. The Venusian Heart, a rare fruit budded from a large carnivorous plant found while the American Alliance fleet surveyed Venus for life. The heart, they say, is so incredibly delicious, so rich with flavor, that just one bite elicits a sensation best described as an orgasm that lingers for about an hour. Oral ecstasy.
The things one does to keep a marriage together.
As the taxi weaved through aisles like city blocks, it stopped in front of a fenced-off area marked “exotic foods.”
“Good luck,” the driver giggled as Anders left the taxi.
As Anders entered the area, it was like warping into a thriving jungle. He maneuvered his way through paths of overgrown plant life, marveled at the blossoms of mango, starfruit, and acai berry. He felt alone in this artificial wilderness, even fought off the occasional mosquito attack while winding through the maze, then he stood before a large green mass wrapped in spiky vines and sporting a large shell-shaped substance. Just above it, a handball-sized indigo ball with shiny skin hanging from a vine. The Venusian Heart.
Even though the plant mass was large enough to house hundreds of fruits, Anders could see only one heart hanging there. A sign next to him warned, “PICK AT OWN RISK. WAL-MART NOT LIABLE FOR DAMAGES.”
With a deep breath, Anders stretched his hand out toward the heart only to yank it back fast as the shell-shaped mass came to life, transforming into something resembling a giant Venus Fly Trap. A large mouth formed and snapped at his hand. He felt adrenaline pump hard now, took a step back from the organic guardian. The plant looked at him without eyes, moved back and forth like a goalie defending their net.
It was then that Anders noticed a small dried pool of blood just below the beast. He thought for a moment then pulled out a pocket knife. The plant reacted as a person would, becoming more stiff and ready for combat as if aware of his intentions. He thrust the knife at the plant, but it easily dodged it then quickly clipped at his hand.
Anders pulled back and let out a whelp. His knife fell to the ground, along with few drops of blood. His face reddened with anger. Then he realized this plant was more than a plant.
“Um,” Anders looked around, “do you understand what I’m saying?”
The plant dropped its guard and nodded lightly to Anders’ surprise.
“Of course I do,” the plant said with a croak. “You humans are not the only sentient life in this galaxy.”
Anders’ jaw dropped. After shaking away the absurdity of it all, he replied, “Wow, um, well I didn’t mean to, um, disturb you, but I really wanted that, um…”
“My child!” the plant reacted. “You humans keep stealing my children right as I produce them. It’s genocide I tell you.”
“Your children!” Anders’ stomach twisted. “I had no idea.”
“Well, no one bothered to ask!”
Anders stepped back, took the scene in. He couldn’t rob this plant of its child, it wasn’t right, even if it’s a plant. Hoping his wife would understand, he said, “I apologize. I won’t take your, kid, from you. That’s cruel.”
The plant bounced around, excited, “Thank you human. You have shown your race to be good-hearted, something I didn’t conceive as possible.” The plant thought for a moment, then said, “As a reward I give you this. Open your hand.”
Anders did, and the plant spit out a pile of oozing spores that felt like slime.
“These seeds, my seed, are far more potent then my children are. You will find it, entertaining.”
Anders smiled, “Thank you.” He pocketed the seeds and tried not to think about what was really in his pocket as he walked away.
Well, shit.
I'll be passed on the street
while I try to sell my art
and play my music for a few
coins.
"Hey," They'll say,
"Didn't you used to be--?"
"Yep."
"Your life was planned out for you!"
And I'll tell them everything
after the part they already know.
After I was given money to attend schooling that I didn't want,
a degree that is given to undeserving people,
friends I wouldn't trade for anything,
a car that allows me to travel,
the gift of writing,
I quit and threw it
all away.
Just so I could start from the bottom and work my way back up.
After all, life is about chances...
while I try to sell my art
and play my music for a few
coins.
"Hey," They'll say,
"Didn't you used to be--?"
"Yep."
"Your life was planned out for you!"
And I'll tell them everything
after the part they already know.
After I was given money to attend schooling that I didn't want,
a degree that is given to undeserving people,
friends I wouldn't trade for anything,
a car that allows me to travel,
the gift of writing,
I quit and threw it
all away.
Just so I could start from the bottom and work my way back up.
After all, life is about chances...
Friday, November 27, 2009
Notice.
This is my two weeks notice
given a day in advance
that I won't be back again
and I won't be picking up my mail here either
once more I'd like to say
that I am on my way
and I'll be looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home
I like your eyes
and the way you smile at me
at least I think its me
it could be anything
but I still pretend
that you can see
my originality
how bad I want your attention
I keep looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home
This is a notice
I'm leaving by the bed
I know its last minute
but there's something to be said
for being pragmatic and practical
I can't stand to rise and fall anymore
I'm leaving you my two weeks notice
six days too late
i'll be looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home
given a day in advance
that I won't be back again
and I won't be picking up my mail here either
once more I'd like to say
that I am on my way
and I'll be looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home
I like your eyes
and the way you smile at me
at least I think its me
it could be anything
but I still pretend
that you can see
my originality
how bad I want your attention
I keep looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home
This is a notice
I'm leaving by the bed
I know its last minute
but there's something to be said
for being pragmatic and practical
I can't stand to rise and fall anymore
I'm leaving you my two weeks notice
six days too late
i'll be looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home
Friday, November 6, 2009
Late.
There is always that elderly man
sat mumbling profanities while
the white skin of his knuckles is stretched thin
across his frail bones, clutching the orange pole.
And that young woman, with the cotton scarf
and ornately decorated clothing, with headphones
loud enough to detect the bass and constant beat but
too quiet to be a bother to others.
Such as the middle aged man with glasses and briefcase
a book resting in his lap, a tie resting against his book
his white shirt entirely buttoned other than one at the top, his
bald patch scarcely hidden with creative combing and wax.
Snd those retired women, wearing cardigans and fur coats
resenting their children for having bred children who are
undeserving and unappreciative and who don’t carry
the family name with pride and promise.
And that girl, with mussed hair and smudged makeup
who’s uniform is creased and eyes are rimmed red. Who
“missed” the early bus, full to the brim with people who
misunderstand her. Mistreat her. Increase her heart rate and slow her footsteps.
That bus left without her and with it, it took her pride and dignity,
and so she took the late bus. As did the elder and the ornate woman and
the book-reading man and cardigan wearing gossips.
As did black men and white women, Christians and
Muslims, and children and babies and the pregnant, carrying new
life that will one day too share what they all share.
Within the confines of the overheated vehicle, with plastic chairs and the stop bell slightly
off key, they all ride the late bus.
sat mumbling profanities while
the white skin of his knuckles is stretched thin
across his frail bones, clutching the orange pole.
And that young woman, with the cotton scarf
and ornately decorated clothing, with headphones
loud enough to detect the bass and constant beat but
too quiet to be a bother to others.
Such as the middle aged man with glasses and briefcase
a book resting in his lap, a tie resting against his book
his white shirt entirely buttoned other than one at the top, his
bald patch scarcely hidden with creative combing and wax.
Snd those retired women, wearing cardigans and fur coats
resenting their children for having bred children who are
undeserving and unappreciative and who don’t carry
the family name with pride and promise.
And that girl, with mussed hair and smudged makeup
who’s uniform is creased and eyes are rimmed red. Who
“missed” the early bus, full to the brim with people who
misunderstand her. Mistreat her. Increase her heart rate and slow her footsteps.
That bus left without her and with it, it took her pride and dignity,
and so she took the late bus. As did the elder and the ornate woman and
the book-reading man and cardigan wearing gossips.
As did black men and white women, Christians and
Muslims, and children and babies and the pregnant, carrying new
life that will one day too share what they all share.
Within the confines of the overheated vehicle, with plastic chairs and the stop bell slightly
off key, they all ride the late bus.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Anagram.
Keyhole window -
What could be inside?
Much like little Alice,
I've sipped the vial.
Now I find I'm
Smaller than a rich man's dreams.
If I could only climb
The tallest tree
to see.
What could be inside?
Much like little Alice,
I've sipped the vial.
Now I find I'm
Smaller than a rich man's dreams.
If I could only climb
The tallest tree
to see.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Coffee and life.
Warm, on the table waiting
One hot cup of winter ray
in the beginning piercing through windows,
cobwebs and rust,
to where you are.
The coffee burns your shoulders and your
salmon-pink feet slip into slippers; then flee
downstream to the frozen brook.
Open your palm and catch what's left
of yesterday's orange moments.
Dusty rugs lay on blades of wheat. My heartbeat
faster in your touch.
Open your palm and harvest what's left
of the coffee bean season.
Warm to the newly opened eye
of smoke without ashes,
with it we burn the fields as we did last summer
when we were one.
You were barefoot on soiled rugs,
staring through the window
with eyes that pierced like sun rays.
Thereupon embraced by old, dry arms.
One morning cup for a finished day,
I took one sip
then you grew older.
One hot cup of winter ray
in the beginning piercing through windows,
cobwebs and rust,
to where you are.
The coffee burns your shoulders and your
salmon-pink feet slip into slippers; then flee
downstream to the frozen brook.
Open your palm and catch what's left
of yesterday's orange moments.
Dusty rugs lay on blades of wheat. My heartbeat
faster in your touch.
Open your palm and harvest what's left
of the coffee bean season.
Warm to the newly opened eye
of smoke without ashes,
with it we burn the fields as we did last summer
when we were one.
You were barefoot on soiled rugs,
staring through the window
with eyes that pierced like sun rays.
Thereupon embraced by old, dry arms.
One morning cup for a finished day,
I took one sip
then you grew older.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Dear, Bird.
You will never get anywhere until you realize there is nowhere to go.
You will never know enough until you realize there is nothing to know.
You will never know enough until you realize there is nothing to know.
Pills.
Something's breaking-
I couldn't tell through
the delicate daisy chains you made
naively strewn across your chest.
Then, I remembered why I hate the
the smell of water.
You barely knew me at all.
still, I'm sitting in this hell
on hard, plastic comfort.
White pills filled every mouth with
remorse, as I stared in wonderment
at every face that had made the
journey before--
I let the soft tugs
send me off to sleep.
This release was messy.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Runaway.
Packing bags
Moving so fast
Running to the door
To shut it on my past
Stepping into a world
I would never dare to go
But going all the same
To escape death row
Leaving behind pain
Saying final goodbyes
To finally be free
From this life of lies
I get into the car
Scared as can be
But happy all the same
To be leaving the old me
No more cages and locks
Just wide open land
Different names and looks
A life no longer bland
A new set of rules
A new job everyday
A new manner to speak in
With much more to say
Will they let me go?
Will they even care?
It doesn’t really matter
To stop me... they wouldn’t dare
But when the news breaks
On one cold chilling day
You will sit there and watch
As they say I’m the latest runaway
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Ramble.
This music hall feels as empty as a whore's heart.
I want to know where my inspiration went.
Perhaps it's hiding behind the mountain of fast food containers.
Damn us college kids.
My mind is racing as I glance over these scales.
The notes remind me of weighted down balloons.
God forbid they escape.
As I watch the other students mingle, I wonder of their lives.
Do they really understand the concept of life?
Why won't that girl blow her nose instead of snorting for fifty minutes.
Is this hall their escape like it is mine?
Fuck these questions.
Too bad this writing sucks.
My mind is lame.
I want to know where my inspiration went.
Perhaps it's hiding behind the mountain of fast food containers.
Damn us college kids.
My mind is racing as I glance over these scales.
The notes remind me of weighted down balloons.
God forbid they escape.
As I watch the other students mingle, I wonder of their lives.
Do they really understand the concept of life?
Why won't that girl blow her nose instead of snorting for fifty minutes.
Is this hall their escape like it is mine?
Fuck these questions.
Too bad this writing sucks.
My mind is lame.
Paper Airplanes.
It was two in the morning. Liz was awake - still awake, lying on the living room sofa, and she couldn't sleep. Her boyfriend, Dan, was never this late home. He wasn't even this late home a month ago, on his twenty-second birthday. Liz wasn't worried, though; more annoyed that he hadn't even thought to call her. What makes it worse was that he hadn't given her a specific time, so he hadn't technically done anything wrong. The glowing red letters of the clock on the DVD player progressed slowly to 2:15, and then through 2:30, until finally, at 2:37 she heard the familiar click of a key being fumbled in a lock, then felt the cold air whoosh through the doorframe. She shut her eyes quickly, pretending to sleep. Dan slipped quietly through the door, and closed it so quietly, that Liz had to open one eye just to check if he had closed it at all. Dan was creeping through the flat, trying not to wake Liz up. 'Stupid idiot' she thought 'if he had any sense at all, he'd know I was still awake'. Liz heard the noisy bathroom fan start to screech and listened to Dan brushing his teeth, washing his face and using the toilet. He walked back into the living room after washing his hands and Liz felt his eyes burning into her until he went into the bedroom. He returned a few seconds later and placed a blanket over her. He kissed her cheek and she turned away.
'Sorry honey. Didn't know you were asleep' he said, as Liz opened her eyes 'Yeah, sorry I'm late. Lost track of time an' all.'
He reeked of booze but Liz overlooked this as Dan searched for eye contact with his girlfriend, but found simply a cold gaze. She stood up, dropping the blanket dramatically, and went into the bedroom without a word. She lay down silently and wrapped the covers around her. The blaze of the streetlight through the window lit up her beautiful, youthful features, and Dan closed the bedroom curtains. He stepped around them afterwards, and lit a cigarette.
'You'd better get to sleep, babe, you've got school in the morning' he said, the though about it for a while 'Oh no you don't it's Sunday today'
Dan chuckled drunkenly to himself, unaware that Liz wasn't amused. He climbed into bed after undressing, and snuggled his freezing body up to Liz, who was still fully clothed.
'You're not gonna sleep in your clothes, are you babe?' he whispered gently 'Here, let's get them off,'
Even though Dan meant no harm, when he reached for the zip on her skirt, Liz batted his hand away violently.
'Alright, I told you I was sorry' he said, hiccupping 'If you don't want me to sleep in the bed, I'll go sleep on the sofa.'
Dan left to the living room where he spent the remainder of the night.
Liz woke up at eight to hear Dan throwing up in the toilet. She walked to the toilet, and passed him a glass of water she had run and a flannel for his mouth.
'Shouldn't have drunk so much last night, silly me?' he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.
Liz just stared blankly at him and went to make breakfast, and after Dan had cleared up, they sat at the table.
'Mm, this is really nice.' Dan said 'I'm going to London with some mates later, do you wanna come?' he asked
Liz didn't respond.
'Liz? Answer me please'
Liz just looked at him, with the same expression she'd had for the last few days, that of a moody teenager stuck with a situation she couldn't handle. And, at 19, that's just what she was.
Dan nearly exploded with pent up rage 'You haven't said anything in damn near four days!'
He threw his head back frustrated.
Liz let him recover for a few seconds, grabbed her empty plate and then hurled it at the wall.
'You'd better watch your attitude, bitch'
Liz chucked on some clothes, brushed her hair and grabbed her coat.
'Going out?' Dan asked, sarcastically
Liz started to sob 'I...I...' she began, but retreated into noisy wailing.
Dan rushed around the breakfast counter to pull her into a strong hug. He ran his fingers through her hair comfortingly.
'It's okay,' he said, over the bouts of uncontrollable crying 'Ssssh. It's alright Lizzie. But we can't do anything about it until you tell me.'
Keeping a secret like she had was a big burden, but she couldn't let Dan know it. At least – not yet.
'It's nothing. I don't mean to be so upset I'm just stressed at school and stuff. I just had no idea what to do and I just couldn't bring myself to talk to you in case I just burst out crying with all this stress'
'C'mon hun, there's no need to be stressed, you're so bright. You'll ace everything, and even if you don't, you'll at least pass everything,'
'Thanks babe,' Liz said, wiping her eyes, pleased that he'd taken her excuse.
'So, are you coming or not?' Dan asked her, staring right into her eyes.
'No, I think I'll just stay at home.' She said. 'I love you Dan, you know that?'
'Yeah. I really do,' he said, kissing her gently.
'Sorry honey. Didn't know you were asleep' he said, as Liz opened her eyes 'Yeah, sorry I'm late. Lost track of time an' all.'
He reeked of booze but Liz overlooked this as Dan searched for eye contact with his girlfriend, but found simply a cold gaze. She stood up, dropping the blanket dramatically, and went into the bedroom without a word. She lay down silently and wrapped the covers around her. The blaze of the streetlight through the window lit up her beautiful, youthful features, and Dan closed the bedroom curtains. He stepped around them afterwards, and lit a cigarette.
'You'd better get to sleep, babe, you've got school in the morning' he said, the though about it for a while 'Oh no you don't it's Sunday today'
Dan chuckled drunkenly to himself, unaware that Liz wasn't amused. He climbed into bed after undressing, and snuggled his freezing body up to Liz, who was still fully clothed.
'You're not gonna sleep in your clothes, are you babe?' he whispered gently 'Here, let's get them off,'
Even though Dan meant no harm, when he reached for the zip on her skirt, Liz batted his hand away violently.
'Alright, I told you I was sorry' he said, hiccupping 'If you don't want me to sleep in the bed, I'll go sleep on the sofa.'
Dan left to the living room where he spent the remainder of the night.
Liz woke up at eight to hear Dan throwing up in the toilet. She walked to the toilet, and passed him a glass of water she had run and a flannel for his mouth.
'Shouldn't have drunk so much last night, silly me?' he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.
Liz just stared blankly at him and went to make breakfast, and after Dan had cleared up, they sat at the table.
'Mm, this is really nice.' Dan said 'I'm going to London with some mates later, do you wanna come?' he asked
Liz didn't respond.
'Liz? Answer me please'
Liz just looked at him, with the same expression she'd had for the last few days, that of a moody teenager stuck with a situation she couldn't handle. And, at 19, that's just what she was.
Dan nearly exploded with pent up rage 'You haven't said anything in damn near four days!'
He threw his head back frustrated.
Liz let him recover for a few seconds, grabbed her empty plate and then hurled it at the wall.
'You'd better watch your attitude, bitch'
Liz chucked on some clothes, brushed her hair and grabbed her coat.
'Going out?' Dan asked, sarcastically
Liz started to sob 'I...I...' she began, but retreated into noisy wailing.
Dan rushed around the breakfast counter to pull her into a strong hug. He ran his fingers through her hair comfortingly.
'It's okay,' he said, over the bouts of uncontrollable crying 'Ssssh. It's alright Lizzie. But we can't do anything about it until you tell me.'
Keeping a secret like she had was a big burden, but she couldn't let Dan know it. At least – not yet.
'It's nothing. I don't mean to be so upset I'm just stressed at school and stuff. I just had no idea what to do and I just couldn't bring myself to talk to you in case I just burst out crying with all this stress'
'C'mon hun, there's no need to be stressed, you're so bright. You'll ace everything, and even if you don't, you'll at least pass everything,'
'Thanks babe,' Liz said, wiping her eyes, pleased that he'd taken her excuse.
'So, are you coming or not?' Dan asked her, staring right into her eyes.
'No, I think I'll just stay at home.' She said. 'I love you Dan, you know that?'
'Yeah. I really do,' he said, kissing her gently.
Man.
You can tell a man is broken,
Through his eyes,
You can see the passion,
Once burned like a wild fire,
Now extinguished,
You can tell a man is broken,
Through his stance,
Once straight with confidence and will power,
Now hunched and lacking self discipline,
You can tell a man is broken,
Through his walk,
Once walked as if he were balanced,
Now his steps heavy as if he carry the weight and problems of the world,
You can tell a man is broken,
Through his actions,
Once he brought peace and prosperity,
Now all he leaves in his path is chaos and destruction,
You can tell a man is broken,
By how far he’s fallen,
Once a man of justice and truth,
Seeking to bringing light into the dark place of the world,
Now a man that has be stabbed in the back,
Sticks to the shadows of the darkness,
Cares of no one’s justice,
His mind seeing a twisted truth to reality,
You can tell a man is broken,
By whether he loves or hates,
He can't tell you.
Through his eyes,
You can see the passion,
Once burned like a wild fire,
Now extinguished,
You can tell a man is broken,
Through his stance,
Once straight with confidence and will power,
Now hunched and lacking self discipline,
You can tell a man is broken,
Through his walk,
Once walked as if he were balanced,
Now his steps heavy as if he carry the weight and problems of the world,
You can tell a man is broken,
Through his actions,
Once he brought peace and prosperity,
Now all he leaves in his path is chaos and destruction,
You can tell a man is broken,
By how far he’s fallen,
Once a man of justice and truth,
Seeking to bringing light into the dark place of the world,
Now a man that has be stabbed in the back,
Sticks to the shadows of the darkness,
Cares of no one’s justice,
His mind seeing a twisted truth to reality,
You can tell a man is broken,
By whether he loves or hates,
He can't tell you.
Sometimes I feel like I'm moving in motion
through plane, or through stations,
No time for emotion.
Sometimes I feel like I can't place feelings for words,
No time for my feelings, no time for what's heard.
And somebody, somehow, may come changing my mind.
Stop me from moving, so I can chill and unwind.
Somebody, someday, might stop me from motion.
No time for a thought, I have dropped all my notions.
Because I'm working for something, I don't know why I am here.
I don't know where I will head, but I'm living in fear.
If there's something I'm wishing, it's a dream to look for,
because deep down, don't know why I am stressing anymore.
through plane, or through stations,
No time for emotion.
Sometimes I feel like I can't place feelings for words,
No time for my feelings, no time for what's heard.
And somebody, somehow, may come changing my mind.
Stop me from moving, so I can chill and unwind.
Somebody, someday, might stop me from motion.
No time for a thought, I have dropped all my notions.
Because I'm working for something, I don't know why I am here.
I don't know where I will head, but I'm living in fear.
If there's something I'm wishing, it's a dream to look for,
because deep down, don't know why I am stressing anymore.
Bullshit.
the only thing better than being fairly compensated
is being overly compensated.
Like, 'thank you for mowing my lawn sonny,
here's 2,000 dollars.
spend it on blow and pay per view porn,
take a month off work and write your novel,
buy yourself something nice
because you're the voice of your generation
and you deserve it."
and you do, deserve it that is,
for surviving that coat hanger attack at a tender age,
for never being properly misunderstood,
for being left out of grunge because flannel made you itch,
for being the solitary flower
in the thanksgiving centerpiece,
a lonely, orange, late blooming flower
surrounded by pine cones and rustic grasses
and fallen leaves
shellacked to ensure their continued brilliance.
is being overly compensated.
Like, 'thank you for mowing my lawn sonny,
here's 2,000 dollars.
spend it on blow and pay per view porn,
take a month off work and write your novel,
buy yourself something nice
because you're the voice of your generation
and you deserve it."
and you do, deserve it that is,
for surviving that coat hanger attack at a tender age,
for never being properly misunderstood,
for being left out of grunge because flannel made you itch,
for being the solitary flower
in the thanksgiving centerpiece,
a lonely, orange, late blooming flower
surrounded by pine cones and rustic grasses
and fallen leaves
shellacked to ensure their continued brilliance.
Going home.
the tracks and scenery change like a kaleidoscope,
how much has he left behind this time?
though it seems like impatience, its longing.
a longing to be where heart belongs.
he holds no hesitation, just mild guilt.
one could say that each time this happens,
he leaves behind another piece of himself.
don't we all?
but we all have our moments.
when it seems as though nothing good can come of what you try to make.
when you just want to go home.
but where is home when all you leave behind gets lost in the fineprint?
when all you want is to rest without stress,
will you watch the tracks change again?
he tends to find comfort in the solidarity.
the "clean slate" kind of freedom.
he takes with him memories of what could be, and keeps it close to the chest.
when you're able to call the road home, can you stay at ease?
there are times when the only feeling to have is anticipation.
but remember and pay close attention to what you're attempting to prove.
when the trust you need comes with heavy caution,
don't disappoint.
but we all have our moments.
when it seems as though nothing good can come of what you try to make.
when you just want to go home.
but where is home when all you leave behind gets lost in the fineprint?
when all you want is to rest without stress,
will you watch the tracks change again?
i'm going home.
now pass me the flask.
how much has he left behind this time?
though it seems like impatience, its longing.
a longing to be where heart belongs.
he holds no hesitation, just mild guilt.
one could say that each time this happens,
he leaves behind another piece of himself.
don't we all?
but we all have our moments.
when it seems as though nothing good can come of what you try to make.
when you just want to go home.
but where is home when all you leave behind gets lost in the fineprint?
when all you want is to rest without stress,
will you watch the tracks change again?
he tends to find comfort in the solidarity.
the "clean slate" kind of freedom.
he takes with him memories of what could be, and keeps it close to the chest.
when you're able to call the road home, can you stay at ease?
there are times when the only feeling to have is anticipation.
but remember and pay close attention to what you're attempting to prove.
when the trust you need comes with heavy caution,
don't disappoint.
but we all have our moments.
when it seems as though nothing good can come of what you try to make.
when you just want to go home.
but where is home when all you leave behind gets lost in the fineprint?
when all you want is to rest without stress,
will you watch the tracks change again?
i'm going home.
now pass me the flask.
Static.
I am in a mind of static.
People keep talking but I only see mouths moving.
They're saying everything is fine,
But I don't believe this time.
He was walking through the darkness,
That he was holding deep inside.
And with a smile on he'd find a way,
Life leaves, but love remains.
And the sun still shines,
The world still spins around
But I, stand still, I hang my head and cry until
The chill is gone.
And the room turns black.
I fell beside the bed and held his hand,
And found, I’ll never have him back again.
Yet life goes on.
But he’ll no longer live in my mind all night.
He no longer stands in all the spaces of my time.
He's gone away.
Oh, he's gone so far away.
In the morning I see people,
Walking the hallways saying something like
How awful, but they know nothing of the pain
Of losing your best friend.
No more tears, I must be stronger.
Take a hundred steps in one direction, don’t look down.
I can make it through,
as long as I don't think about you.
And the sun still shines.
The world still spins around,
But I, stand still, I hang my head and cry until
The chill is gone.
And the room turns black.
I fell beside the bed and held his hand,
And found, I’ll never have him back again,
Yet life goes on.
But he’ll no longer live in my mind all night.
He no longer stands in all the spaces of my time.
He's gone away.
Oh, he's gone so far away.
They’re saying everything is soon fine,
And with time, its alright.
For once, I believe them.
People keep talking but I only see mouths moving.
They're saying everything is fine,
But I don't believe this time.
He was walking through the darkness,
That he was holding deep inside.
And with a smile on he'd find a way,
Life leaves, but love remains.
And the sun still shines,
The world still spins around
But I, stand still, I hang my head and cry until
The chill is gone.
And the room turns black.
I fell beside the bed and held his hand,
And found, I’ll never have him back again.
Yet life goes on.
But he’ll no longer live in my mind all night.
He no longer stands in all the spaces of my time.
He's gone away.
Oh, he's gone so far away.
In the morning I see people,
Walking the hallways saying something like
How awful, but they know nothing of the pain
Of losing your best friend.
No more tears, I must be stronger.
Take a hundred steps in one direction, don’t look down.
I can make it through,
as long as I don't think about you.
And the sun still shines.
The world still spins around,
But I, stand still, I hang my head and cry until
The chill is gone.
And the room turns black.
I fell beside the bed and held his hand,
And found, I’ll never have him back again,
Yet life goes on.
But he’ll no longer live in my mind all night.
He no longer stands in all the spaces of my time.
He's gone away.
Oh, he's gone so far away.
They’re saying everything is soon fine,
And with time, its alright.
For once, I believe them.
Six guns.
It used to be a better party town,
three churches, fifteen bars
odds against salvation
or so they say.
Outside the longbranch there’d
be fights nightly, the cowboys
against the railroaders
and the hollywood people
against themselves and everyone else,
but it got confused because
eventually there were hollywood cowboys
and even hollywood railroaders
and this was before the writers showed up.
Back in those days
horses were ridden inside hotels,
guns were brandished,
movies were made.
and the parties, sweet jesus the parties,
one night the hollywood people
commissioned a real indian monk
to create a mandala with cocaine
dyed the colors of the rainbow,
it covered the top of a full sized brunswick pool table.
Putting a mandala up ones nose
is just about the pinnacle of party buddhism
and around this time the writers started to show up.
none of them fought
And they didn’t like cocaine
But they liked the smell.
they came for the views,
they raised horses and imported parmesan cheese
and wrote and they watched
until the cowboys and the railroaders
broke under the scrutiny and left
and that’s when the whole fucking place collapsed.
three churches, fifteen bars
odds against salvation
or so they say.
Outside the longbranch there’d
be fights nightly, the cowboys
against the railroaders
and the hollywood people
against themselves and everyone else,
but it got confused because
eventually there were hollywood cowboys
and even hollywood railroaders
and this was before the writers showed up.
Back in those days
horses were ridden inside hotels,
guns were brandished,
movies were made.
and the parties, sweet jesus the parties,
one night the hollywood people
commissioned a real indian monk
to create a mandala with cocaine
dyed the colors of the rainbow,
it covered the top of a full sized brunswick pool table.
Putting a mandala up ones nose
is just about the pinnacle of party buddhism
and around this time the writers started to show up.
none of them fought
And they didn’t like cocaine
But they liked the smell.
they came for the views,
they raised horses and imported parmesan cheese
and wrote and they watched
until the cowboys and the railroaders
broke under the scrutiny and left
and that’s when the whole fucking place collapsed.
The Bench.
The Bench, he sits and waits
By the water edge and the cemetery gates
Hold no quandary for his broken part
Can lend solace to a solemn heart
He overlooks the Thames at dawn
Offers an arm for a yawning man
And asks for nothing in return
Agrees a plaque for those who yearn
Through wind, rain, snow and sleet
He is the never moving seat
Made from wood that surrounds
Watches bum up...and bum down
He will be the first kiss of adolescent
The secret surprise of the birthday present
He feels the vibration when you clench
He is the forever faithful wooden park bench
By the water edge and the cemetery gates
Hold no quandary for his broken part
Can lend solace to a solemn heart
He overlooks the Thames at dawn
Offers an arm for a yawning man
And asks for nothing in return
Agrees a plaque for those who yearn
Through wind, rain, snow and sleet
He is the never moving seat
Made from wood that surrounds
Watches bum up...and bum down
He will be the first kiss of adolescent
The secret surprise of the birthday present
He feels the vibration when you clench
He is the forever faithful wooden park bench
Jane Austen.
And though with that being said, I still feel my mind working over time.
I've thought a lot lately, and I've noticed that people don't take the time to notice things that were once considered wonderful. Like, the way the leaves fall, the way the sun sets, and rises. How Jane Austen could write six novels, about love and life, and never marry once. No one ever questions why some people have freckles, and others don't. Not many take the time to wonder how things work, like the little plastic piece on a shoe string, or how zippers connect the way they do.
And it seems that everything has to be bigger and better than before. But, if it is exactly fine, just the way it is, it's is foolishness, and tossed aside. And yet I sit here and I wonder. I wonder how people like Jane Austen can write so well of love, and never have experienced it for themselves. If you would remember, those of you who read books on a daily basis, that Jane was only engaged for one evening. And so I still wonder.
I suppose that my writing is fruitless, and hardly ever read. I suppose that the few who do read it never read it again. And yet people like myself take the time, and effort to sit and write, and re-read, and correct, and find the errors. I suppose I'm so afraid of rejection, that everything I write is terrible, boring rubbish.
Is that why people are so afraid of the dark? Is that why we're afraid to accomplish our dreams, to move out of our parents' house, to live in the real world? To worry about things other than high school, and magic, and ghosts?
With today's society, I am just completely marveled. Marveled at how greedy we are, at how depressed, and senile, and rude.
I suppose if I went out today, and went to let's say, Balenciaga, and I spent hours designing, and yelling about this dress. A dress that I would spend thousands on. And for what, exactly? Acceptance.
I suppose we feel the need to be accepted.
I for one, think that it's all bullshit.
You can have your designer dresses, your two hundred and fifty dollar jeans, your Jimmy Choo shoes. I'll take my pride in knowing that I don't have the need or desire to be accepted, the want to be loved by a boy or man that won't love me in twenty years.
I'll take that and throw it in the faces of everyone who told me I was foolish, bitchy, ugly, dependent on people, immature, irresponsible, forward, and desperate.
And for what it's worth, I hope someone can see that too.
I've thought a lot lately, and I've noticed that people don't take the time to notice things that were once considered wonderful. Like, the way the leaves fall, the way the sun sets, and rises. How Jane Austen could write six novels, about love and life, and never marry once. No one ever questions why some people have freckles, and others don't. Not many take the time to wonder how things work, like the little plastic piece on a shoe string, or how zippers connect the way they do.
And it seems that everything has to be bigger and better than before. But, if it is exactly fine, just the way it is, it's is foolishness, and tossed aside. And yet I sit here and I wonder. I wonder how people like Jane Austen can write so well of love, and never have experienced it for themselves. If you would remember, those of you who read books on a daily basis, that Jane was only engaged for one evening. And so I still wonder.
I suppose that my writing is fruitless, and hardly ever read. I suppose that the few who do read it never read it again. And yet people like myself take the time, and effort to sit and write, and re-read, and correct, and find the errors. I suppose I'm so afraid of rejection, that everything I write is terrible, boring rubbish.
Is that why people are so afraid of the dark? Is that why we're afraid to accomplish our dreams, to move out of our parents' house, to live in the real world? To worry about things other than high school, and magic, and ghosts?
With today's society, I am just completely marveled. Marveled at how greedy we are, at how depressed, and senile, and rude.
I suppose if I went out today, and went to let's say, Balenciaga, and I spent hours designing, and yelling about this dress. A dress that I would spend thousands on. And for what, exactly? Acceptance.
I suppose we feel the need to be accepted.
I for one, think that it's all bullshit.
You can have your designer dresses, your two hundred and fifty dollar jeans, your Jimmy Choo shoes. I'll take my pride in knowing that I don't have the need or desire to be accepted, the want to be loved by a boy or man that won't love me in twenty years.
I'll take that and throw it in the faces of everyone who told me I was foolish, bitchy, ugly, dependent on people, immature, irresponsible, forward, and desperate.
And for what it's worth, I hope someone can see that too.
Mirrors.
I can trace my hours and days, with
Fingers, a little smoke and a looking glass-
How my face with morning confusion looks
Far behind my hair mussed with sweat
And grimaced smile and deep dark bags:
Every day a little different.
Myself a little older.
If you wish I will tell you, with
Just one hand and a coffee pot, of the men and women
Whom, I love-the number few and listed, far between.
For while I have hated a number,
Thoughtlessly chased others:
My naïve heart loved just one.
And with music, I can show myself
The hours I spent alone, drinking, smoking,
Reading, sighing doing nothing else, nothing else
Where/are: the hours that I adored the most.
Give me time, a jigsaw puzzle, mirrors and some slate.
And while I may not create anything you respect
Perhaps I could make something
Learn something
See something
Conceal something-
That could seal immortality.
You know as well as I do,
The arrangement we have- it doesn’t
Feel right, sit right, breathe the way it should.
I can show you in photograph albums
Of black and white - even of green and gold
What I want from you
It gives me the chills
To think of child hood, the beach and my face so cold
Obsession my desire for an eternal youth,
As I watched a dream die,
Or others cry realizing it’s no good
But you know as well as I do.
And I know very little if we speak of truth.
Fingers, a little smoke and a looking glass-
How my face with morning confusion looks
Far behind my hair mussed with sweat
And grimaced smile and deep dark bags:
Every day a little different.
Myself a little older.
If you wish I will tell you, with
Just one hand and a coffee pot, of the men and women
Whom, I love-the number few and listed, far between.
For while I have hated a number,
Thoughtlessly chased others:
My naïve heart loved just one.
And with music, I can show myself
The hours I spent alone, drinking, smoking,
Reading, sighing doing nothing else, nothing else
Where/are: the hours that I adored the most.
Give me time, a jigsaw puzzle, mirrors and some slate.
And while I may not create anything you respect
Perhaps I could make something
Learn something
See something
Conceal something-
That could seal immortality.
You know as well as I do,
The arrangement we have- it doesn’t
Feel right, sit right, breathe the way it should.
I can show you in photograph albums
Of black and white - even of green and gold
What I want from you
It gives me the chills
To think of child hood, the beach and my face so cold
Obsession my desire for an eternal youth,
As I watched a dream die,
Or others cry realizing it’s no good
But you know as well as I do.
And I know very little if we speak of truth.
Traffic Jam.
While sitting in an hour long traffic jam tonight, I thought of things that would be equally as fun, if not "funner" than sitting there:
- Cybering with hawt kydz.
- Being attacked by rabid chinchillas.
- Self-inflicted cigarette burns.
- Having sex with Barney.
- Making babies.
- Stem cell research.
- Hunting with Dick Cheney.
- Doing the Helen Keller.
- Counting back from 666 by 4's.
- Doing music theory homework.
- Getting drunk off of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
- Studying woman's suffrage.
- Under-water basket weaving.
- Hanging out with the Mafia.
- Ctrl + Alt + Delete
- Listening to Asher Roth.
- Childbirth.
- Cleaning a monkey.
- Shopping for thongs.
- Repeating the alphabet forwards and backwards.
- Passing the sobriety test.
- Watching Asian porn.
- Popping a balloon on your face.
- Find the cure for cancer.
- Astrophysics.
- Tits.
- Listening to William Shatner speak of his awesomeness...Or lack thereof.
- And lastly, partying with George Bush.
- Cybering with hawt kydz.
- Being attacked by rabid chinchillas.
- Self-inflicted cigarette burns.
- Having sex with Barney.
- Making babies.
- Stem cell research.
- Hunting with Dick Cheney.
- Doing the Helen Keller.
- Counting back from 666 by 4's.
- Doing music theory homework.
- Getting drunk off of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
- Studying woman's suffrage.
- Under-water basket weaving.
- Hanging out with the Mafia.
- Ctrl + Alt + Delete
- Listening to Asher Roth.
- Childbirth.
- Cleaning a monkey.
- Shopping for thongs.
- Repeating the alphabet forwards and backwards.
- Passing the sobriety test.
- Watching Asian porn.
- Popping a balloon on your face.
- Find the cure for cancer.
- Astrophysics.
- Tits.
- Listening to William Shatner speak of his awesomeness...Or lack thereof.
- And lastly, partying with George Bush.
Flash.
You know how it started. We bought those little bottles of Jack and parked your truck out on the levy. The moon was only half there but bright enough to cast shadows beneath us and throw dancing lights out across the water. That night was as hot as an Arizona summer and we slept out under a million stars with the grass tickling our sides, we were so free.
I can't even bring myself to take that dress I wore out of the closet. We're so chained by everything we have to be. Things aren't the same between us now, I don't know if they ever will be. You're so miserably square in that suit and tie, and it's all I can do to keep breathing buried beneath layers of smog in the confines of this car as I spend my life commuting from a home which is less than homely to a plastic cell in a concrete prison which stands as a monument to all those wasted good intentions and a million distorted dreams. We're living dishonestly to our true selves.
I still love you, yet somehow that feels distorted too.
I can't even bring myself to take that dress I wore out of the closet. We're so chained by everything we have to be. Things aren't the same between us now, I don't know if they ever will be. You're so miserably square in that suit and tie, and it's all I can do to keep breathing buried beneath layers of smog in the confines of this car as I spend my life commuting from a home which is less than homely to a plastic cell in a concrete prison which stands as a monument to all those wasted good intentions and a million distorted dreams. We're living dishonestly to our true selves.
I still love you, yet somehow that feels distorted too.
Sea Monkey.
The thick batter of ideologies
Rift across the burning skillet
The scent of bludgeoned bodies
Drift through the scentless skies
In the name of all holiness
The banner of zeitgeist follies
Skate across the despotic demographics
Bombs fall across the oasis
While the weak and disenfranchised
Line up for the bullet of democracy
The devil slices up his decadent pie
Serving up to those who SHOULD
(know better)
A bloody cross is enamored
With salty tears for jaded souls
While the privileged sip macabre martinis
The flood of irrelevant information
Washes the earth for 40 days & nights
While the internet drives us
Warily into the next sub prime martydom
The children of bastard(less) milieu
Only serve to anchor us
Into their thermonuclear subtext
Choking upon the Devil’s Pie
We regurgitate the seeds
Of what we so eagerly sow
Sprinkle the golden lasso
Upon the neck of the poor
We seek oblivion’s sweet release
The inconsequential desires of peons
Are superimposed with the idiocy
And sheer democratic inebriety
Of what we perceive ourselves to be
Rift across the burning skillet
The scent of bludgeoned bodies
Drift through the scentless skies
In the name of all holiness
The banner of zeitgeist follies
Skate across the despotic demographics
Bombs fall across the oasis
While the weak and disenfranchised
Line up for the bullet of democracy
The devil slices up his decadent pie
Serving up to those who SHOULD
(know better)
A bloody cross is enamored
With salty tears for jaded souls
While the privileged sip macabre martinis
The flood of irrelevant information
Washes the earth for 40 days & nights
While the internet drives us
Warily into the next sub prime martydom
The children of bastard(less) milieu
Only serve to anchor us
Into their thermonuclear subtext
Choking upon the Devil’s Pie
We regurgitate the seeds
Of what we so eagerly sow
Sprinkle the golden lasso
Upon the neck of the poor
We seek oblivion’s sweet release
The inconsequential desires of peons
Are superimposed with the idiocy
And sheer democratic inebriety
Of what we perceive ourselves to be
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