snug as a bug in a rug

snowed in:

only you hear this
dog whistle
only you see this
remnants
of torn
paper

i promised not to speak of
our last night
about the moon
or electrical wires
fire works
or snow
fall

let's share
this
burden of
lies

snowfall
the moon
electric wires
fireworks
my ghost

lay
silent in
this
burden
of truth

you fit me
like an
old winter
coat

good thing

snow fall:

I've minimal grievances directed at your hearts sway
my hand taking yours
this is where i want you to touch me
>>>>C<<<<<
let's share this
weight of
winter

blizzard:

small hands
hurricane heart
filthy mouthed
these aren't even
what i like
best
of you

- 16

There were slow words and long goodbyes. we finally meant something to each other, but it's late, it's in dreams, it's as shiny little ghosts.  It’s been so long I can hardly remember the real thing. and I cant hardly forget.

I get hard thinking about it. You. I come. I sleep. I write. I get hard thinking about you. It. Do you?

I got all five fingers inside. you still have your spell on me. You let me have you like I wanted and it's always going to trump the average day to day bullshit grind or that other one you married or the ones who wish for you now.

That sickness we have. Shit, I thought it was love but it’s some other disease. I’m blind. I like you for what you are. I don’t speak. We don’t lie. Good things still will happen. We should fuck again. We should let this burn until......

0 Eleven

this is it.
i close my eyes and it starts
like this -
I take the year out, lose myself,
find myself.
dedicate to writing,
to listening,
to living.
here we go-
magic.
here we go-
sunshine.
a mini
novel
a
niche
love affair
novelty
poverty
prizes

art: blackapple

messages that fall like snowflakes

frost on the car windshield, or ice, i don’t know. I'm unfamiliar living in south Florida with the terms, with cold-  brisk winds, with what most probably view as usual winter.  LL Bean flannel shirt, cafe racer motor cycle jacket, over doing it. how many more times will i get to wear this? to look heavily clothed. to feel warm and  secure. false warmth, false security. I'm over doing it because that's what i do. it's that good or that bad and nothing in between.Yet, in between is where i live. the devil between us.

 I'm making it out to be colder than it is, I'm making it hurt more than it does or should or ever would. she didn't hurt me has bad as i say. Ive almost forgotten. Almost.

 its not really that cold out. but, what I'm feeling isn't fake. it never is, it never was.  I want comfort. warm. do you remember what warm feels like?

the sky is clear. night. day. night. somewhere there is wood burning.  it smells like mountains and pine trees. like my cabin in the woods. like the dream i have of a cabin in the woods. books and music piled floor to ceiling. a dog by a fire in twitch sleep. breathing. always forever breathing.
music with horns or piano, string bass. maybe cellos. music for the lost loves and pets and family. winters we spent silent. guitar drone the lyrics you can’t quite make out. this is vague. these are my words and my arms around you on a cold night. warm.

Many fine things

I'm in the shade, its Thanksgiving day, im writing this on the stone patio set in the photo. wireless is working fine. Through doors and walls and glass. And im tapping on glass, getting used to it. Words.
My family is coming over for the big dinner, been cooking all morning. I don't eat meat so they bring the bird, my sister the drinks, my grandparents, cousins, aunt, uncle,, it's a lot of guests this time. They all called, they are all running late. It's okay, I watch some football, I read a little. I go on the treadmill and after i go swimming in the pool. I wish it were cooler out, but i don't mind that i can swim today either. One half the other. Where you are and where you end up its where you're supposed to be. At least for today.

There was a back breaking afternoon a few weeks back, getting this patio set from my parents backyard to here. The parents just sold the house i spent my middle and high school years. They were just going to leave it for the new buyers but I wanted to keep something from the house. It was originally used at a fifties style diner that my father was part owner of. It's all he ended up getting out of it. don't get into something you know nothing about is the lesson there. And that the set is a beast to move and that it will be here a long long time, or at least for today.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

And when your fears subside And shadows still remain

1.     Ive been throwing things around more since August, less sleep, clenching my jaw, balling my fists. bad dreams. everything. anything. Since august. since my Dallas Cowboys took the field and started losing game after game after game, then injuries, and more losses. they fire the head coach, good. Win one. I'm elated this week. I'm different. I shouldn't care this much, i always say this. but i do,  and i know there is some sweetness in losing. feeling lost, feeling alone, feeling sunken. You cant touch me here, you cant reach me in this place.  The pain of losing, the feeling of being down, i have found it lasts far longer then the feeling of winning. the feeling you get from getting what you want-is never as good as you think and it never lasts. Its the journey from below..that is the sweetness.

I learned to lose, early. It was like learning to swim. At first its scary and you don't like it. But then, you kick and fight your way to the surface and breathe. Just fucking breathe.
I was 7 and on my first soccer team, Mcdonalds. we had a big corporate sponsor. (really, the coach owned a franchise) our colors are famous: golden arches yellow (over one billion served). we have knee high tube socks with three golden stripes. Under the South Florida sun we look like mini french fries running around kicking a ball. I loved soccer and hated it. which is the way I learned to love things. All things. When we won a game we were rewarded with a team trip to Mcdonalds after wards. A treat since my Mother always cooked, We rarely if ever ate out. I can count on one hand how many times we ate fast-food. which is a good thing, i guess. but seemed cruel when you're 7. So, i tried very hard to win. I hated to lose. but we almost always lost. I had a total of 3 cheeseburgers, 89 fries, 2 soft serve ice-cream cones- a large COKE the entire season. we received a trophy at the end of the year in a ceremony where every team in the league got one. win or lose. an "everyone wins!" booby prize. a losers prize.  a trophy for last place? I looked at it and on the ride home i was silent. I walked straight to my room, closed the door and  threw the trophy in my tin Dallas Cowboys trash can. I cried for 2 hours. It was the best i felt all year. 

2.   Be consistent. don't try to be perfect. just write. write more and write anything. be consistent. write because you have to, because you hate it and because you can't stop. bleed because there is no other way. this isn't what you love,  school isn't what you love, you're job it isn't what you love. what do you love? Stop writing with your heart. for just once, let this not be about her.

photos:
goodwinter
ohashleylove (flickr)

Penny Candy

     Not much here. the road - a few dirty pennies on the ground. leaves falling from trees. On the grass, a light morning dew, the pavement reflects a diamond mist, shards of glass in amounts endless. birds song over hum of a\c condenser. It shakes beneath the window. shades are open but the windows are fogged so badly - the room is cold. blankets.
she met me here, stayed the night. she's gone now , maybe to work, im not sure she has a job. maybe school? she says she's writing. im not sure. im a writer. ha ha ha. Im writing this on the back of a book of matches. the words are small, Ill light it on fire when im finished.
she left early this morning. It was still dark. It was the first time weve seen each other in a few years. It was the same but different. No, it was the same. it was whatever i told myself it would be. If i still wanted to love her i could. If i wanted her body, if i wanted to hate her. I could.  i only know one way to make love to her - hard. dirty. my body wont let me do anything else. it is difficult to be tender. i cant be anywhere but in the moment. like an animal. It's chemicals..she believes it too. Its why we follow each other. state to state, city to city. in dreams.  there are often no words and long distances and... no words. not before or after or now. we just sometimes fall together...cosmically by design. we say hi,  she asks would you?  just one more time. let's.  we should, we shouldn't. Shall we? Yes. say yes. just say yes.

  I didn't  find the bible but i prayed. It's usually in the top drawer of the night stand.  isnt it?  not that i would read it but it's the knowing its there. like you and I.  it makes me feel safe somehow. like it was worth it to drive all this way to make this mistake. - and it is a mistake as much as its not. It's something we know better than but do anyway. life is short and painful. all those excuses make it better and worse. Us. the flaw in us. in all of us who haven't overcome the attraction. 

When i finish, i immediately feel us slip away. I fall between that space of  anxiety and calm. the desire that drove me all those miles begins to rapidly fade. I put it all inside her. she has it now.. all my good words,  she has the books and maps and she has me...inside her. my life. and i have....nothing.  i turn on my side and give a thumbs up to the darkness. my small victory. i had her. I smile into an imaginary camera filming the movie of my life. I think this might be the last time and I wonder upon this grand closure. never enough, never satisfying. there is a candy on the night stand which i pick up and put in my mouth. It's ever so sweet. she left this to remind me of her. i light the match and watch the words burn.

How Our Lives Look with the Lights Off

pages torn from dirty magazines thrown along the path, stacks of them hidden under tree stumps. not the lame kind with articles but hard-core. filthy. Even as young as i was, i knew the difference.
the woods meant something dark and dirty, something exciting - alive.  once glossy pages, a bird trail of tits and ass. body parts rained on, weather beaten. I knew every inch of the woods. where knives were hidden. the secrets people thought they buried - I dug them up. after school and on weekends all i did was explore these woods, they made me feel safe, they made feel scared.

I could still hear the fighting and chaos in my head, the excessive talking to myself , but it was less here than home. It was in the distance. less here than at school or riding the bus to school . I listened for breaking twigs, foot-steps, noises, voices. I perched myself in trees or camouflaged within the brush. I saw things: kids smoking pot, drinking beer, peeing on trees, two teenagers fucked on top of wet pine needles and then against a tree. they fucked like how dogs do it. I saw a man bury a cat and another man attempt but fail to hang himself from a tree branch. I saw people bury things and days later dig them up. the girls who came into the woods only did bad things. in fact, most anyone who was there was doing or would do something bad. 

I stayed until dark or as long as i thought i could without being missed. If i went home my Dad would find something for me to do. Some work. He'd call me worthless or pick on something he deemed to effeminate about me: the way i walked or the clothes i wore,  anything to make me feel small. So I stayed in the woods  because i am lazy to work and  hate taking orders. I was to important,  i knew to many secrets.

Bad dreams. i had bad dreams, nightmares- tornadoes in a dark distant sky,  decomposition, the smell of it.  bad dreams about  bodies being buried and unburied. I'd wake with my heart beating fast, sweating, shaking. I couldn't remember,  were these things i really saw or something just made up? - just dreams. I felt as if i had done something wrong. just bad dreams.

when i got older,  I went from watching to doing. i took a girl i liked from school back there. i showed her the weapons id found. knives, arrows, rope,. she looked impressed.  i showed her how to hide, to make yourself disappear in the woods.
"Let's do something we have to keep a secret"  this usually involved pulling down our shorts,  pulling up shirts. this usually involved drinking beers and kissing. this usually involved the planning of murder of her Daddy.
He touched her and that made me angry. I touched her too. how casually she gave in to me - anything i wanted, she'd tell any lie, keep any secret.  

we remained friends. me and the woods. me and the girl. what we did or did not do. we keep in touch. the wounds have turned to scars. what we do or do not know. i can feel her, though she lives nowhere near down south. when we speak, I detect the slight drawl in her speech - and mine,  well  no one would notice.
"no more bad dreams? "  she asks.  " no more bad dreams?  " I ask. 

whereabouts unknown

there was one halloween i put on a cape and mask, i was batman. another halloween a pirate, a cowboy, a biker, the grim reaper. there was one,  a long time later where we carved pumpkins in the back yard, sitting on the deck next to the swimming pool. pumpkin guts and seeds, she made a mess of things. i made a mess of things. we fucked on the sofa and in my bed and she got up in the night and told me she just couldnt be there anymore. she left and went to him. 3:03 A.M.  I didnt know it at the time, but i thnk she saved my life.
 
another halloween a different girl and we were married that evening, at midnight we drove into the night. she asked me not to stop until we saw snow or at least changing colors of  leaves. I kept the music loud, i kept my foot on the gas and my heart was anywhere we ended up and called home. october soiled in blood and birthday candles. littered with memories and the veins of fallen leaves. sometimes I fall hard for the think-back and want back and take back. here we are, here I go again.

Everything from here to there and back

In typical Libra fashion it was hard for me to decide when choosing a device to replace my beaten and battered, but trusty lap-top unit...fond memories: porn that had graced its screen and ate away it's memory, the music, the sin, the sticky hot writing. Its where we met- It's where we said goodbye. Love and sex and text and email messages, gmail chats and music exchanges. love and lust in the new age. All those late nights. The duct-tape could no longer hold you or the lap-top in place and so,....

The thing was, i wanted something small, mobile, fast, something id never used before. sleek with design, light and long battery life. something that looks good maybe even to good for me. I already have a Desk-top so that is my anchor - i wanted an affair with something on the side, something new, something to blow me totally the fuck away.

Enter I-Pad. reach out and touch and touch and touch. touch glass, touch words, blow your mind out with apps. I dont own an I-phone or I anything for that matter, unless you count an old Nano I-pod. i was very unfamiliar with whole apps thing or how the touch format worked. but i did it anyway, I splurged an bought myself I-Pad for my birthday. I did my research and for all i wanted to do for all - i needed. I choose I-pad wi-fi - 3g. I know it doesnt have Flash (lack of porn viruses), or USB port (you have to synch it through I-tunes using your Desk-top) It cant totally replace a lap-top but...yet it can. It did. I'm tapping glass right now.

Im still in the early stages, getting used using the touch keyboard, rifling through the "must have" apps at the apple store, figuring out how to post to this and other blogs. Oddly enough there isnt an app made for Blogger, but there is one for Wordpress (which i dont use) and to be honest its not that easy to post on blogger from the Ipad at the moment.there will probably be something for blogger soon or adjustments to the site so its a bit easier.I hope. LJ, and Tumblr apps easy and great. pretty much everything else..I love. I even enjoy the touch keyboard more than i thought. Of course you can get a wireless keyboard, stands, a moleskine case even. cases, sleeves, covers, apps.. ( so far i have only installed an anti-glare and scratch proof cover on it). Its all making my head spin but in a good way.

 

-thrift-store had half off records over the weekend..thats half off .60 cents folks. a new batch had just arrived and so i picked these up for .30 cents each. they are worth that for the cover art alone.

This was written on the I-pad. Amen.

41 drops of blood

    Forty-one today. how the fuck?!  that's a  few candles on the cake. that's having my cake and eating it too. 41- I cant believe it myself and it's me. It's Hum to Lolita, It's 20 is half my age. it's the professor, It' call the runner, It's the confessor, it's the dirty ol man. 
At least its a prime, at least a prime number. fate is based on primes.
Here i am slower to get out of bed and here i go working harder and longer just to add up days.  saving a sudden car crash or heart failure or some major catastrophe, aren't we all destined to live past our mortality rate. slow, slow, slow . to many pills and tubes and miracle cures. to much medicine.there are zombies among us. 
   Im an alchemist in many ways, starting off creating a potion for one thing and ending up with something else entirely. I never meant to write any of this down. this was supposed to be words and numbers for only me to read. but your eyes have pried on the stories i tell.  I have bled and made you bleed. i never meant to hurt you. Here is some truth.- I still think about you. .
But, Im not the kind that wants to go back. I know more now, though i don't know any better or i do know better but now i can see the fall ahead.
 How many more of these, who knows?  I remember nothing of the town where i was born. was there sun or snow? It was the beginning of fall, there were pumpkins and dried leaves, and the sky...oh the sky i bet it was a hazy orange hue.
Im still mixing potions. discovering your poisons and drinking her cures.  I have stumbled upon the best things in life by accident and there are no accidents.

mind in gutter feet on the ground

out here,  things don't go the way we plan. love in uncharted waters. love in anything.
a sinking ship. love corrupt.
love as a whore. cannon fire, walking the plank.
I long for the warm water drowning.
there is no compass and there are no maps. use the skyline. use the  stars.
use me.  

we carry switchblades
we drink from bottles of salt-water tears.

you are the tide that washes over all the names and tattoos.  

i raise the sails and let the wind carry me 

wherever it will. this is revenge

this is kidding ourselves,
this is other lovers and
other beds

this is never expecting to much

this is running away
while looking
for home
raise the sails,

I let wind carry me
and it
does

Marriage is the new going steady

your heart wont always be broken
and it wont always
stay
intact
explosions, cracks,
catastrophes
and-
there will be
bleeding

but there is glue
and stitches
and band-aids
and from time to time
shit like
words will heal
you -
a kiss will
hold you
together

the first time you
swallowed
the first time
i breathed
the first time it ever felt
good
the body we buried
the secrets we
swore
the drowning we witnessed
at sea

how we laughed at the
thought of a
happily
never after

the boat was
sinking

how we never
looked back

Stars in the Ceiling

she's getting her hair-cut. I hate passing the time…hate waiting. Im not good at it. nothing good comes of it - car crashes, drug deals, craigs-list, bank robberies, fast food, road trips, bad vibes, internet re-connections, a strangers touch. it always looks like im doing something bad but im not, its just passing the time, doing what you want me to do - to wait. this is how most of us wait.

Im restless, my head hurts, there are out-of-date magazines displayed on a table in the area meant for waiting. I sit on a hip mid-century reproduction sofa, it instantly makes my back hurt. everything in this place has a junk yard future. the bottles of chemicals, the furniture, the lights, the silly ass speakers painted black to match the ceiling and seemingly every stylists wardrobe, in here. but, we all look good in black. even me.

there is coffee free for the taking. coffee, magazines, uncomfortable chairs. these things seem to go hand and hand with waiting. the doctors office, emergency rooms, getting the oil changed in your car.waiting areas. mind numbing silence, hopelessness mixed with sweat and the breath of anti-depression medication. Magazines and coffee while waiting at the airport are not free, but its available and its mostly what people choose to do, even when mixed drinks, beer and warm cookies are totally an option.

Its morning, did i tell you that? im hungry thats probably why my head is hurting. I didnt eat breakfast. i didnt sleep very well either. Its morning but techno music is blasting from the ceiling speakers. I stare at sugar crystals someone spilled on the floor. someone should wipe the counter, sweep the floor. Isn’t someone always sweeping the floor in a hair-salon? i like when the shampoo girl massages my head. why cant i just get that? i almost drift to sleep, maybe i did.

i dont feel right. i havent been feeling right. Im here, waiting - I'm along for the ride. im outside myself looking-in. presence is poison and all i know is to retreat from it.
a women with smokey eye shadow walks over from behind a large greeting counter.
she asks if im okay. “im reading this magazine”, i shake it forcefully in-front of my face.
okay, but …
“It’s okay, Im waiting for her”
She looks in the general direction im looking for what seems like a long time, shrugs and walks away. No one comes to sweep.



I leaf through a Food And Wine magazine, there is a recipe for a spicy Sicilian sauce, i tear the page out- quickly fold it and place it in my front pocket. then, an article listing the Best Rustic Retreats to visit on a budget, I take that page too. Palo Duro Canyon State Park in Canyon,Texas or Devil's Den State Park in Arkansas are the most appealing. I have to remember to tell her later. this is where we should go, this is something we might like to do. pack the truck, take the dogs. rough it. she likes it rough.

lady in black comes back and asks if im okay. Of course im Okay.
"would you like a hair-cut" she asks. "you'd look good with your hair cut... hmmmmm, shorter- brushed to the front"
I say.. "like everyone else?" and then i stand up and tell her to let's cut my hair.

Im staring at the ceiling, resting back over the shampoo tank or bowl or sink, whatever it is....she sprays my head, testing the temperature of the water. " is okay?" I shut my eyes. shampoo smell, she begins rubbing, massaging. there are stars on the ceiling. I could fall asleep.
"who do you wait for? I see nothing"
I am shaken awake by what i perceive as an eastern block accent i hadn’t previously noticed. She has root-beer colored eyes, sprinkled with green. her voice is like someone you know or want to know. ” you say you wait?”
I am in front of a mirror sitting at the witches station and she is behind me with her snake eyes and scissors. I gaze into the mirror, slick wet pieces of black hair fall and stick to the cold white floor. the opposite of snow fall snip. snip. snip.

the reflection is me, but not me. It’s never really me. I look around the salon and it is empty beyond the low growl of techno beats. The witch and I, the witch and I and sugar granules spilled on the floor. snip.snip. Boom-Thump- hump- Boom. snip. snip.

Where I Lay, I'll Lie

these honey
bunches of words
these scratch marks
down my back
this hit
and
miss
troubling
as
sting of bees

as we lie
as we
lay
on this bed
stars-
on the ceiling

we say these certain phrases
in the heat of
these
stolen moments
it goes down easy
on sweaty sheets
all dirty words and
after-glow

but, i wonder without
these kiss fits
and fist stings
i wonder without
the honey,
could we ?

without the brutal
fuck force
of
promises
we never meant to
keep

this
silence,
suddenly
violently
random

I wanna do bad things to you

I'm in 3rd grade and the girl holding my hand, her name is Amy, she's in 8th. She volunteered from upper school with a group of other students. We are lined up along the wall, in the hallway as if being placed in front of a firing squad. Everyone from my class has to have their own "buddy” who will escort them to and from the school church. "Your buddy will meet you on every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning" instructs Sister Mary. The hallway is bright with sun. I have my left shoe off. im touching the cold white floor through a hole in my sock, my big toe pokes through. .. i bet if i ran i could slide 20 feet or more. i have the urge to run but don't. the older girls creep closer through the glowing white light. I can feel myself breathing. I feel the blood inside my skin - pulse.pulse.pulse.

I'm focusing my mental powers. I posses no true point of reference to what is or isn't pleasing to the eye. It is or isnt. im in 3rd grade everything is visual. everything is honest and heart-felt, mostly. Im attracted to peculiar details; a small gap between front teeth, a thin gold chain , a green hair barrette in the shape of a butterfly. The girls all wear the same school uniform; plaid skirt, white blouse, knee socks. I say a silent prayer. she is in front of me. Im lost in the shadow of her. she speaks, i mumble something to my feet. She tells me her name is Amy and takes my hand.

Sister Mary stays behind to grade papers. what i like best about her is she tells our class the most wonderful stories. stories of when she was younger, how difficult it was to become a nun, how she felt all she ever did was sin. she rubbed the beads of her rosary smooth over “thinking bad thoughts” and in repentance she once recited over two hundred Hail Marys in a single day! Her stories often ended with a deep sigh and watery eyes. I was taken in by her world, mesmerized by the rise and fall of sin - so much like mine.. so much like me

"bad thoughts". I wondered where she slept at night, if she ever drove a car, if she shopped for groceries, what was her favorite food and if she had ever listened to my favorite band KISS.

Amy loved the band Kiss. Peter Criss was her favorite because "he played drums like sex". I didnt know what "sex" meant, but is sounded like “bad thoughts” and that instantly excited me. what she asked me right before she took my hand was who my favorite band was. When i mumbled “Kiss.” She screamed "Rock and Roll all Night!!!! "

The church sat just west of the class room building. the sun stings my eyes walking toward cathedral ceilings and stained-glass glitter and shine. A somber Jesus- hangs above the altar, arms out-stretched as if saying "Why?" sometimes it looked more like " come let me give you a hug, you look like you could use one" It was both calming and scary at the same time and i liked this quite a bit.

Amy smelled of band-aids and strawberry shampoo, wore her hair in two braided hoops clipped with barrettes. when she spoke, I liked to look at the small space between her two front teeth.

It seemed like months but it was probably more like a few weeks. Three times a week, the short walk, holding her hand, answering questions she'd ask. Her laugh, her voice, her smile. She'd ask What was my favorite number? color? what girl did i think was prettiest in my class?

On Friday, it's hot, it will be summer vacation soon. no school. no nuns. no church. no Amy. We are walking back to class everyone is ahead of us. When we are alone she grabs me by the shoulders and grips me tight. she leans into my face and kisses me on my mouth. hard and wet and tasting like zebra stripe gum. She says it will be the last time she'd be able walk me, to see me, the school year was over for the 8th graders, two weeks earlier than lower grades. and then something about next year she'd be in another school and she really liked me, if i were older, when i get older..and I was thinking how I liked my mouth feeling so numb and bruised. she looked at me very serious and told me most times in life we never get a kiss goodbye, never even get to say goodbye. "People just"....she paused. "Leave" so this was a good thing but that i shouldn't tell anyone. She took my hand and it was true and true.

blueprint for something never finished

A false ending has two contexts; in literature it is a narrative device where the plot seems to be heading to its conclusion, but in reality, there's still more to the story. In a musical composition, it is a complete stop of the song for one or more seconds before continuing.
The presence of a false ending can be anticipated through a number of ways. The medium itself might betray that it isn't the true ending (i.e. it's only halfway into a book or a song, a film's listed running time hasn't fully elapsed, only half the world has been explored in a video game, etc.), making only stories with indeterminate running length or a multi-story structure able to pull this off effectively. Another indicator is the feeling that too much of the story is incomplete when the false ending comes, making it feel like there has to be more

Ive lost interest in chasing you with words. it's all headache and heart break. memories fragmented into tiny pieces. i take the pills, i drink the wine. i lied. I've built this story of you and us and of how we pine through this distance. the moon and stars we share, texas and shitty stucco walls , spanish guitar, romance and cigarettes. the medication and her new short hair-cut. the last time you called and wouldn't say good bye, but you meant it. baby, this time you meant it.

Ive built this story of myself. I hate you for it. I love you for it. Ive lost interest in chasing you with words. there is a feeling of relief and yet a sense of overwhelming loss. a day of the dead painted face, walking around like the whores we used to be. like we still are. for you and for everything. we are buried, still writing it all down. this is the end. that's what i write... The end.

the downward spiral

what have i been doing? let's see. vizcaya , last weekend. amazing architecture and gardens. maybe i should get down to Miami more often, there is an awful lot to see and do there.

the frustration over writing - or should i say... my attempts to update - saying what i want to say - saying anything.
it's due to lap-top failure. a computer on it's last breath. literally held together by duct-tape and porno and prayers. it's sloooooooow, crashes or hangs up every 10 minutes. I often end up slamming the taped-up lid down and calling it horrible names. this lap-top has gotten me laid in the past, i can almost forgive it for anything, but I sense my relationship with it coming to a bitter end. I slam it shut and walk away. im done for the weekend. over it.

I have limited time at work to fuck around on the internet. I do. i find music and photos and look at sites. my work computer is lightning fast and that only causes further frustration when i come home, back to this. this.
yeah, im looking into a replacement. Im thinking of going Mac. either an egocentric Ipad? or the stylish notebook? something sleek and fun, fast and expensive.

but, distractions come along, ive been spending all my extra money on art and things for the house. mid-century modern furniture lately. I also like Spanish\Mediterranean revival. thrift-store finds for the most part and ive had a good run of late.


another thing taking over my life: this stupid little Roku box. It lets you access and stream netflix playable media on your TV. I have to admit i never streamed a movie or tv show on my computer. I just thought is seemed lame: small screen, a chair that hurts. I want to watch shows on my 60" Plasma, thats what i got it for. I rarely go OUT to movies anymore. why would I when i have a huge screen and surround sound (that took 3 years to pay off) at home? I love it. i love TV. I love movies and doc's and I love fucking Football and sports too,,,. and I really like this Roku. Im streaming tv series ive never seen, movies, all sorts of wonderful mind numbing stuff. It took about 5 minutes to hook-up and the quality is close to DVD.
want to see one of my latest thrift-store finds?

Well, yes the green chair too. But, focus in on the mid-century record cabinet. It's made by LANE, walnut and mahogany wood and best of all it holds 200 records!!

I didnt know what it was when i first went over to inspect it. I thought it was just a cabinet, I was intrigued by the look of the wood. I opened it and wow!!! finally somewhere to store all my records. I thought.
Im from the age of vinyl, in fact i still have my first Kiss album. I somehow managed to keep all my 80's music records too. The rest of my current collection was picked up at flea-markets, thrift stores and yard sales. dirt cheap, with no regard for any particular genre. I have classical, opera, frank sinatra, movie sound tracks, big band, hair bands, metal, Prince, 80s pop, Queen, Folk, electronic. Shit, I have Tom Waits to Air Supply.... and ive gone a very very long period of time with NOTHING to play them on. Picking up this cabinet gave me no more excuses, So that's new too. the portable record player is a cheap Crowsley I bought at Target. It's made to look retro. Let's face it .. Quality is for the rich. Design is for the rest of us. For the money it sounds decent. I had a piece of crap one while growing up, so to me, It sounds about the same as i remember. Anyway, if you come over we can play records.

the boat was sinking

never liked much of the back break, okay. im a libra and a little lazy. I’ll start by telling you about his girl again. she knew how to keep herself busy at night but during the day all she ever wanted to do was.... sleep. despite this she’d call me in the morning, sleepy and hungover. she’d call me to say hello and break my heart. she’d call like i was her only friend, then call someone else who was her only friend. another guy who might come save her, who might invite her her over to visit the next town, the next state, the next distraction. she didnt have any intention on loving the one she was with. im not sure any of us have those good intentions for long. i mean, we do, but there are other things, other places, other dreams…...two people hardly fit inside there. from time to time shed come over and we’d fuck. we’d smoke cigarettes on my back porch. grill hamburgers, drink beers. it could be that simple, i guess, but it isnt. it could be that safe. it could be home.

I work, sun up, sun down. I drive past big square boxes with windows, i work in one, go home to one. I wonder like everyone else.....is there anything else? but maybe its because i wasnt looking long enough out the windows to see the flowers and trees, the flag pole. american? southern? i didnt take the time to breathe in the salt of the sea air, merely blocks away. I didnt mediate enough, read the right books, listen to the best songs. my taste in art and movies and blogs is suspect compared to the refined and low-brow hipster friends i associate with. i like young girls with old souls and older women with young hearts. I like pretty eyes more than a sunset. I like books that have previously been read, i like real books over touch pad reading. I dont like touching screens, media hype, multi-tasking, video games, car horns.


on a clear night above my house, you can see the stars. i never paid enough attention in school to learn the constellations. so ive made them up; pirate, horse, tits, big dipper, little dipper, circle, square, half ass cross-bow. the shiniest one i just call ....Star.

ive begun to notice things more. i write everything down. numbered like a list. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. I saw a bird today that had bright blue feathers and i meant to look it up on the internet when i got back home. i forgot and wrote this instead. i think its a blue-jay , some kind of blue bird. there isnt always space enough for the two of us. but mother- fuck im happy you're with me.

what you love you must love now

she’s crazy- but she fucks good. god, ive heard myself say this much to often. and so what if she’s broken?, maybe everyone is- maybe i broke her.

I'm sorry, i keep building these time machines, keep bringing you back. it's not like there is any real conclusion, not really. not like i won't get half way to you and crash it right to the ground. buried remains of twisted metal and false memories. It's not like i really want to go back, not really.

I never thought she was the kind of girl who would tell someone no. I liked and hated that about her. she fucks guys because she thinks it makes them like her. It’s all she knows, that and the writing, that and the stories; the coming and going, the art of saying good-bye.

"ive never not cheated on someone", i once confessed to her.

the kind of truth that hurts. the kind of truth you should keep to yourself. the reward for truth is often mistrust.

now she's the same as me; a cheat and liar. a whore and thief. a swinger, a baker, a fucking candle stick maker la..la...love you..la... la...

she was always the same as me. pretty words and terrible lies. secrets bled out on a page - vaguely hidden truths between the lines, between the spaces between the lines and the love and fuck and fun that haven't any difference. a freedom and art given to you by another that swallows you up inside, that never seems to calm you the way you think it might. ive made a home, and ive searched for home somewhere in your crazy heart.

all i can say is ..... your skin, I wait for it. i dream of it. i live for it. my whore. i don't know where you are but i know what you are. why does that scare you so? there is a home in our crazy hearts. yours and mine.

swimming with sea bears

sea bears like warm salty water and the sun. hibernation is in the summer - the opposite of winter bears. sometimes they sleep, sometimes they stay up all night writing tall tales: buried treasure, sharks teeth, pirate hookers. eating, drinking, fucking, swimming, writing, sleeping, crashing waves. Yeah. that's our thing.

all my days by the beach and ive only ever found one single shark tooth. I was about 9 and it was on the West Coat of Florida. not even in my own back-yard. I bent thin wire around it and tried wearing it as a necklace but it fell off and i lost it. I looked for more but only found shells and sea glass.

why not stay home all day and make art? why not be rich with the reward of gifts? i dream of one of those treasure finding things that you wave over the sand. going out on the beach in the early morning looking for lost treasure. I listen for beeps and high tones. gold, silver?. memories someone lost. I'd hang out until the sun was just above the ocean, ready to fall. pages torn from my notebook; a sea-side adventure tale that takes place in a sun worn motel. thieves and liars and whores. it would be mostly fiction. mostly.

Don't Say a Word

The two of us, hanging out, doing stupid shit. If ever a romance had less than a snowball's chance in hell, it was ours. I knew that. But then there we stood, more in love with one another than any two people that I've ever heard about, and brother, let me tell you---- I'm talking since the dawn of mankind.

Casually Smashed to Pieces

road journal in no particular order:

june of july when summer starts. It used to be when school ends - is summer. simple enough. now we pack bags and load the truck for camping or some disney world bullshit. stock up on explosives; fire- crackers, mortar shells, bottle rockets - the 4th. charcoal for the grill, bright red cooler stocked with bagged ice .

I like the road at medium distances. the great lakes and oceans blue. I like mile high cliffs and smokey mountains the peaks and valleys and her curves. anywhere. anywhere with you. I try to count the orange trees. they fly by in a hazy blur, im doing 85 or 88 mph. bugs hit the windshield with a Thump.Thump. Splat. Florida presents one the most boring of drive. flat awful roads; the occasional road kill. skies can open and pour down on you in a blink of an eye. torture you with black and grey and wet. Yes, there is lightning, more strikes than any state in the union. As suddenly blue skies, birds singing. all in all the surroundings near and far are not much for recalling. drink your fluids, check your gauge for overheating.

high noon mind numb with motion and vibration. It's not long before the sun drops off a western horizon. keep the radio playing loud, keep driving, keep taking mental notes. Are those mountains or clouds up ahead? Is that the ocean im driving into.. the abyss? tricks and illusions. Im not cut out for long distance. she kisses me awake with sugary redbull kisses. Im vaguely aware of She & Him playing from the tiny dashboard speakers- it seems to fit my mood now, fit this road and hour, twang and whisper and zooey eyes. I start to fade again. Half asleep I pull into a small motel, single level maybe 15 rooms. serene, half cozy half dirty. neon pink screaming Vacancy and cold a\c. In the dawns early light the office window is fogged with condensation. a glow creepy and inviting.

------------

The gas light has been on for the last 30 miles. So now I m pumping gallons of fuel into the tank. road weary with a slight Red Bull buzz. I like motels with window shaker a\c's units. the soothing hum and glow of vending machines that for 2 dollars can dispense me ice cold Mountain Dew. A motel that suffers through the off season months, through the hard times. like these. a motel so rightly fucked in and fucked up. Over chlorinated pool that burns my eyes and tingles my skin. A hard pillow and hard cock and two fingers in her mouth. scream. moan. It's okay. We ain't from around here and we aint never coming back.

june of july how wonderful to be alive and able to write this. running out of ink and out time. she calls for me to hurry it up, there's a nasty storm coming from the South. Get back in the truck, get back in and just drive. drive. drive.

She & Him - Thieves (BBC)

sky is womb and she's the moon

we'd speak of food like porn in secretive sexual whispers, in moans and low tones. two religions. our prayers and favors carried out on knees. the philosophy of a good fuck or a perfectly seasoned steak. the taste of melted butter, pepper, a squeeze of lime. bruises and grill marks admired as art.

there was the weathered airstream trailer painted the colors of mexico where we bought one taco after other. the lime soda, the hot sauce. The night we pulled off the highway so you could sit on my lap in the drivers seat, riding me forwards back. The farmers market excursion randomly searching out mangoes and oranges. your lips warm from the sun. How about that old cuban guy who sells seafood from the the pier? live blue crabs and pink key-west shrimp. that was sex, baby. A salt water boil, steaming pots and clanking dinnerware. we can talk like this for hours. wet mouths and appetite. blood and wine, chocolate and wine, bread and honey.

Her tooth hurt. the one in the back.
her tooth fell out. It was only a dream.
something was under her pilllow.
a coin under her pillow.
there was a strange boy next to her. he was pretty and warm.
It was only a dream.