Swimming til dark

i know more of warm breezes
and salt water
than
cool nights under stars
under blankets
under you

and
anything i've ever known of it
are false memories:
turning leaves,
snow fall
her enigmatic

hip
sway

all
novel outlines
bits of
broken
melodies
from discarded
soundtracks

but i feel your
warm bed
and cabin smoke
in my heart
i touch the cold
breath on my neck

i found it
here
sipping
the poison
of
your
poetry

Perpetual motion

There’s a trench dug into my side of the bed in the shape of an S. the outline of my body faces the wall. 9mm semi-automatic, top drawer of night-stand. A pen. notebook. books stacked on the floor. there is an I-pad and head-phones. A knife stuffed between the mattress and headboard. a shot-gun under the bed. shes next to me tucked inside a warm blanket. i sleep on top of the sheets. Dream of blood. Dream of rain. Dream of her body safe and sound. I want our cabin in the woods, our sailboat anchored in the shallows. Birthday candles, Halloween. The things that comfort me , the things i fear. Sharks swim the waters of my heart. Her skin the smell of the sea.

Cut out all the ropes and let me fall

Had this fucked up dream last night. You're not with me anymore and my dog died. I was sitting in this road-side diner like the waffle house or something like that except they served fried chicken and waffles.the waitress came over and threw down a plate of cold eggs - sunny side up and covered in ketchup.  I hate that.   I left and traffic sucked.  Then it was just about light outside and I  was in bed thinking that school starts today! fuck  and i was late for the bus. I despise those teachers and kids and hipster haired fuck ups.  how's is that Steve Fairgroves is even capable of growing a beard at barely 17 anyway? I cant wait to laugh at his Pabst Blue Ribbon belt buckle and fag anchor tattoo. Ever wonder the ratio of anchor tattoos to actual sailors in your town?    

 
I woke up in a real negative mood. pissed at the dream and the sunshine and birds. I fumbled around in the kitchen. I managed a cup of coffee (praise to the Keurig machine) then shook Fruity-Pebbles into a bowl and sat at the desk. I attempted to work on my comic-book.  but nothing. nothing. Okay. I needed to cool off. So, I showered like Christian Bale in American Psycho, scrub down, moisturize, spray. A few push-ups. I let the sugar and caffeine settle in and got to thinking: I used to be able to write so easily, so good too. Girls left with sticky knickers good. i mean,  i could never draw for shit but at least i had the writing part down. I wrote with my dick,  that was it and i knew it. Driven by an insatiable need to create and to fuck. girls seemed to like the pent up anger and frustration. the displaced loneliness pouring out on the page, drawn into a character. and that worked?  Yeah, Girls emailed my blog to get to know me. "Put your anger inside me" they seemed to say. and i did. Often. but it was never without the vapor trail of emotional scars and broken promises associated with the artist /whore muse hook-up. They ended as stories in my comics. Entertainment. But, the void was my life and what i wrote about and drew was merely the truth hidden between the lies. Ah.. ,, hows that for bullshit?   

I got a girlfriend and then married - a wife. a shiny new black metal ring to wear,  then the dog and job and bills and no time for girlfriends on the side or any time at all.  time slipped away along with my words and drawings.  I want to write again - fuck again. fuck someone new and keep secrets and then forgive myself in comic-strips and prose. With these thoughts i go back to the desk. I have 10 minutes before i have to leave for work. Ive been working on this same rough draft for weeks, the sketches, the idea sheet. my latest comic .

My comic book is called -  ARCH. (Anger. Rage.Confusion.Hate)
It's about this guy named Arch and he's a real negative dude. (at least on the inside) but  it works for him, until it doesn't. i mean strange shit happens along the way. He meets a girl who is into werewolves and choking, he volunteers at the animal shelter (and the dogs sometimes talk to him, offering advice) Arch makes what money he can writing a self-help blog online. He is a life coach of sorts,  he'd battled his demons in the past and truly believes he can now help others. specialties include the power of attraction, sexual addiction, consumerism, and balance.  with that he peddles his e-books and email coaching seminars (personal one on ones can be set up) He has few overly devoted followers if you know what I mean.  He claims to be good at fixing things but i think its more destroying things. One morning after a particularly awful dream he wakes up and writes a scathing rant in his blog, a manifesto filled with sci-fi and porn references. He takes on everything from religion to Star Wars. But, he only planned on venting. Getting out all his anger on the page like he'd been taught, release and let go. No one gets hurt.  Delete. Only he pressed Enter. It's gone, it's out there for the world to see. The entry is titled "Rainbows and Ewoks are Gay and Love is Shite "  250 comments in less than 3 minutes.His cell phone is buzzing. Oh shit.    
 

May your heart be the map

The past few years I've practiced minimizing both the physical and mental clutter in my life. I started by promising myself to do MORE things i love doing. In fact,  I try to do as many things i love doing as possible. Getting rid of all things that are not me. It takes time. It's a process that i continue to work on daily. Throwing out my old points of reference. the same actions ALWAYS produced the same results. So, why not do something different?

What was it that caused me to take or not take certain actions? certain risks? What caused me to think that life had limits?
Fear. Fear based on past experiences. even experiences i only saw or heard about.  fears projected from what Ive read or seen on TV. fears of what others might think of me and my ideas. But, why limit yourself doing things NOW based on the past?  Why not live the life you want to live?  I mean the one YOU truly want to live-  Not the one you're supposed to want. Not the one conceived by outside influences, family, work, school,  the media, fear. No constraints. Live and love without limits.

Make life beautiful:

Get rid of all things that are not you
Do things you love
Love things you do
Express gratitude
How you feel is what you'll attract
Get healthy
Stop buying junk
Don't follow same old thought patterns
Create something
Notice something beautiful (at least one thing per day)

Photo: britneyfontana

79

79: 

I didn't feel the first punch or second or third. I was trying to get home before dark,  i knew of a short-cut.  Ride my bike over some lawns, go behind a few houses and end up back on the street. Simple.
I was on my way back from the gas station, a mile or two west of my home."Up to the corner " is where i told my Mom i was going.  I bought a Coke,  the icy cold bottle in one hand, small change curled in my other fists. I rode fast and hard , i was feeling lucky so cut across the lawns and found the next street over.
  Kids fought kids for all reasons and no reasons in this neighborhood. It was 1979 i was 10. Small houses crowded close with peeling paint lined the street. It was dinner time and i thought i could make out the smells of  tater-tots or hamburger helper.  From the corner of my eye, I spotted them sitting on the sidewalk.  4 or 5 kids, passing around a cigarette, and one straddling a bike. I peddled fast but the kid on the bike wheeled out in front me,  blocking the road  the group of kids all got up at once.  I tried to ride around but one of them pushed me and i fell in the street. Coke bottle and coins and bike and skin crashing to the asphalt. I could smell fresh cut lawn, i could smell sweat and cigarettes. I heard Rockaway beach by the Ramones playing from an open window. My arm was already bleeding from scraping the road.  I knew what was coming next. fists and feet flying from all around.  The bigger kids hung back and shouted " Kick his ass Stevie!, Take his fucking bike, take his fucking bike!, "  I felt a few punches but they didn't hurt much. My Dad it me harder than any kid could ever punch.  I got up and started grabbing and punching. It's what i usually did in fights- a short flurry of crazy. I didn't like fighting, i knew kids who could fight. that liked it, were good at it even. But, what was worse, having my bike taken or having to walk back home and face my Dad ? I knew i had to fight either way. At least some blood would prove i tried. and i did, I fought back and then got shoved down and took the beating,  I thought about grabbing the broken Coke bottle  i thought about breaking free and running over picking it up and tearing it across one of these kids faces. hurting them real bad. Finally, one of the bigger kids went over to my bike, now laying on its side by the curb. He got on and called back to his buddies "Come on"   The kids started walking away, but not before one of them got in one last kick. I got up and saw the sun almost gone, I liked the color of the sky,  purple- black just before it turned dark. I heard laughing in the distance. A faucet running, someone doing the dishes. I barely made out the back of a kids shirt and my bike carrying him away.