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.    
 

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.

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)

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.

When it flows

My own words on break or on loan until winter or until I feel like it or until she shakes me again. Until something does. I'm fine if nothing does though, more fine than ever.

But, i say it knowing you're probably reading this and then thinking just how fucking fine id be if you asked me to come over. how fine I'd be even if we never really do meet. anyway, when have words really said anything about us? when are they better than staring or better than dreaming, better than waiting.

I like these conversations we have in between the lines and i guess you do too. maybe your bored. maybe you really like me. maybe you'll hear cello's or fireworks or ice cream truck chimes. maybe someday I'll shake you.

I'm taking it all away from you

thought i'd spend the entire day reading. away from the phone. away from the t.v. and Internet. away from work and people and cars and falling leaves. locked down in a motel room with dirty sheets and pabst blue ribbon. stare at the ceiling and listen to the pounding in my skull for awhile. let it all settle here. settle me.

i thought i wouldn't have to write. what's it worth when I no longer have the words to make her
stay. she doesn't come here anyway.
no gifts. no kisses. no soft
refrain.
no more thoughts.


Do you know what i miss most about your skin?
it's things i can tell you but would rather feel. how it was against yours.
mine against yours. and me or you on top.
doesn't matter,
how much you don't move or how violently.
and if you're wondering.
I touch your hair and whisper yes, i still like you.

skin familiar
vanilla and clove with a touch of dew and sunshine.
fragile and bruised.
blood and saltwater.

she'd press her ear to my chest and if she can remember my heart beat. how it felt. the quiet sound, when it was still. She turns music off when we get tired. i like the cool darkness and silence of her room. breathing. her eyes closed, mine open. I watched her sleep.

so still like the moon in the sky. like the stars. But it only looks still, it's an illusion. it moves. we move. the earth, the dogs, the cats, you, me, the baby. everyone.


the record spins in the night.
and my mind is the needle stuck in the groove that is
you.

the best luck i had was you

"The ladies that I used to know; And, well some they wish me well; and some became my enemies; and some I told to go to hell; and some still haunt me in my dreams…. some still haunt me in my dreams”


It's beautiful cool and blue and dusk and then night - today is to amazing to waste. I wanted to do something before everything starts. I'm married on Friday. Halloween and oh, by the way she believes in me just how i am, just how I'm going to be. how i write it and all the in between. just how- everything.
So, I do and she does and then when I may, I'm going to kiss her hard on the mouth because that's how i do it. when i say my wife, it could have never been anyone but her. the others ran from me, didn't understand me, never trusted me, actually believed id throw the blanket away that kept us warm. didn't i tell you i wouldn't throw anything i love away- ? it wasn't a test. I just wanted to know. I want to know the girl who lays beside me, the girl i live and die for, who has my name, who wears my ring, is as much a junkie for me as I am for her.


The room key- it's like a credit card only it has a Domino's pizza ad on it. I didn't come here and mean for it to remind me of her. I'm in a different time and place and yet things are similar. Maybe i don't know where i am or if this is me or why i bothered to come here at all.

I know why. I saw this motel while driving to work and thought it would be fun to get a room. I could open the windows and let the cool air inside, play music and jump on the bed alone. totally alone and never really alone.

we were in a room like this, the bed faces the same wall. It's noisy outside and there are cheap lamps on cheap night stands, and a bed spread pattern right out of the 70's. I hate thinking that's all we ever were. a chemical romance. fighting and sleep overs. but something like that spark - something about the fit - you can't blame me for wanting more. In my head it's always so much more. I've told myself more lies than anyone ever could.

I won't lie to you now, I've been here before. I come here to write sometimes. There is a court-yard and a pool. It's built next to the train-station. A Denny's out front, drug deals in the back.
There was a girl i used to meet here and she would lug her record player and speakers up a flight of stairs to the room. She brought The Smiths and some others. I hadn't heard vinyl since high school. she rode me to side-one of Louder Than Bombs. It's weird that she felt best on top. On top girl- that's how I remember her.
I just thought of something, how do you not write about sex when you're in a motel room?

I left the room and walked to the train station. I'm by the tracks waiting for trains. i love the sound of bells and whistles and the thunder shaking steel. people coming and going - leaving.
I'd say I'm leaving this all behind me, but I'm not.
my ink changed me and she changed me but not the ring. I'll still have my addictions and she'll still understand. the silence may be less deafening.

a train pulls in on the other side of the tracks. when it stops it hisses and people get off and some get on and some leave and never come back. I used to pick her up and take her back, she used to come and go and then one day she never came back. like you, she will never come back.


i hate waiting for anything alone. so I don't. there are some things i can't do: i could never sleep alone again. I could never not miss her, not her, but the feeling of that something out of reach. that unbalanced knowing she is somewhere out there. knowing I'll never feel the heat of her skin pressed to mine again. yet the existing possibility of such, however unreal is so fucking inspiring and keeps me word filled and teary eyed with emotion. now maybe you understand? there are no real stone walls keeping us away, just the slightest change of heart. How it feels loving her and hurting after. knowing all along i am for someone else.

a brisk wind cuts across the tracks into my face. The cold air makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. (another ghost?) I have my hoody on over the shirt i wore when i first met her. my hand is starting to hurt from writing this. A few people are waiting on benches. I'm on the wrong side. I just figured out the train doesn't run on this side today. I could do what i always do and wait for something that will never arrive. Today is to amazing to waste. I do something, the something i came to do, I get up close my notebook and leave.

If everything is possible, nothing is true

The rain is easy. The sun is easy.
Touching you - easy.
Every kiss
easier and easier
listening to me

in the dark
is it easy?

quitting you-

when you quit me

will you

tell me how
easy

the ground gives

traction easy

even on these greasy roads

your slick oily rainbows
beneath my tires, under our shoes,

we are burning hot

in this

good

winter

because

running - away
is easy

a dog barks at the

scarlet

moon

my speakers play

Mozart, or Chopin or

some other ghostly notes

and it is my whispers

breaking her silence

easy

after midnight

now- sleep

if it comes

-easy

or don't

or break

or bleed

or ache

or close your eyes and bite your lip

say it

my name-

easy

my blood flowing through these veins

my ink flowing over page

and the click-clack

inside my head

forget me

my heart pounding

nervously, longingly, beautifully,

so fucking

easily