Glittering bill boards,
and cigarettes.
Chunky high heels click and clack against the pavement,
while the boys hoot and hollar at the Hollywood hookers.
We hit the strip,
on our way to the beach bonfires,
and extravaganza parties.
We valet at the Chateau to do lines in the bathroom,
and fuck some faceless models in the women's bathroom.
I see some Real Housewife crying in the lobby
as camera's flitter around her.
Fake plastic tears,
and broken eyelashes
with bikini dreams
and strawberry Popsicle fantasies.
I ask the hotel bar for an extra gin martini in a rocks glass.
He gives me a blue cheese stuffed olive,
and I chuck it at his fucking head.
Me and the crew are chased out of the building,
leaving our drinks behind.
We sneak back in and piss in the pool,
overturning priceless marble statues.
The cops are called,
but by then,
we're long gone.
Bruiser crushes up a handful of pills and snorts it on the dash.
Chachki flashes those "come fuck me" eyes
and soon i'm wrist deep between her thighs.
Valencia, hands me a blue wine bottle.
The label is peeled off and in its place is a strip of masking tape with the words FUCK JUICE hand written in pink sharpie.
I take a swig and feel my eyes rattle around inside my head.
Chachki cums and pushes me out of her.
She takes the bottle and drinks.
She sips it as if it's a rare ambrosia.
Finally we make it to the beach,
but it's nothing but a group of homeless Venice junkies,
and pissed rich kids.
I bogart the FUCK JUICE and strip down.
I run for the ocean.
As soon as my feet touch the water,
my dick shrinks inside me.
Valencia finds me, and strips down as well.
We make out for a while,
finishing off our mysterious concoction,
and wrestle each other into the water.
He pushes me under,
filling my lungs with water.
I grab him by the throat.
He's hard
and so am I.
I'm pushed under once again,
as the waves crash hard against the shore.
Valencia is knocked down by the current and pushed to the sand.
I, however, am pulled out further into the body of water.
I decide to stay afloat,
and rest my muscles.
The current subsides,
as I hear Valencia's fading call from the shore.
Above me the moon laughs,
almost hysterically.
I follow suit,
losing concentration,
and sink,
manically laughing until the end.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Wanderless Number
I stroll past the old gnarly sycamore,
and glance up at the tangerine sky.
The wind is rather cruel this dawn,
and I'd much rather be be curled up at home with you,
but there's no longer an "us"
just "me,"
and the seasoned taste of rage that still lingers on the tip of my tongue.
Forgive me love for the feverish things I had to say,
and see it in your heart to forgive an irritable old man.
The years have never been kind to me,
and what once was precious and beautiful in my life,
has decided to flee.
I should have figured as much would happen,
for I was warned of this impending fate by an old carnival hag,
long ago.
While my parents were asleep,
brother and I snuck out of the house and rode our bicycles to the town carnival.
It was well past our bed time,
and if our father had found out,
our butts would be swollen for days.
The old hag had the traditional gypsy paraphernalia;
a beat up table cloth,
crystal ball,
jingling decor,
and enough incense to cover up any past discretion.
She read dear brothers palm,
striking his fancy.
He was fed a tale of endless fortune,
forbidden love,
and never ending happiness.
Mine, however,
was littered with loneliness.
She hadn't felt the need to sugar coat my fortune,
for I was destined to be alone.
She saw a sickness inside my soul.
A sickness I would battle with,
until death.
She explained that some people were put on this earth to be blessed for the good deeds they accomplished in a previous life.
My previous self took advantage of the good life,
and was now sentenced to an unfulfilled life in solitary.
There would be the occasional good years.
I would feel love,
the warmth from family,
and an unsettling happiness.
I never truly understood her premonitions,
until now.
I suppose the old woman was right.
Whatever sins I committed,
this life was meant to be my prison.
Any self harm would only lengthen my sentence.
So I wander,
and wait.
Wait for my ticket to be punched.
and glance up at the tangerine sky.
The wind is rather cruel this dawn,
and I'd much rather be be curled up at home with you,
but there's no longer an "us"
just "me,"
and the seasoned taste of rage that still lingers on the tip of my tongue.
Forgive me love for the feverish things I had to say,
and see it in your heart to forgive an irritable old man.
The years have never been kind to me,
and what once was precious and beautiful in my life,
has decided to flee.
I should have figured as much would happen,
for I was warned of this impending fate by an old carnival hag,
long ago.
While my parents were asleep,
brother and I snuck out of the house and rode our bicycles to the town carnival.
It was well past our bed time,
and if our father had found out,
our butts would be swollen for days.
The old hag had the traditional gypsy paraphernalia;
a beat up table cloth,
crystal ball,
jingling decor,
and enough incense to cover up any past discretion.
She read dear brothers palm,
striking his fancy.
He was fed a tale of endless fortune,
forbidden love,
and never ending happiness.
Mine, however,
was littered with loneliness.
She hadn't felt the need to sugar coat my fortune,
for I was destined to be alone.
She saw a sickness inside my soul.
A sickness I would battle with,
until death.
She explained that some people were put on this earth to be blessed for the good deeds they accomplished in a previous life.
My previous self took advantage of the good life,
and was now sentenced to an unfulfilled life in solitary.
There would be the occasional good years.
I would feel love,
the warmth from family,
and an unsettling happiness.
I never truly understood her premonitions,
until now.
I suppose the old woman was right.
Whatever sins I committed,
this life was meant to be my prison.
Any self harm would only lengthen my sentence.
So I wander,
and wait.
Wait for my ticket to be punched.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Christmas Nightmare
This morning I woke from a feverish dream.
Off -kiltered I stumbled to the kitchen recalling the events;
It was a stormy Saturday night. I was at our local mom and pop video store, Video USA. It was much larger than I remembered as a kid.
The walls were lined with new release DVD's, while the middle of the store had rows and rows of brown wired racks filled with DVD's, VHS tapes, and miscellaneous entertainment memorabilia.
It was hard to find anything, because it was a Saturday night. The store was filled with people mauling anything left to rent.
I found a clerk who was rocking a dirty Jesus Christ look and asked if they sold any replacement dividers for my vinyl record shelf. I gave him my measurements, while I searched a shelf.
Other customers pushed, and reached over me to pick up the only remaining copies of a movie left.
This was the kind of video store that had the display of the film faced out and the rental behind it.
I started to notice that all the movies in the store were rip offs of classic films, right down to the artwork.
I saw a replica of the Fright Night artwork, for a completely different movie.
There was a film entitled Trainwreck 2 that looked like a romantic comedy, but one had just come out.
Jesus, decided that he would have to look up the product I was inquiring about at the front desk.
I followed him down an aisle, and lost him when I became mesmerized by miscellaneous bobble heads and detailed figurines of horror villains.
When I reached the front desk, other patrons rushed to the counter where Jesus had logged in.
He shooed them away, ignoring them and me.
Near the counter I saw a collection of "Holiday Films" displayed on the wall. There was a mix of classics, comedies and horror films.
Jesus yelled out over the crowd "I'm ready to fix your sticky crack!" and waved me over.
I remember feeling embarrassed, even though this didn't make any sense.
Two geeks, one with Buddy Holly glasses stopped me on my way to the counter and asked "What ever happened to Fay Wray?" I flashed him my Friday the 13th shirt, and he laughed.
Jesus continued typing and talking, but was drowned out by the overhead TV, playing a particularly gory movie.
Buddy stood next to me laughing at the TV.
On the screen, a girl covered in blood was shooting down a water slide. Instead of water it was slicked in snow that ran red. As she descended, she would run over sharp edges, etched into the plastic slide. These edges, or bumps cut into her body, causing her to bleed and speed up her momentum. She continued sliding down the plastic tube, screaming. The acting was horrible, but a knot developed in the pit of my stomach.
The further she slid, the worse the traps were. Since this was an 80's film, I dreaded what was at the end of that slide.
The film cut away from this girl, to the top of the slide. A happy go lucky 80's girl, in a beret and tan pea coat was approaching the slide. An electronic Santa Clause stood next to it "ho, ho, hoing" She couldn't help herself and jumped down the slide. As she did, the Santa Clause turned toward the slide, with an evil face and manically laughed.
A man appeared, and Santa turned back to normal. He yelled down to the woman,but she was busy laughing and cheering. He sensed that something wasn't right, and looked around for another way to get her back, but knew he had to slide. He jumped head first down the slide, while Santa turned to scoff at another victim.
Back in the store Buddy kept talking to me as if we were long time friends.
I searched the "Holiday" wall to see what film this was, but the titles were all a blur.
I asked Jesus, but he continued to ignore me.
I awoke, still hearing the screams of joy and death from the people shooting down the Christmas water slide of death.
Off -kiltered I stumbled to the kitchen recalling the events;
It was a stormy Saturday night. I was at our local mom and pop video store, Video USA. It was much larger than I remembered as a kid.
The walls were lined with new release DVD's, while the middle of the store had rows and rows of brown wired racks filled with DVD's, VHS tapes, and miscellaneous entertainment memorabilia.
It was hard to find anything, because it was a Saturday night. The store was filled with people mauling anything left to rent.
I found a clerk who was rocking a dirty Jesus Christ look and asked if they sold any replacement dividers for my vinyl record shelf. I gave him my measurements, while I searched a shelf.
Other customers pushed, and reached over me to pick up the only remaining copies of a movie left.
This was the kind of video store that had the display of the film faced out and the rental behind it.
I started to notice that all the movies in the store were rip offs of classic films, right down to the artwork.
I saw a replica of the Fright Night artwork, for a completely different movie.
There was a film entitled Trainwreck 2 that looked like a romantic comedy, but one had just come out.
Jesus, decided that he would have to look up the product I was inquiring about at the front desk.
I followed him down an aisle, and lost him when I became mesmerized by miscellaneous bobble heads and detailed figurines of horror villains.
When I reached the front desk, other patrons rushed to the counter where Jesus had logged in.
He shooed them away, ignoring them and me.
Near the counter I saw a collection of "Holiday Films" displayed on the wall. There was a mix of classics, comedies and horror films.
Jesus yelled out over the crowd "I'm ready to fix your sticky crack!" and waved me over.
I remember feeling embarrassed, even though this didn't make any sense.
Two geeks, one with Buddy Holly glasses stopped me on my way to the counter and asked "What ever happened to Fay Wray?" I flashed him my Friday the 13th shirt, and he laughed.
Jesus continued typing and talking, but was drowned out by the overhead TV, playing a particularly gory movie.
Buddy stood next to me laughing at the TV.
On the screen, a girl covered in blood was shooting down a water slide. Instead of water it was slicked in snow that ran red. As she descended, she would run over sharp edges, etched into the plastic slide. These edges, or bumps cut into her body, causing her to bleed and speed up her momentum. She continued sliding down the plastic tube, screaming. The acting was horrible, but a knot developed in the pit of my stomach.
The further she slid, the worse the traps were. Since this was an 80's film, I dreaded what was at the end of that slide.
The film cut away from this girl, to the top of the slide. A happy go lucky 80's girl, in a beret and tan pea coat was approaching the slide. An electronic Santa Clause stood next to it "ho, ho, hoing" She couldn't help herself and jumped down the slide. As she did, the Santa Clause turned toward the slide, with an evil face and manically laughed.
A man appeared, and Santa turned back to normal. He yelled down to the woman,but she was busy laughing and cheering. He sensed that something wasn't right, and looked around for another way to get her back, but knew he had to slide. He jumped head first down the slide, while Santa turned to scoff at another victim.
Back in the store Buddy kept talking to me as if we were long time friends.
I searched the "Holiday" wall to see what film this was, but the titles were all a blur.
I asked Jesus, but he continued to ignore me.
I awoke, still hearing the screams of joy and death from the people shooting down the Christmas water slide of death.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Not For Arts Sake
I do not apologize,
nor should we,
when the rage fit,
love spit,
hate,
makes us say words we regret later.
It's all a learning curve,
that helps expel the building demons.
Things we've kept hidden under the skin,
exposed, when the wounds are tore open.
To give up,
and throw our hands up,
is a callus way of life.
Instead we must pick up,
and build up,
the love we once so shyly hid.
That love of our lives are those that can pull on the heart strings, while triggering ones last nerve.
Sometimes surviving these moments is the true test.
nor should we,
when the rage fit,
love spit,
hate,
makes us say words we regret later.
It's all a learning curve,
that helps expel the building demons.
Things we've kept hidden under the skin,
exposed, when the wounds are tore open.
To give up,
and throw our hands up,
is a callus way of life.
Instead we must pick up,
and build up,
the love we once so shyly hid.
That love of our lives are those that can pull on the heart strings, while triggering ones last nerve.
Sometimes surviving these moments is the true test.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Floundered
To me,
I must go,
but to fight
is more than a reflection,
its a state of mine about growing up.
I may have my imperfections,
I know I'm a weak person
but I can't stand the way
you twist the reality.
My writings are my truths.
Some of the lies are manipulated.
Never, did I once lie to you,
but you've been caught in the lie multiple times.
How will this love flourish?
Fuck Love Give Me Diamonds
It's uncanny how the screwing of a bottle top, can run a chill down one's spine?
It's 3:00 in the afternoon, and already he's begun his dissent into an alcoholic blunder.
Soon he'll be stumbling toward me, with that goofy, sad, grin on his face and a thoughtless apology.
That, ladies and gentlemen is the true definition of a crocodile smile.
To be smothered in his arms, with the stench of vodka, and a crooked eyed smile, is worse then death.
I didn't marry your alter ego.
I married you..
Where's that kind, soft spoken man, with a building confidence and intelligently brazen mind been hiding?
That's right, he's being pinned down and tortured by this reckless soul.
It's 3:00 in the afternoon, and already he's begun his dissent into an alcoholic blunder.
Soon he'll be stumbling toward me, with that goofy, sad, grin on his face and a thoughtless apology.
That, ladies and gentlemen is the true definition of a crocodile smile.
To be smothered in his arms, with the stench of vodka, and a crooked eyed smile, is worse then death.
I didn't marry your alter ego.
I married you..
Where's that kind, soft spoken man, with a building confidence and intelligently brazen mind been hiding?
That's right, he's being pinned down and tortured by this reckless soul.
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Rape Me
To that bitch,
you know who you are!.
Stop trying to steal my shit.
I'm an original,
never duplicated,
always replicated,
sometimes copy righted,
but always the freshest,
mother word smith.
My style is my gift,
and my art is in the expressions.
If you don't like it,
don't read it,
but know,
that no one is safe.
While I may use aspects of my life,
every article,
every mythos,
is not one hundred percent fact.
Some of the best work we have inside ourselves is from the truth.
If we deny the possibilities,
and run from the harsh realities,
society will try and hunt you down for life.
Stop running from the exhibitionists,
and expressionists.
It all may be trash to you,
but somewhere,
out there,
is another freedom fighter,
fighting back their inner thoughts.
Let's start a revolution with words and art,
not with guns and fists.
Kill me with your lyrics,
and rape me with your visuals aesthetics.
Artistic assault is the most powerful aphrodisiac.
you know who you are!.
Stop trying to steal my shit.
I'm an original,
never duplicated,
always replicated,
sometimes copy righted,
but always the freshest,
mother word smith.
My style is my gift,
and my art is in the expressions.
If you don't like it,
don't read it,
but know,
that no one is safe.
While I may use aspects of my life,
every article,
every mythos,
is not one hundred percent fact.
Some of the best work we have inside ourselves is from the truth.
If we deny the possibilities,
and run from the harsh realities,
society will try and hunt you down for life.
Stop running from the exhibitionists,
and expressionists.
It all may be trash to you,
but somewhere,
out there,
is another freedom fighter,
fighting back their inner thoughts.
Let's start a revolution with words and art,
not with guns and fists.
Kill me with your lyrics,
and rape me with your visuals aesthetics.
Artistic assault is the most powerful aphrodisiac.
Brain Food
From the noise and the clutter,
now silence.
What made the difference,
to silence the aggrievance?
Why, we will never know,
all I trust to believe
are the sprinkled thoughts,
worming across my brain.
now silence.
What made the difference,
to silence the aggrievance?
Why, we will never know,
all I trust to believe
are the sprinkled thoughts,
worming across my brain.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
All Burnt Up
I wince at the beauty queen,
rummaging through the discount make up bin,
and continue to pillage this flea ridden convenience store.
I came with a craving for Flamin' Hots,
but left with a fudgy bear,
burning in my left jacket pocket.
To be young and blind again,
and rebuild the mind with strong, independent thoughts.
This often crosses my perplexed brain,
but I am reminded of all that I've accomplished,
but forgotten over the years.
So many people,
myself included,
skip past these memories,
hoping to leave a boot sized imprint in the sands of time.
I am among the many, unhappy with whats been given to me,
and occasionally need to be knocked on my ass,
only to restructure my priorities.
The idea that persons can feel extreme weather conditions used to bother me,
but lately my bones have been aching inexplicably.
It's best not to make sense of these phenomena's
and power forward.
Even the burnt tracks of rubber on the road serve a purpose,
but I can't help but wonder why sometimes.
rummaging through the discount make up bin,
and continue to pillage this flea ridden convenience store.
I came with a craving for Flamin' Hots,
but left with a fudgy bear,
burning in my left jacket pocket.
To be young and blind again,
and rebuild the mind with strong, independent thoughts.
This often crosses my perplexed brain,
but I am reminded of all that I've accomplished,
but forgotten over the years.
So many people,
myself included,
skip past these memories,
hoping to leave a boot sized imprint in the sands of time.
I am among the many, unhappy with whats been given to me,
and occasionally need to be knocked on my ass,
only to restructure my priorities.
The idea that persons can feel extreme weather conditions used to bother me,
but lately my bones have been aching inexplicably.
It's best not to make sense of these phenomena's
and power forward.
Even the burnt tracks of rubber on the road serve a purpose,
but I can't help but wonder why sometimes.
Spinning Too Fast
Inspiration's at its peak, during fall.
The way the sun shines across the leaf littered lawns in patches.
Shivering under your favorite comfort sweatshirt,
and becoming completely self aware that nature is taking its final breath.
Even now I hear the cries of a wind chime,
warning us all of the impending dangers brewing.
We survive the fun and madness of Halloween,
only to be completely gorged with Thanksgiving,
followed by the most festive, yet gruesome of holidays.
Still we don't run for the hills.
Every now and then I have to stop and take a breath,
admire the beauty and ugliness of it all,
then move into another year of loss and rebirth.
Oh how the world turns,
The way the sun shines across the leaf littered lawns in patches.
Shivering under your favorite comfort sweatshirt,
and becoming completely self aware that nature is taking its final breath.
Even now I hear the cries of a wind chime,
warning us all of the impending dangers brewing.
We survive the fun and madness of Halloween,
only to be completely gorged with Thanksgiving,
followed by the most festive, yet gruesome of holidays.
Still we don't run for the hills.
Every now and then I have to stop and take a breath,
admire the beauty and ugliness of it all,
then move into another year of loss and rebirth.
Oh how the world turns,
Saturday, September 19, 2015
The Hoods
I received an anonymous package today.
Inside was a letter.
It was from a witches counsel, telling me that my works of fictions have been all wrong. That all my careless and so called "research" on Covens couldn't be further from the truth and if I wanted the full experience, that I would meet at the disclosed location tonight at midnight.
I was to tell no one of my research, or wear abouts. I couldn't record, document or video any of its results, and above all things, I was to come alone.
In bold beneath this description were the words DO NOT FORGET TO WEAR THE ROBE.
Inside the package was a musty old black robe, with strange etchings woven into the fabric. It smelled of sandalwood and licorice roots.
The letter wasn't signed, but their had been a wax notary seal on the envelope before I opened it. The indentation was the same as the etchings on the robe.
I tried the robe on and stared at myself in the mirror for a couple of seconds. It was your traditional long black garment made with a thick black velvet material. The fabric felt harsh against my skin, and a tad warm. It had a hood attached, that when worn stood up in a sharp point.
I called around to see if anyone had seen the deliverer, but all leads ran cold.
The post office didn't seem to have any packages documented for delivery for me, so I had to assume it was delivered by hand.
For all I knew it could have been the workings of a delirious fan.
Was this a cruel prank, or some sick way of luring me out of my home?
As promised, I hadn't discussed the contents with anyone, other than the mention of a surprise package.
I didn't have enough time to scout out the venue, because it was on the other side of town.
If I truly intended on going, I would have to take two trains and walk a few miles through town.
This wasn't a good week for my car to be in the shop.
I secured the robe in a back pack and decided to catch some dinner in town.
If I had a late dinner and met some friends for drinks, I could decide then and there whether it was worth the lead.
I would be halfway there and at that time of night, the second half of my journey would fly by.
I met Alexia and Lidia at our favorite Italian restaurant.
Like most nights, we shared many courses of fresh pastas, a cigarette or two and many bottles of wine.
The wine appeared to give me some liquid courage and diarrhea of the mouth.
Most people would fear the unusual, but these two reveled in it.
I shared all my theories and we toiled with the ridiculous notion of it being a real modern day Coven.
Alexia pleaded to come with me, but I showed them the letter insisting that I come alone.
Being the good friends they are, they respected my wishes and stayed mute.
Time had gotten away from me as I stumbled to my feet.
I knew I could get to the location on time, but it would be close.
We air kissed before saying "buona notte" and parted ways.
On the second train, I gripped my pack, wondering if I was crazy.
No one in their right mind would follow such a mystery, without taking precaution.
The train became emptier and emptier, before I arrived at the last station.
The platform was riddled with fog.
The street lamps eerily shined a path exiting the station toward the brick road.
I listened as the heel of my shoe clicked and clacked along the road.
No time like the present, I removed the thick robe and dressed myself, nearing my destination.
I put the hood up, in order to hide my face and stopped outside a large rusty gate.
The entrance was ajar, so I slipped inside.
I followed a long gravel driveway, toward a blaring bonfire.
Dance music and laughter filled the air.
As I drew nearer, I saw other hooded figures, mingling about a crowd.
A mix of tourists, locals and farm handlers were partaking in drunken debauchery.
Some were entangled in an open orgy, while others drank and swayed to the music.
None of the hooded figures faces were visible.
I looked at my watch and noticed that it was two minutes to midnight.
I wasn't quite sure what I was witnessing, but thought it best to stay quiet and in the shadows, a ways away from the party.
The hooded figures began assembling around the party scene as the clock struck midnight.
One of them tolled a bell, while the party goers screamed in ecstasy.
I crack of lighting danced across the sky, before clouds started to roll in.
They covered up the bright orange moon, something I hadn't noticed upon arriving.
The music started to skip, ending the dancing.
The volume rose to uncomfortable level, before it started playing backwards.
The vocals had now sounded demonic as my cloaked friends reached their hands toward the sky.
I decided to distance myself even more, but couldn't turn away.
Violence and blood shed had rained down on these poor people.
Screams were muffled by the musical chanting.
People were fleeing for their lives, but none escaped.
I hoped to cover my eyes, but couldn't help but watch.
I felt a pull toward them.
My body was pulsing and burning up.
I wanted to rid myself of this feverish cloth, but hadn't dared.
The robes were beckoning me.
I had tried staying hidden, but they knew I was there all along.
My feet hadn't moved, but suddenly I drew closer to them.
A naked man screamed for his life, but they pinned him down.
I don't remember arming myself, but suddenly a knife was in my hand.
His throat was slashed and I reveled at the blood that dripped from my weapon.
A devious smile formed on the others faces as the fire burned higher.
I awoke dressed in sweat.
It felt like I had gone swimming.
I discarded my bed sheets and stumbled toward the bathroom.
I ran a little water and let it wash down my throat.
I tried catching my breath and slowed my heart beat.
It was only a dream.
It was only a dream.
Behind me the black hood rest on a hook.
I rubbed my eyes and exited the bathroom.
I returned to get a closer look at my cuticles.
Blood.
It was blood.
Inside was a letter.
It was from a witches counsel, telling me that my works of fictions have been all wrong. That all my careless and so called "research" on Covens couldn't be further from the truth and if I wanted the full experience, that I would meet at the disclosed location tonight at midnight.
I was to tell no one of my research, or wear abouts. I couldn't record, document or video any of its results, and above all things, I was to come alone.
In bold beneath this description were the words DO NOT FORGET TO WEAR THE ROBE.
Inside the package was a musty old black robe, with strange etchings woven into the fabric. It smelled of sandalwood and licorice roots.
The letter wasn't signed, but their had been a wax notary seal on the envelope before I opened it. The indentation was the same as the etchings on the robe.
I tried the robe on and stared at myself in the mirror for a couple of seconds. It was your traditional long black garment made with a thick black velvet material. The fabric felt harsh against my skin, and a tad warm. It had a hood attached, that when worn stood up in a sharp point.
I called around to see if anyone had seen the deliverer, but all leads ran cold.
The post office didn't seem to have any packages documented for delivery for me, so I had to assume it was delivered by hand.
For all I knew it could have been the workings of a delirious fan.
Was this a cruel prank, or some sick way of luring me out of my home?
As promised, I hadn't discussed the contents with anyone, other than the mention of a surprise package.
I didn't have enough time to scout out the venue, because it was on the other side of town.
If I truly intended on going, I would have to take two trains and walk a few miles through town.
This wasn't a good week for my car to be in the shop.
I secured the robe in a back pack and decided to catch some dinner in town.
If I had a late dinner and met some friends for drinks, I could decide then and there whether it was worth the lead.
I would be halfway there and at that time of night, the second half of my journey would fly by.
I met Alexia and Lidia at our favorite Italian restaurant.
Like most nights, we shared many courses of fresh pastas, a cigarette or two and many bottles of wine.
The wine appeared to give me some liquid courage and diarrhea of the mouth.
Most people would fear the unusual, but these two reveled in it.
I shared all my theories and we toiled with the ridiculous notion of it being a real modern day Coven.
Alexia pleaded to come with me, but I showed them the letter insisting that I come alone.
Being the good friends they are, they respected my wishes and stayed mute.
Time had gotten away from me as I stumbled to my feet.
I knew I could get to the location on time, but it would be close.
We air kissed before saying "buona notte" and parted ways.
On the second train, I gripped my pack, wondering if I was crazy.
No one in their right mind would follow such a mystery, without taking precaution.
The train became emptier and emptier, before I arrived at the last station.
The platform was riddled with fog.
The street lamps eerily shined a path exiting the station toward the brick road.
I listened as the heel of my shoe clicked and clacked along the road.
No time like the present, I removed the thick robe and dressed myself, nearing my destination.
I put the hood up, in order to hide my face and stopped outside a large rusty gate.
The entrance was ajar, so I slipped inside.
I followed a long gravel driveway, toward a blaring bonfire.
Dance music and laughter filled the air.
As I drew nearer, I saw other hooded figures, mingling about a crowd.
A mix of tourists, locals and farm handlers were partaking in drunken debauchery.
Some were entangled in an open orgy, while others drank and swayed to the music.
None of the hooded figures faces were visible.
I looked at my watch and noticed that it was two minutes to midnight.
I wasn't quite sure what I was witnessing, but thought it best to stay quiet and in the shadows, a ways away from the party.
The hooded figures began assembling around the party scene as the clock struck midnight.
One of them tolled a bell, while the party goers screamed in ecstasy.
I crack of lighting danced across the sky, before clouds started to roll in.
They covered up the bright orange moon, something I hadn't noticed upon arriving.
The music started to skip, ending the dancing.
The volume rose to uncomfortable level, before it started playing backwards.
The vocals had now sounded demonic as my cloaked friends reached their hands toward the sky.
I decided to distance myself even more, but couldn't turn away.
Violence and blood shed had rained down on these poor people.
Screams were muffled by the musical chanting.
People were fleeing for their lives, but none escaped.
I hoped to cover my eyes, but couldn't help but watch.
I felt a pull toward them.
My body was pulsing and burning up.
I wanted to rid myself of this feverish cloth, but hadn't dared.
The robes were beckoning me.
I had tried staying hidden, but they knew I was there all along.
My feet hadn't moved, but suddenly I drew closer to them.
A naked man screamed for his life, but they pinned him down.
I don't remember arming myself, but suddenly a knife was in my hand.
His throat was slashed and I reveled at the blood that dripped from my weapon.
A devious smile formed on the others faces as the fire burned higher.
I awoke dressed in sweat.
It felt like I had gone swimming.
I discarded my bed sheets and stumbled toward the bathroom.
I ran a little water and let it wash down my throat.
I tried catching my breath and slowed my heart beat.
It was only a dream.
It was only a dream.
Behind me the black hood rest on a hook.
I rubbed my eyes and exited the bathroom.
I returned to get a closer look at my cuticles.
Blood.
It was blood.
Death, Dying, Not Greiving
That surge of electricity flows through my finger tips, as I lie dying on my death bed.
I wonder about all the wasted opportunities.
The "what ifs" and "why nots."
It's hard to live in a world of regrets, when these decisions are constantly being shown up by new afflictions.
We can't have it both ways, but we can choose to live at our best potentials.
I for one can't wait to exit this shell and prove to others I am right about life after death.
Whether you guess right, is up to you.
Dreaming is half the fun.
It's an optimism that keeps life light.
There are too many pit falls that curse ones enjoyment.
Get out there.
Show your true colors.
Do not let age, sex, or identity define you.
I wonder about all the wasted opportunities.
The "what ifs" and "why nots."
It's hard to live in a world of regrets, when these decisions are constantly being shown up by new afflictions.
We can't have it both ways, but we can choose to live at our best potentials.
I for one can't wait to exit this shell and prove to others I am right about life after death.
Whether you guess right, is up to you.
Dreaming is half the fun.
It's an optimism that keeps life light.
There are too many pit falls that curse ones enjoyment.
Get out there.
Show your true colors.
Do not let age, sex, or identity define you.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Do You?
All the cupcakes,
and red wines of the world,
couldn't let me loose.
I try and stumble throughout this dark bar,
but my friends keep pulling me back to the sticky,wet, table.
Why, oh why, can't we move about so freely,
like I did when I was a little child.
No, there's got to be more to life than cheap beer,
and free thinking college aged kids,
peeling the labels from the bottle.
There's a whole wide world out there,
waiting for us to change it,
not in a political way,
but an artistic one.
Who's to say where we should live,
how to dress,
or who to love?
I can't seem to get these monolithic melodies out of my head,
as the jukebox screams out Nina with her soulful, emotions,
not even Jesus Christ on the cross could have understood.
Buddha barbecues with Allah,
while Jesus plays guitar, serenading Marilyn Monroe and Osiris.
Aphrodite dirty dances with James Dean,
while Sammy Davis Junior, plays a game of dice with Zeus.
These classic, fairy tale, religious dieties can have my soul.
I lost it long ago in Las Vegas to a man named Ateo
Two shots of bourbon and a line of coke, did me in.
I woke up alone and naked, but self aware and care free.
I never regretted it, nor wanted it to be special.
Now I was special, because I had life experience and a good story to tell over others pity parties.
To answer your question,
yes, girl, you move the fuck out of me.
and red wines of the world,
couldn't let me loose.
I try and stumble throughout this dark bar,
but my friends keep pulling me back to the sticky,wet, table.
Why, oh why, can't we move about so freely,
like I did when I was a little child.
No, there's got to be more to life than cheap beer,
and free thinking college aged kids,
peeling the labels from the bottle.
There's a whole wide world out there,
waiting for us to change it,
not in a political way,
but an artistic one.
Who's to say where we should live,
how to dress,
or who to love?
I can't seem to get these monolithic melodies out of my head,
as the jukebox screams out Nina with her soulful, emotions,
not even Jesus Christ on the cross could have understood.
Buddha barbecues with Allah,
while Jesus plays guitar, serenading Marilyn Monroe and Osiris.
Aphrodite dirty dances with James Dean,
while Sammy Davis Junior, plays a game of dice with Zeus.
These classic, fairy tale, religious dieties can have my soul.
I lost it long ago in Las Vegas to a man named Ateo
Two shots of bourbon and a line of coke, did me in.
I woke up alone and naked, but self aware and care free.
I never regretted it, nor wanted it to be special.
Now I was special, because I had life experience and a good story to tell over others pity parties.
To answer your question,
yes, girl, you move the fuck out of me.
You Will Burn
I can feel them.
Just when I quit their dastardly deeds,
they have begun to rebuild their army inside me.
Minions of the demons who torture, twist and deceive the truth.
Yes, I am about to go out of my head,
drifting on the sea of anxiety and guilt,
while letting their anger take hold.
No, I will not.
I must stay strong and fight off the temptations inside.
It's easier said than done.
When I close my eyes and steady my breathing, I see it.
That old bitch that lives up the block.
Crushing her eyeballs with my finger tips, while feasting on her merciless soul, as she begs for her worthless fucking life.
The useless, hobos that occupy half our land.
Running my car through their tents while the tread of my tires burns across their skulls.
No! I cannot.
I will not.
Others have been overtaken by the darkness and were immediately set free afterwards,
but how long after their crimes did they suffer from the consequences?
I shalt not take any names in vain and let it wash over me.
Some have suggested prayer.
My method has always been effective.
Cutting...deep.
Tracing the Latin phrase ignosce et obliviscere into my tender, weak skin, until the blood strains this terrible disease, making me clean once again.
Safe,
of one mind,
until they fight to get out again.
When they do,
I might not make it out alive.
Just when I quit their dastardly deeds,
they have begun to rebuild their army inside me.
Minions of the demons who torture, twist and deceive the truth.
Yes, I am about to go out of my head,
drifting on the sea of anxiety and guilt,
while letting their anger take hold.
No, I will not.
I must stay strong and fight off the temptations inside.
It's easier said than done.
When I close my eyes and steady my breathing, I see it.
That old bitch that lives up the block.
Crushing her eyeballs with my finger tips, while feasting on her merciless soul, as she begs for her worthless fucking life.
The useless, hobos that occupy half our land.
Running my car through their tents while the tread of my tires burns across their skulls.
No! I cannot.
I will not.
Others have been overtaken by the darkness and were immediately set free afterwards,
but how long after their crimes did they suffer from the consequences?
I shalt not take any names in vain and let it wash over me.
Some have suggested prayer.
My method has always been effective.
Cutting...deep.
Tracing the Latin phrase ignosce et obliviscere into my tender, weak skin, until the blood strains this terrible disease, making me clean once again.
Safe,
of one mind,
until they fight to get out again.
When they do,
I might not make it out alive.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
The Ants Will Play
I walk the orange soaked streets,
feeling the scorching sun, rising over head.
The grass is still damp,
and the ants have begun their busy work.
There is no sound,
but the stillness of the morning.
I often wondered,
why it was,
that people rose so early in the morning.
I suppose it was to enjoy the calm, before the storm.
The solitary,
and silence.
To be in a world, with so many people,
yet none of them have awoke yet.
A summer morning.
So different than the evening.
The kind of peace that will be short lived,
as we transition to another chapter of seasonal change.
feeling the scorching sun, rising over head.
The grass is still damp,
and the ants have begun their busy work.
There is no sound,
but the stillness of the morning.
I often wondered,
why it was,
that people rose so early in the morning.
I suppose it was to enjoy the calm, before the storm.
The solitary,
and silence.
To be in a world, with so many people,
yet none of them have awoke yet.
A summer morning.
So different than the evening.
The kind of peace that will be short lived,
as we transition to another chapter of seasonal change.
I Am Crazy, But Free
It's not work, if you sweat and bleed words.
Thoughts and ideas pour out of me,
almost in an unconscious way.
I try to imagine my life three hundred years ago.
Would I be locked in a dank, soulless room, with other creative dreamers?
Or ignored by the upper class because of my thoughts and ideas?
Everyone's a little loony tunes.
It's molding your craft into something beautiful that counts.
Thoughts and ideas pour out of me,
almost in an unconscious way.
I try to imagine my life three hundred years ago.
Would I be locked in a dank, soulless room, with other creative dreamers?
Or ignored by the upper class because of my thoughts and ideas?
Everyone's a little loony tunes.
It's molding your craft into something beautiful that counts.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
High Style
I flip flop,
on the drip drop,
for no flies,
can tie me down.
To strangle,
and mangle,
is to bedazzle,
the inhabitable.
While I walk,
leisurely,
I reminisce.
A time when teacher said I was no good.
The time I fell off my bike and no one helped me.
A straw,
draws,
this lonely little heart,
only to mangle the little pieces,
and drink it up quite right.
My lonely wordsmith,
is chewing on the verbs,
and counting the punctuation errors as we speak,
but the mind is screaming "fuck you!"
Expressionism is real,
and shouldn't be limited to the ALA's rules.
I put a comma here,
and an extra space there,
developing my own style of rhyming.
Don't shy away from pushing the limits,
for that cold,
no hold barrels,
will be lost forever.
on the drip drop,
for no flies,
can tie me down.
To strangle,
and mangle,
is to bedazzle,
the inhabitable.
While I walk,
leisurely,
I reminisce.
A time when teacher said I was no good.
The time I fell off my bike and no one helped me.
A straw,
draws,
this lonely little heart,
only to mangle the little pieces,
and drink it up quite right.
My lonely wordsmith,
is chewing on the verbs,
and counting the punctuation errors as we speak,
but the mind is screaming "fuck you!"
Expressionism is real,
and shouldn't be limited to the ALA's rules.
I put a comma here,
and an extra space there,
developing my own style of rhyming.
Don't shy away from pushing the limits,
for that cold,
no hold barrels,
will be lost forever.
A Hearts Disease
I believe,
out there,
that there are those who feel too much.
From birth, they are blessed with a certain kind of hearts disease.
This disease intensifies, the older you get.
Adolescence is a strange time for these individuals,
because the disease begins to shine through.
A person may feel the wanting need to express themselves.
They have a surge of creative energy coursing through their veins,
but are unaware of particular outlets, to relieve the throbbing feeling.
In my experience, it only gets harder the older you get.
Like a sick tortured super power, you have to master a way to let it out.
For me it's channeling this energy into words.
Others find relief in painting, exercise, singing, dancing.
The possibilities are limitless.
I've witnessed many talents,
end in tragedy.
The easiest way through it,
is turning off that faucet.
I'll admit, that I've had a few bad days,
but ultimately, it's the new bold experiences that make it all worth it.
To love,
laugh,
sing,
dance,
express,
explore,
cry,
revive.
These are things telling us we're alive.
My fears of death are simple.
Though never said out loud,
I believe its final.
We take comfort during life,
that something better waits for us out there.
The cruelty us expressionists face is the reality of the situation.
This is it.
Our chance to make the best of the situation we are given.
It's probably why I feel the immense pressure, to deem notarity.
To know that the words and expressions within my head are not just an after thought.
Someone out there, reading this right now is feeling the pains in their heart,
that the rest of us carriers are burdened with.
That my life was not for naught.
out there,
that there are those who feel too much.
From birth, they are blessed with a certain kind of hearts disease.
This disease intensifies, the older you get.
Adolescence is a strange time for these individuals,
because the disease begins to shine through.
A person may feel the wanting need to express themselves.
They have a surge of creative energy coursing through their veins,
but are unaware of particular outlets, to relieve the throbbing feeling.
In my experience, it only gets harder the older you get.
Like a sick tortured super power, you have to master a way to let it out.
For me it's channeling this energy into words.
Others find relief in painting, exercise, singing, dancing.
The possibilities are limitless.
I've witnessed many talents,
end in tragedy.
The easiest way through it,
is turning off that faucet.
I'll admit, that I've had a few bad days,
but ultimately, it's the new bold experiences that make it all worth it.
To love,
laugh,
sing,
dance,
express,
explore,
cry,
revive.
These are things telling us we're alive.
My fears of death are simple.
Though never said out loud,
I believe its final.
We take comfort during life,
that something better waits for us out there.
The cruelty us expressionists face is the reality of the situation.
This is it.
Our chance to make the best of the situation we are given.
It's probably why I feel the immense pressure, to deem notarity.
To know that the words and expressions within my head are not just an after thought.
Someone out there, reading this right now is feeling the pains in their heart,
that the rest of us carriers are burdened with.
That my life was not for naught.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Who's Afraid?
I'm driving down the windy road in the mountains.
Cue the rain and brimstone.
I see that old vintage car swirling behind mine,
but I'm not scared.
He's been following me since I left that five and dime in town.
I don't really remember his features,
but I do remember the hands.
They weren't the typical lotion treated,
manicured ones you see in this self righteous, pretensions city.
He had rough, callus cracked, working hands.
The kind you develop from outside jobs like a rancher or city worker.
I pulled up to my gate and typed in the code to my private drive way.
The Iron fence creaked its way open,
he followed in behind me.
I parked in the garage and closed the door behind me,
before he could follow me into the house.
I slinked into the kitchen, discarding my purse.
I untied my red head scarf and let it fall to the floor,
before removing two cognac glasses.
I splashed a little in each and turned to meet him.
He had helped himself inside already.
I wasn't scared.
In fact, this was part of the hunt.
I handed him a glass and got a good look at him for the first time.
He had jet black hair slicked back in a pompadour.
One eye was brown, the other icy blue.
I took a sip of some cognac, still holding the glass out to him.
He knocked the glass from my hand.
It crashed near my feet, but I wasn't giving in to his tricks.
I smashed my glass near his feet to call it even.
He just stared, with those hauntingly beautiful eyes and took hold of my wrists.
He pulled me closer and ran his paws down my shoulders to the elbow.
I stood emotionless ,but my body reacted with goosebumps.
I closed my eyes as he wrapped his mits around my throat and leaned in for a kiss.
His scent was that of pine and musk.
It was intoxicating and troubling.
He firmly kissed me, drawing blood from my bottom lip.
His breathing became erratic as he exhaled loudly through his nostrils.
This was it.
No turning back.
The world began to fade,
and yet,
all I could do was smile
and prolong his embrace, until it was gone.
Locked Up
I remain now,
stuck in this little wicker chair,
a prisoner in my own body,
yet so free.
The joints don't move like they used to,
and the visits are few and far in between,
but I am happy.
This is my time to relish.
The humidity,
and cool breezes blowing from the still lake.
Laughter carries,
and somber memories creep,
but I sit in silence,
awaiting the inevitable.
My life was complete twenty years before,
but for some reason the universe is keeping me around to experience more.
I should be scared.
I try to prepare.
The truth is, no one can ready themselves for that final journey.
stuck in this little wicker chair,
a prisoner in my own body,
yet so free.
The joints don't move like they used to,
and the visits are few and far in between,
but I am happy.
This is my time to relish.
The humidity,
and cool breezes blowing from the still lake.
Laughter carries,
and somber memories creep,
but I sit in silence,
awaiting the inevitable.
My life was complete twenty years before,
but for some reason the universe is keeping me around to experience more.
I should be scared.
I try to prepare.
The truth is, no one can ready themselves for that final journey.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Reaffirmation
The fairest touch can often tell a tale, worth telling.
I recall the longing of a worthy suitor,
only to be dumb struck and blind sided.
The journey wasn't meant to prolong,
only subside for a single night of instant gratification.
While many accept this familiar fate,
I continued to break a piece of my heart off to every available outlet.
Nobody warns you of the dark shadows waiting in back alleys,
circling you like prey.
No one can either.
Had I been told of the self discovery and heart ache I've experienced,
I might have turned around, and hid myself away.
The surprising factor of these maleficent acts,
is the developmental contributions,
to the person you're meant to be.
While I wish none of the loss, grievance, or insecurity to anyone,
I take none of it back.
Through the irrelevance, is strength.
A strength and confidence that continues to be tested,
and continually reaffirmed.
I recall the longing of a worthy suitor,
only to be dumb struck and blind sided.
The journey wasn't meant to prolong,
only subside for a single night of instant gratification.
While many accept this familiar fate,
I continued to break a piece of my heart off to every available outlet.
Nobody warns you of the dark shadows waiting in back alleys,
circling you like prey.
No one can either.
Had I been told of the self discovery and heart ache I've experienced,
I might have turned around, and hid myself away.
The surprising factor of these maleficent acts,
is the developmental contributions,
to the person you're meant to be.
While I wish none of the loss, grievance, or insecurity to anyone,
I take none of it back.
Through the irrelevance, is strength.
A strength and confidence that continues to be tested,
and continually reaffirmed.
The Devil Wears A Grin
I reminisce.
A time when I was a small child.
The bubble not yet burst.
The kindness of perfect strangers.
My parents making friends no matter the time or place.
Before the tyranny.
After the pestilence.
The shroud of anger.
A cry for attention.
The sexual agenda.
An idea of perfection.
Individuality.
Conformity.
Socialism.
The religious agenda.
A surge in my veins.
Drugs, to ease the mind.
Blind eyes and deaf hearts.
Yes, I am all of the above.
A time when I was a small child.
The bubble not yet burst.
The kindness of perfect strangers.
My parents making friends no matter the time or place.
Before the tyranny.
After the pestilence.
The shroud of anger.
A cry for attention.
The sexual agenda.
An idea of perfection.
Individuality.
Conformity.
Socialism.
The religious agenda.
A surge in my veins.
Drugs, to ease the mind.
Blind eyes and deaf hearts.
Yes, I am all of the above.
Let Freedom Ring
The installation of fly mechanics,
breaks the hearts pull strings.
We try to get high on consumer politics,
but the high becomes a steadily increasing artifact.
To summon the higher ups,
is to play god,
and tell a tale of tattle.
We cannot change the ignorance minds,
nor can we persuade them to do good.
We can only sit by and watch as mankind selflessly destructs.
I am grateful, and of sane mind, that I will not live to see it end.
To be free,
to express oneself,
to die young,
at my own self harm.
This is patriotism.
breaks the hearts pull strings.
We try to get high on consumer politics,
but the high becomes a steadily increasing artifact.
To summon the higher ups,
is to play god,
and tell a tale of tattle.
We cannot change the ignorance minds,
nor can we persuade them to do good.
We can only sit by and watch as mankind selflessly destructs.
I am grateful, and of sane mind, that I will not live to see it end.
To be free,
to express oneself,
to die young,
at my own self harm.
This is patriotism.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Swimming
This song.
One of the good ones.
The kind that evokes an energy, you once thought dissipated.
Like sparking a lighter and watching the flame burn.
A memory long lost, but not forgotten.
We cruise down the PCH.
Neither saying a word.
The sun is setting ahead of us.
The traffic from the city dissolved.
That was the night we both looked at one another and realized we were in love.
Neither had to say a word, but our thoughts became one.
Worries of the world stopped and suddenly we were in the now.
Up until then we had gotten too distracted by the unimportant crisis of our twenties.
Money,
society,
and future anxieties.
We had only heard of the bewitching spell the PCH had on people between LA and Malibu.
Now, we had fallen under its trance.
At one point the world stopped and we danced on the hood of the car in the middle of the highway.
Two ghosts, lost in the rocks and seaside.
Soul Fucked
Is it not enough to have to drag on in existence, flashing a merciless smile
and selling ones self to complete strangers?
I do it for the providence of my family,
but inside a part of me dies.
The child inside is no longer,
the adult has killed him and slung his body upside from a flagpole, dressed with the American flag.
These are the times one needs to decide if it's all worth the headache,
or if we allow the current headache to swell and metastasize.
No, I will not allow these devils to guise themselves inside me,
chew me up, and spit out its elderly remains.
I will continue to be headstrong to save the little piece of candy crushed soul that remains.
and selling ones self to complete strangers?
I do it for the providence of my family,
but inside a part of me dies.
The child inside is no longer,
the adult has killed him and slung his body upside from a flagpole, dressed with the American flag.
These are the times one needs to decide if it's all worth the headache,
or if we allow the current headache to swell and metastasize.
No, I will not allow these devils to guise themselves inside me,
chew me up, and spit out its elderly remains.
I will continue to be headstrong to save the little piece of candy crushed soul that remains.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Hellish Behavior
This weightlessness hurts.
I soar toward the sky,
while my frustrations,
bruise ego.
A template of pain,
to match the love sick scars.
Eternal life,
in this damn,
ineffective body.
Swollen ankles,
closed up soul.
I can't remember the last time I asked for nothing in return.
To let go,
is harder than inviting in.
Will it ever get any easier?
I soar toward the sky,
while my frustrations,
bruise ego.
A template of pain,
to match the love sick scars.
Eternal life,
in this damn,
ineffective body.
Swollen ankles,
closed up soul.
I can't remember the last time I asked for nothing in return.
To let go,
is harder than inviting in.
Will it ever get any easier?
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Skip to My Lou
I followed that broken wooden path,
like I had when I was a small girl.
A bright yellow balloon,
pristine bobby socks,
and perfect bouncing curls,
as I skipped the trail.
My how things have gone awry.
Somehow the balloon had come undone,
and floated toward the grey bleached sky.
Clouds thundered above,
sprinkling my coiffed curls with acid like droplets.
My bobby's became black with muck.
This was not the friendly childhood memory I was hoping,
but persistence pursued.
I needed to know what preceded me, at the end of this journey.
My skip became a limp, as the wooden boards splintered and cracked beneath me.
The trail lead on and on.
Hope was lost on me,
but I continued on,
no longer the adolescent dream I clung too.
like I had when I was a small girl.
A bright yellow balloon,
pristine bobby socks,
and perfect bouncing curls,
as I skipped the trail.
My how things have gone awry.
Somehow the balloon had come undone,
and floated toward the grey bleached sky.
Clouds thundered above,
sprinkling my coiffed curls with acid like droplets.
My bobby's became black with muck.
This was not the friendly childhood memory I was hoping,
but persistence pursued.
I needed to know what preceded me, at the end of this journey.
My skip became a limp, as the wooden boards splintered and cracked beneath me.
The trail lead on and on.
Hope was lost on me,
but I continued on,
no longer the adolescent dream I clung too.
Rings Upon Rings
Nicotine dreams, fuel the harden criminal rage that bubbles underneath my milky flesh.
Once I was young,
but alas,
these days tick on,
melting away the cherished ideal of happiness.
That heartfelt spring in my step has drowned.
The bags under my eyes darken like the rings within an aging tree trunk.
It's a particularly funny event, aging.
We try not to think of death, but in doing so we suppress a growing fear within all of us.
We live to love,
and love to survive,
but what happens to those without love or life?
Their insides wither and decay, while the soul beats on.
A place unreachable,
unmentionable,
and uninhabitable.
A place worse then death itself.
Once I was young,
but alas,
these days tick on,
melting away the cherished ideal of happiness.
That heartfelt spring in my step has drowned.
The bags under my eyes darken like the rings within an aging tree trunk.
It's a particularly funny event, aging.
We try not to think of death, but in doing so we suppress a growing fear within all of us.
We live to love,
and love to survive,
but what happens to those without love or life?
Their insides wither and decay, while the soul beats on.
A place unreachable,
unmentionable,
and uninhabitable.
A place worse then death itself.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Taco Bell
I'm that taco juiced, ratty, plastic garbage bag you threw out the window, after a night of hearty partying.
I hit the ground running and tumble in the middle of the street.
Cars run me over, but the wind pities me and blows me to the curb.
I'm a lone traveler, tumbling around town.
Some days it rains, and the water that gathers underneath, guides me toward the drain.
I'm to oblong and head strong to wash into the sewer.
I do my best to stay afloat, until the storm passes.
People pass by, unaware and unassuming.
I even see a business woman look right at me and shake her head in disgust.
The wind sends me on another adventure, but it is short lived.
The homeless have a tug of war with my handles, fighting to finish off any remains.
I'm that dirty plastic bag.
Created for good, used and discarded.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
All I Can Do Is Dream
I spend a good portion of my childhood fighting adolescence. People around me kept forcing me to grow up and I fought tooth and nail to stay the same. I didn't quite understand the pangs of growing up or why those most trusted around me had turned their back to me. Eventually evolution won, and the light inside began to die.
My teen years were spent adjusting to my new formed body and friends. Trying to fit in and feel comfortable in my own skin. Unfortunately, society pushed me into traffic once again and I yearned for independence and freedom.
My twenties were a liberating decade. Much of it spent exploring sexuality and declaring myself free as an independent. I managed to squander my potential and gather back some of my carefree dreamer attitude I had lost as a child.
Eventually my thirties caught up with me and defined the outskirts of life. With my family getting older, I was more in charge of my life than I had hoped for. I settled down, tried to stay out of trouble, and decided to live my life proactively.
This is where it ends, so far.
I often ponder about my next decade and whether I will live, learn and die, or remain in a state of panicked anxiety.
There are days of clarity, pulling back part of the curtain, and revealing the meaning of it all. It's usually short lived and quickly yanked closed, trapping me in my own anxiety and depression, but a beacon of light remains.
What I do know is that my current drive is to be heard artistically. To ignore the neigh-sayers and continue expressing myself. There are years of poems and art, cherished by unknown artists long dead. Enthusiasts find meaning and significance in these pieces, yet the original creators are a mystery. I like to believe that I will end my life in a similar fashion. That all these words, stories and conflicts won't be for naught.
May one day someone will discover my work, and display it with enthusiasm, for one connected soul to find meaning in it all.
Until then all I can do is dream, dream, dream.
To have a dream,
this is the hardest accomplishment in life.
My teen years were spent adjusting to my new formed body and friends. Trying to fit in and feel comfortable in my own skin. Unfortunately, society pushed me into traffic once again and I yearned for independence and freedom.
My twenties were a liberating decade. Much of it spent exploring sexuality and declaring myself free as an independent. I managed to squander my potential and gather back some of my carefree dreamer attitude I had lost as a child.
Eventually my thirties caught up with me and defined the outskirts of life. With my family getting older, I was more in charge of my life than I had hoped for. I settled down, tried to stay out of trouble, and decided to live my life proactively.
This is where it ends, so far.
I often ponder about my next decade and whether I will live, learn and die, or remain in a state of panicked anxiety.
There are days of clarity, pulling back part of the curtain, and revealing the meaning of it all. It's usually short lived and quickly yanked closed, trapping me in my own anxiety and depression, but a beacon of light remains.
What I do know is that my current drive is to be heard artistically. To ignore the neigh-sayers and continue expressing myself. There are years of poems and art, cherished by unknown artists long dead. Enthusiasts find meaning and significance in these pieces, yet the original creators are a mystery. I like to believe that I will end my life in a similar fashion. That all these words, stories and conflicts won't be for naught.
May one day someone will discover my work, and display it with enthusiasm, for one connected soul to find meaning in it all.
Until then all I can do is dream, dream, dream.
To have a dream,
this is the hardest accomplishment in life.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Sand Storm
Weather,
worry some,
wandering.
Somehow I woke up in this desert abyss.
I have no option, but to face the harsh sands,
whipping and blowing across my cheeks,
penetrating the moisture in my eyes.
I cough and gag,
but the dryness finds its way in.
Hyper pool,
and lolly gagging,
I think I see an oasis in the distance.
Alas, it's one of those desert dreams.
The mind plays a horrible trick,
twisting reality and finding it's own way to cope under the circumstances.
The sand feels as if it's up to my knees.
I try not to dig my heels in
as I stomp through the disaster,
but it makes no difference.
Death come quick.
My mind wanders to that night we went to the town social.
You, pretty in pink,
me, dressed down in torn trousers and a mangled tie.
Even though others heckled,
you never once held your head in shame.
We tangled with the best of them,
and danced until their jealousy erupted.
I'll never forget the tragic moments.
The game changers.
That one night love.
worry some,
wandering.
Somehow I woke up in this desert abyss.
I have no option, but to face the harsh sands,
whipping and blowing across my cheeks,
penetrating the moisture in my eyes.
I cough and gag,
but the dryness finds its way in.
Hyper pool,
and lolly gagging,
I think I see an oasis in the distance.
Alas, it's one of those desert dreams.
The mind plays a horrible trick,
twisting reality and finding it's own way to cope under the circumstances.
The sand feels as if it's up to my knees.
I try not to dig my heels in
as I stomp through the disaster,
but it makes no difference.
Death come quick.
My mind wanders to that night we went to the town social.
You, pretty in pink,
me, dressed down in torn trousers and a mangled tie.
Even though others heckled,
you never once held your head in shame.
We tangled with the best of them,
and danced until their jealousy erupted.
I'll never forget the tragic moments.
The game changers.
That one night love.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Cruising
Glasses off,
feet on the dash.
Glance in the passenger side mirror,
as my hair wipes through the wind.
This is truly living.
Feel my phone buzz in my pocket,
chuck it out the window,
cursing modern tech.
Cannot fathom being inside,
studying,
dreaming,
and hoping for freedom.
Maybe I'll go home,
settle in,
be a good girl,
and become the thing my parents always asked me to be.
No,
I think I'll stay in this moment.
Turn the radio up,
arm dance,
simultaneously running a finger across his shaggy beard.
I know what he's after,
most boys for that matter.
If he plays his cards right,
I might reward him.
Instead I'll play the role of Lolita,
not letting on that I'm a smart girl.
Wicked intentions aside,
I'm in control,
and will lead him to his inevitable death.
Death by female scorn.
feet on the dash.
Glance in the passenger side mirror,
as my hair wipes through the wind.
This is truly living.
Feel my phone buzz in my pocket,
chuck it out the window,
cursing modern tech.
Cannot fathom being inside,
studying,
dreaming,
and hoping for freedom.
Maybe I'll go home,
settle in,
be a good girl,
and become the thing my parents always asked me to be.
No,
I think I'll stay in this moment.
Turn the radio up,
arm dance,
simultaneously running a finger across his shaggy beard.
I know what he's after,
most boys for that matter.
If he plays his cards right,
I might reward him.
Instead I'll play the role of Lolita,
not letting on that I'm a smart girl.
Wicked intentions aside,
I'm in control,
and will lead him to his inevitable death.
Death by female scorn.
Letters From The Grave
To Whomever,
Truly appreciate the time you have left. Whether it's just begun, or is ending soon, your time living is a time to cherish. You often hear of the dead fighting so hard to live, or the living ending it before they have time to develop and flourish.
Those that act rash, often fight to get back, due to the heaven, hell complex.
After life, there are two paths.
Dark, and dreary, or joyous and ever so ominous.
Both are unsatisfactory lifestyles.
It is life that gives you a taste of both.
True, many spend a great time wallowing in the darkness, letting the hurt and embarrassment engulf them, but it's these moments that truly show us happiness.
The best example I can give is when I used to work until I bled. I would put in ten hour days, barely eating or sleeping, just to save for retirement, give my family provensials or to save for a vacation. In the end it was worth it. To see my families smiling faces, to endure love and respect for my actions and to be secured after I worked by relaxing on a tropical beach, was a moment of pure bliss.
Death cannot provide these things.
Life provides an equal balance.
So enjoy the conflictions, because when you are dead and gone they either stay with you for eternity, or you are perpetually stuck in shiny bubble with no escape.
Truly appreciate the time you have left. Whether it's just begun, or is ending soon, your time living is a time to cherish. You often hear of the dead fighting so hard to live, or the living ending it before they have time to develop and flourish.
Those that act rash, often fight to get back, due to the heaven, hell complex.
After life, there are two paths.
Dark, and dreary, or joyous and ever so ominous.
Both are unsatisfactory lifestyles.
It is life that gives you a taste of both.
True, many spend a great time wallowing in the darkness, letting the hurt and embarrassment engulf them, but it's these moments that truly show us happiness.
The best example I can give is when I used to work until I bled. I would put in ten hour days, barely eating or sleeping, just to save for retirement, give my family provensials or to save for a vacation. In the end it was worth it. To see my families smiling faces, to endure love and respect for my actions and to be secured after I worked by relaxing on a tropical beach, was a moment of pure bliss.
Death cannot provide these things.
Life provides an equal balance.
So enjoy the conflictions, because when you are dead and gone they either stay with you for eternity, or you are perpetually stuck in shiny bubble with no escape.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
That Little Purple Pill
It's been five years since I wrote "Taxi Cab To Hell" and nothings been as good.
It all seems like a distant memory, or nightmare, depending on how you look at it.
The critics have ravaged and destroyed my reputation as a writer.
I've tried to recapture that night by immersing myself with every street drug I could find.
Ex, coke, heroin, angel dust, grass, acid, bennies, crystal meth, downers, peyote, red devils, skittles, pep pills, yellow jackets.
Nothing compares to that little purple pill I found in that taxi cab.
I've explored the black market and either been ripped off, or Chris Hansen'd.
My reputation for a pill popping, drug enfuled, skeezer hasn't' helped my career, but I've realized within this short time, that I owe credit, when credit is due.
My health and financials have suffered a great deal within the last five, but I'm desperate to trade it all in for that one last high.
Not from the drug, but from the creative visions I received on that shit cold night in February.
It seemed to have all been lost.
I was being evicted, for not paying my rent.
No one would hire me because of my tailspin.
People just wanted to be near me, so they could score.
I had become a washed up hack writer with a problem.
I received a plain white envelope under my door yesterday.
Inside I found a small purple pill.
I've come across many over the last few years.
To me, they were a dime a dozen.
Purple capsules, with nothing more than a little PCP or tylenol inside.
Ordinarily I would pop it right away, with the optimism that this was it.
By this time in my life, I had grown tired.
My body ached from the amount of damage I had put it through.
Instead, I emptied it out in the toilet and threw the capsule away.
When I returned to the entry way, I noticed the same plain envelope under my door.
Inside, the same capsule.
I had asked my neighbors if they had seen anything, but most of them were short with me.
In fact, I never really saw their entire face, because I was always kept at a distance while they spoke to me through the chain behind their door.
I had become an unpredictable monster, alienating strangers.
Again, I tossed the pill, only to find it under my door when I returned from the bathroom.
I tested the theory again, dumping the pill and rushing to my front door.
There lied another envelope.
My peep hole revealed no one.
I leered down my hallway, but it was empty.
The next few minutes I sat in anticipating staring at the envelope, still under my door.
I thought about all of the doctors warnings, and advice from therapy groups and AA meetings I was forced to attend.
When had enough been enough?
I had decided long ago, I would only fall off the wagon for one last bender, when I was absolutely, positively sure I had found my purple mountain majesty.
My research showed that there was no documented drug with the description and effect I had experienced, but eventually evolved into an urban legend, of sorts, amongst teens.
Everyone had become obsessed with finding that great, purple high.
Kids dubbed it Purple Mountain Majesty.
This only ruined my reputation more.
My shitty little piece had become a cult phenomena, inspiring kids around the world to party hard and pop pills.
Did I really want to go down this path again?
With every bender, I felt I had truly hit rock bottom, but maybe this time was it.
The contents might not be "the one," but it could quite possibly be the one that ends it all.
I had decided, if this was going to be it, that I should put myself back in the whiskey coma that started this whole entire thing.
I removed the rest of my Makers Mark from under the sink and guzzled it.
My stomach burned, but there was no effect on my throat.
Perhaps, the drugs completely numbed all my senses.
I continued to stare at the envelope, while the alcohol kicked in.
It was a different kind of lull.
One that I wasn't used to, but I always preferred alcohol and weed, over any of the hard core stuff.
Once I was good and shit faced, I stumbled toward the door and lied down next to the envelope.
I blessed myself and said a prayer, hoping this was it.
I reached for the pill, remembering a simpler time.
Debbie had crossed my mind.
Someone I hadn't thought about in years.
Between my fingers I rolled the purple capsule.
Pessimistic about its potency, but optimistic it would do me in.
I let it rest on the tip of my tongue, before fulling swallowing.
The purple casing began to disolve.
I tried to swallow it, but it melded to my tongue, before I had the choice.
The after taste was a bitter key lime.
My entire mouth became cotton mouthed.
When I tried lubricating with my spit, the flavor exploded in my mouth.
A bloody after taste.
I shot up immediately, with my back to the front door.
I waited anxiously, taking inventory of the items around me.
My eyes furiously darted around the room.
Left, to right.
Ceiling to floor.
Axis to axis.
The floor beneath me began to vibrate.
I touched its cool surface feeling it thud louder and louder.
It was as if my neighbor below had begun blasting a large bass speaker.
I listened as the bass grew, shaking various picture frames and items nailed to my walls.
Suddenly I was assaulted by a disco beat.
Chris Gibsons vocals kicked in as "Que Sera Mi Vida" by Gibson Brothers shook my entire apartment.
I covered my ears, but the music grew louder, echoing from the palms of my hands.
The bass kicked so hard, that my heart began to flutter irregularly.
I started to choke as my heart caught up to the beat.
My lungs deflated and everything in my apartment began to shake and bounce, as if it were the dice being popped in the center of the board game Trouble.
I tried balancing, but the vibrations were too rough.
All four walls began closing in, making the room smaller.
I would take one step forward and the wall in front of me would knock me to the ground.
Suddenly I was catapulted from the floor to the ceiling, as the room inverted 180 degrees.
The walls began to expand, opening the room up.
Arms punched through the ground beneath me, crackling through dry wall.
Glittered, disco zombies began to crawl through the open holes.
The music only grew louder, and all they wanted to do was dance.
I tried reaching out to one, but one my fingers was bit off.
The zombie spit it to the ground, and I watched it limp away.
In a millisecond, I blinked and my apartment had transformed into the Studio 54 type nightclub I had seen the first time I took this pill.
My heart literaly jumped for joy and exploded from my chest.
I watched it as it sprouted wings and flew off.
The hole in my chest closed up and healed.
Glitter rained from the ceiling.
Girls roller skated across the dance floor.
They were topless and sporting hot pants.
On top of their shoulders, rested emotionless mannequin heads.
The rest of their bodies moved and shimmied to the beat.
The zombies became entranced by my fluttering heart and began to pile over one another, trying to obtain it.
One had grazed it creating a pain my chest.
I winced over in pain, as another scratched their fingernails against it.
Even though it wasn't in my body, I could feel we were still connected.
It had become a race to protect it from the feeding frenzy, but there were too many of them.
The roller skating mannequins had begun roller skating backwards.
They spun their heads backward to face me as they did.
I tried passing by them, but they surrounded me like locusts.
An evil smile formed on their lifeless faces.
One of the zombies had gotten hold of my heart and bit into it like an apple.
A gripping pain, shuttered through out my body.
The zombie moaned in ecstasy and handed it to another one.
One by one the lot took a small bite, passing it around.
With each bite I felt myself grow weaker.
It had found itself on a silver platter being passed around the club by a club waitress like an Hor Douvre.
When it had reached me there was one last bite.
I was rendered lifeless on a green velvet stretch couch.
The music had become noise and the party for me was over.
This was not the trip I had anticipated.
I watched as my dime sized heart tried to skip one last beat to the bass, but it was useless.
The zombie, mannequin, massacre on the dance floor had parted like the red sea.
A Greek goddess in all white emerged from between them and floated toward me.
The first thing I noticed was her golden blond hair.
She reached for the last piece of my heart and gripped it in her palm.
It was Debbie.
She placed it in her mouth and leaned in for a kiss.
I felt it squish between her teeth and spit into my mouth.
My body had exploded and suddenly I was myself again.
Mechanical legs, and angel wings.
She rode on my back as we soared above the club, through the roof and into the sky.
The music faded beneath us and the stars surrounded us.
She tightened her grip around my neck and we soared through the infinite sky, never looking back.
It all seems like a distant memory, or nightmare, depending on how you look at it.
The critics have ravaged and destroyed my reputation as a writer.
I've tried to recapture that night by immersing myself with every street drug I could find.
Ex, coke, heroin, angel dust, grass, acid, bennies, crystal meth, downers, peyote, red devils, skittles, pep pills, yellow jackets.
Nothing compares to that little purple pill I found in that taxi cab.
I've explored the black market and either been ripped off, or Chris Hansen'd.
My reputation for a pill popping, drug enfuled, skeezer hasn't' helped my career, but I've realized within this short time, that I owe credit, when credit is due.
My health and financials have suffered a great deal within the last five, but I'm desperate to trade it all in for that one last high.
Not from the drug, but from the creative visions I received on that shit cold night in February.
It seemed to have all been lost.
I was being evicted, for not paying my rent.
No one would hire me because of my tailspin.
People just wanted to be near me, so they could score.
I had become a washed up hack writer with a problem.
I received a plain white envelope under my door yesterday.
Inside I found a small purple pill.
I've come across many over the last few years.
To me, they were a dime a dozen.
Purple capsules, with nothing more than a little PCP or tylenol inside.
Ordinarily I would pop it right away, with the optimism that this was it.
By this time in my life, I had grown tired.
My body ached from the amount of damage I had put it through.
Instead, I emptied it out in the toilet and threw the capsule away.
When I returned to the entry way, I noticed the same plain envelope under my door.
Inside, the same capsule.
I had asked my neighbors if they had seen anything, but most of them were short with me.
In fact, I never really saw their entire face, because I was always kept at a distance while they spoke to me through the chain behind their door.
I had become an unpredictable monster, alienating strangers.
Again, I tossed the pill, only to find it under my door when I returned from the bathroom.
I tested the theory again, dumping the pill and rushing to my front door.
There lied another envelope.
My peep hole revealed no one.
I leered down my hallway, but it was empty.
The next few minutes I sat in anticipating staring at the envelope, still under my door.
I thought about all of the doctors warnings, and advice from therapy groups and AA meetings I was forced to attend.
When had enough been enough?
I had decided long ago, I would only fall off the wagon for one last bender, when I was absolutely, positively sure I had found my purple mountain majesty.
My research showed that there was no documented drug with the description and effect I had experienced, but eventually evolved into an urban legend, of sorts, amongst teens.
Everyone had become obsessed with finding that great, purple high.
Kids dubbed it Purple Mountain Majesty.
This only ruined my reputation more.
My shitty little piece had become a cult phenomena, inspiring kids around the world to party hard and pop pills.
Did I really want to go down this path again?
With every bender, I felt I had truly hit rock bottom, but maybe this time was it.
The contents might not be "the one," but it could quite possibly be the one that ends it all.
I had decided, if this was going to be it, that I should put myself back in the whiskey coma that started this whole entire thing.
I removed the rest of my Makers Mark from under the sink and guzzled it.
My stomach burned, but there was no effect on my throat.
Perhaps, the drugs completely numbed all my senses.
I continued to stare at the envelope, while the alcohol kicked in.
It was a different kind of lull.
One that I wasn't used to, but I always preferred alcohol and weed, over any of the hard core stuff.
Once I was good and shit faced, I stumbled toward the door and lied down next to the envelope.
I blessed myself and said a prayer, hoping this was it.
I reached for the pill, remembering a simpler time.
Debbie had crossed my mind.
Someone I hadn't thought about in years.
Between my fingers I rolled the purple capsule.
Pessimistic about its potency, but optimistic it would do me in.
I let it rest on the tip of my tongue, before fulling swallowing.
The purple casing began to disolve.
I tried to swallow it, but it melded to my tongue, before I had the choice.
The after taste was a bitter key lime.
My entire mouth became cotton mouthed.
When I tried lubricating with my spit, the flavor exploded in my mouth.
A bloody after taste.
I shot up immediately, with my back to the front door.
I waited anxiously, taking inventory of the items around me.
My eyes furiously darted around the room.
Left, to right.
Ceiling to floor.
Axis to axis.
The floor beneath me began to vibrate.
I touched its cool surface feeling it thud louder and louder.
It was as if my neighbor below had begun blasting a large bass speaker.
I listened as the bass grew, shaking various picture frames and items nailed to my walls.
Suddenly I was assaulted by a disco beat.
Chris Gibsons vocals kicked in as "Que Sera Mi Vida" by Gibson Brothers shook my entire apartment.
I covered my ears, but the music grew louder, echoing from the palms of my hands.
The bass kicked so hard, that my heart began to flutter irregularly.
I started to choke as my heart caught up to the beat.
My lungs deflated and everything in my apartment began to shake and bounce, as if it were the dice being popped in the center of the board game Trouble.
I tried balancing, but the vibrations were too rough.
All four walls began closing in, making the room smaller.
I would take one step forward and the wall in front of me would knock me to the ground.
Suddenly I was catapulted from the floor to the ceiling, as the room inverted 180 degrees.
The walls began to expand, opening the room up.
Arms punched through the ground beneath me, crackling through dry wall.
Glittered, disco zombies began to crawl through the open holes.
The music only grew louder, and all they wanted to do was dance.
I tried reaching out to one, but one my fingers was bit off.
The zombie spit it to the ground, and I watched it limp away.
In a millisecond, I blinked and my apartment had transformed into the Studio 54 type nightclub I had seen the first time I took this pill.
My heart literaly jumped for joy and exploded from my chest.
I watched it as it sprouted wings and flew off.
The hole in my chest closed up and healed.
Glitter rained from the ceiling.
Girls roller skated across the dance floor.
They were topless and sporting hot pants.
On top of their shoulders, rested emotionless mannequin heads.
The rest of their bodies moved and shimmied to the beat.
The zombies became entranced by my fluttering heart and began to pile over one another, trying to obtain it.
One had grazed it creating a pain my chest.
I winced over in pain, as another scratched their fingernails against it.
Even though it wasn't in my body, I could feel we were still connected.
It had become a race to protect it from the feeding frenzy, but there were too many of them.
The roller skating mannequins had begun roller skating backwards.
They spun their heads backward to face me as they did.
I tried passing by them, but they surrounded me like locusts.
An evil smile formed on their lifeless faces.
One of the zombies had gotten hold of my heart and bit into it like an apple.
A gripping pain, shuttered through out my body.
The zombie moaned in ecstasy and handed it to another one.
One by one the lot took a small bite, passing it around.
With each bite I felt myself grow weaker.
It had found itself on a silver platter being passed around the club by a club waitress like an Hor Douvre.
When it had reached me there was one last bite.
I was rendered lifeless on a green velvet stretch couch.
The music had become noise and the party for me was over.
This was not the trip I had anticipated.
I watched as my dime sized heart tried to skip one last beat to the bass, but it was useless.
The zombie, mannequin, massacre on the dance floor had parted like the red sea.
A Greek goddess in all white emerged from between them and floated toward me.
The first thing I noticed was her golden blond hair.
She reached for the last piece of my heart and gripped it in her palm.
It was Debbie.
She placed it in her mouth and leaned in for a kiss.
I felt it squish between her teeth and spit into my mouth.
My body had exploded and suddenly I was myself again.
Mechanical legs, and angel wings.
She rode on my back as we soared above the club, through the roof and into the sky.
The music faded beneath us and the stars surrounded us.
She tightened her grip around my neck and we soared through the infinite sky, never looking back.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Brick House
Bruce, in order for this to work, you're going to have to confide in me. I need you to establish a certain level of trust. Can you do that for me? Yes? Good. Now close your eyes and tell me what you see...
I'm not quite certain. It's mostly shapes and colors.
If you concentrate hard enough you'll be able to form these shapes into specific memories. Don't worry about their descriptions, just focus in your mind and let go.
I...
Bruce?
I am but twelve.
Carry on.
A faceless wonder in a sea of memories.
I wander down a familiar block. It's one of those cookie cutter projects where the streets and houses all look alike.
The sky is dark, except for some rain clouds, yet the sun shines brightly on a two story, red bricked house in the distance.
I want to run there, to get out of the rain, but the muscles in my leg beat to their own drum.
The streets are empty.
I notice a plastic ball being pushed down the street toward me by the wind. It looks like a globe you'd find in my childhood classroom. The map of the countries is quite faded, but retains its shapes.
My legs stop marching and I watch as the ball passes by me, zig-zagging down the street toward a new intersection.
My neck feels as if it's completely turned around in the direction of the ball, as my legs start working again.
Eventually I make it to the house, but I'm too afraid to go in.
Why?
Because I know what's waiting for me behind that yellow, paint chipped door.
Is it him?
Yes.
You needn't be afraid, he can't hurt you. Go in.
No.
Yes.
No.
If you don't, I will.
You don't know what's behind that door.
There's only one way to find out.
The rain. It's picking up.
Go inside Bruce.
I can't. My legs are broken.
Use your arms. Pull yourself forward.
It's no use. My legs are cemented to the ground.
For heaven's sake Bruce....
Don't!
Gwendolyn?
Gwendolyn? Are you okay?
Bruce.
What do you see?
Bruce, where are you?
Outside.
Bruce, I can't see.
You need to get out!
It's too dark, I can't find the door.
Follow my voice.
There's...there's something near.
It's him. He's found you.
I feel something hot on my neck.
You need to run. Get out of there!
Bruce is that you?
No. Run!
BRUCE!!
Gwendolyn?!
Gwen?
Saturday, February 28, 2015
All Cracked Up
The ice is splitting and spindling below me,
as the sun soaked sky cries.
Why must we learn to slowly trip and slide across the thin surface,
before we can smoothly glide by?
I often recall and reflect,
more often than I should,
while trying to get out of these icy situations,
but the truth of the matter is,
dreams are hopes of the past.
There comes a time when we need to replace the deceased,
learning,
growing,
teaching.
I for one am kicking and screaming at the chance to stay young.
Too bad the ice has broken beneath me.
as the sun soaked sky cries.
Why must we learn to slowly trip and slide across the thin surface,
before we can smoothly glide by?
I often recall and reflect,
more often than I should,
while trying to get out of these icy situations,
but the truth of the matter is,
dreams are hopes of the past.
There comes a time when we need to replace the deceased,
learning,
growing,
teaching.
I for one am kicking and screaming at the chance to stay young.
Too bad the ice has broken beneath me.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Fight!
I hear that daily siren,
beckoning,
pleading,
and prodding for me to join the rest.
My mind swirls as I fight off the infection.
I wander the city,
covered in filth,
terrified,
and alone.
They will not control me.
I hide behind a pile of garbage,
hoping not to be spotted,as the masses march toward their meeting place.
The garbage smell doesn't bother me,
since the entire planet is now a dumping ground.
I see a young woman doing the same as I across the courtyard,
but can't get to her in time to help.
The sirens grow louder,
so does their stomping.
They close in on her location and she panics.
She tries to run,
but they surround her and begin to chant.
The group lock arms and begin to sing.
The girl tries to cover her ears,
but the noise begins to seep in to her.
I cup my noise cancelling head phones safety fastened to my head.
I want to look away,
but like all the times before,
I can't help watching them take her.
She writhes in agony,
as the group closes in on her
singing,
smiling
and chanting their fables.
The group put their hands on her,
sprinkling drops of water upon her head.
I see it cleansing her independence,
slowly overtaking her.
Eventually she stops fighting,
and stands to join them.
The group rejoices,
continuing with their praise.
I discreetly follow them as they stomp toward the cathedral they dwell in.
The doors to the cathedral ruins fling open as their priests and prophets await in open arms another follower.
Damn.
Another one lost to contagious reckoning.
beckoning,
pleading,
and prodding for me to join the rest.
My mind swirls as I fight off the infection.
I wander the city,
covered in filth,
terrified,
and alone.
They will not control me.
I hide behind a pile of garbage,
hoping not to be spotted,as the masses march toward their meeting place.
The garbage smell doesn't bother me,
since the entire planet is now a dumping ground.
I see a young woman doing the same as I across the courtyard,
but can't get to her in time to help.
The sirens grow louder,
so does their stomping.
They close in on her location and she panics.
She tries to run,
but they surround her and begin to chant.
The group lock arms and begin to sing.
The girl tries to cover her ears,
but the noise begins to seep in to her.
I cup my noise cancelling head phones safety fastened to my head.
I want to look away,
but like all the times before,
I can't help watching them take her.
She writhes in agony,
as the group closes in on her
singing,
smiling
and chanting their fables.
The group put their hands on her,
sprinkling drops of water upon her head.
I see it cleansing her independence,
slowly overtaking her.
Eventually she stops fighting,
and stands to join them.
The group rejoices,
continuing with their praise.
I discreetly follow them as they stomp toward the cathedral they dwell in.
The doors to the cathedral ruins fling open as their priests and prophets await in open arms another follower.
Damn.
Another one lost to contagious reckoning.
Friday, January 30, 2015
The Suicide Letter
Help me forget my life.
My weekends, consist mostly of getting high, watching bad movies, and binging on brownies.
Make me forget all the horrible, nasty thoughts, that crossed through my mind this week. All of the improper and socially unacceptable things I've said out loud in fits of anger and fatigue.
The nights seem longer then previous years as the bitter cold creeps back in to our lives to inhabit us once again and run a muck.
Last week I wrote my own suicide letter.
I had no intention of publishing it or carrying the deed out, but I was so grief struck, that I wanted to see if I had it in me.
I re-read it this week to get an idea of how horribly un-educational the entire thing was. To my surprise it was actually well written. It might actually be one of the best pieces of work I've created in a long time. Not because of its morbid content, but because it was written with empathy, drive and purpose. It covered all the finer points in my life, while managing to avoid self pity. If I were to read it from an outsiders perspective I would understand its purpose and feel no shame if they wrote the same.
Sometimes actions don't need justifications. There are few tragic circumstances that happen for reasons we later understand.
This is one of those moments.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Results
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't being selfish in this exact moment.
When he told me there was something wrong, my mind instantly flashed ten years to the future and I imagined my life without him.
Without friends, or family.
Whether I would make it on my own.
Whether the darkness would finally consume me and lead me down the inevitable dark path that has clouded me since youth.
All troubling thoughts, that shouldn't cross my mind until the diagnosis, but yet I worry.
I relax my face as the doctor enters the room, but know that the sweat from my palms will be my tell.
We receive a preliminary explanation of the tests and what the results could or could not mean.
The doctor drags it out as long as he can.
Warning signs go off in my head.
He clears his throat before telling us the results and it's as if time has stopped.
Everything is frozen.
I turn away from them and let out a shuttering whimper before turning back.
Time has unpaused.
I hear what he is saying but start to feel as if I'm falling from the top of a sky scraper.
He takes my hand, eyes glossy, but never one for the theatrics.
Suddenly I am lost, drowning in a thick syrupy pool of black.
When he told me there was something wrong, my mind instantly flashed ten years to the future and I imagined my life without him.
Without friends, or family.
Whether I would make it on my own.
Whether the darkness would finally consume me and lead me down the inevitable dark path that has clouded me since youth.
All troubling thoughts, that shouldn't cross my mind until the diagnosis, but yet I worry.
I relax my face as the doctor enters the room, but know that the sweat from my palms will be my tell.
We receive a preliminary explanation of the tests and what the results could or could not mean.
The doctor drags it out as long as he can.
Warning signs go off in my head.
He clears his throat before telling us the results and it's as if time has stopped.
Everything is frozen.
I turn away from them and let out a shuttering whimper before turning back.
Time has unpaused.
I hear what he is saying but start to feel as if I'm falling from the top of a sky scraper.
He takes my hand, eyes glossy, but never one for the theatrics.
Suddenly I am lost, drowning in a thick syrupy pool of black.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
The Ornament
Peter Pueblo awoke from his irritating bedside alarm.
He lied staring at the ceiling, while his wife pleasantly snored next to him.
What followed was the usual routine:
A freezing 6:00 A.M. walk around the block, so the dog could do its business.
A scalding hot shower to warm his frozen bones.
A quick dry shave.
Moisturizer.
Blow dry.
Style.
Get dressed.
Morning paper, and midnight black coffee.
Corn Pops.
Feed the remaining milk in the cereal bowl to the dog.
Teeth brush.
Mouthwash.
A dab of aftershave.
Scarf.
Coat.
Hat.
Gloves.
Get the car to come to a grumbling start.
Brush the fresh snow from the car.
Scrape at the windshield for any remaining ice, until the muscles in your arms throb.
Carefully drive to work.
Scan your badge for the parking structure.
Follow the masses through the revolving doors to work.
Remove the cold weather armor.
Settle in to your cubical.
Mindlessly data enter.
Lunch.
More data entry.
Bundle up.
Sit in traffic.
Arrive home.
Take the dog out for a walk.
Shovel the driveway and sidewalk.
Carelessly wave to the neighbors.
Fight with the wife.
Eat her shitty dinner she prepared.
Watch the evening news and whatever Lifetime show she has on.
Take the dog out one more time.
Some light reading before bed.
Attempt at sex.
Denial.
Lights out.
Seven hours of sleep.
Morning alarm.
Peter stared at the ceiling as he had every morning.
Sirens peaked his interest.
He bundled up and fastened the dog in its harness.
A few blocks out of his usual dog walking path, he noticed a commotion.
Peter lead the dog toward the noise, as neighbors stood outside their houses, watching the fire department hosing down a dilapidated house. The smell of fire and embers tickled his throat as he approached.
An ambulance screeched away from the house.
Peter felt bad, but knew there was nothing he could do. He led the dog back on course and rounded back to his house.
He resumed his daily routine, until he returned home from work.
His interest was once again peaked at the commotion he witnessed in the morning.
He led the dog toward the burnt down building and noticed a pile of burnt belongings stacked near the curb with the trash. Among them a fried Christmas tree with broken and melted ornaments still on the tree.
A glimmer within the tree caught his eye. While the dog did its business on the piles of garbage, Peter moved some of the crisp branches and found an untouched silver ornament in perfect condition.
Peter perused the neighborhood, before removing it and sliding it in his pocket.
Upon leaving the scene, he noticed the silhouette of an old woman peaking out behind her shade.
He waved to her, but she slowly stepped away from the window.
Peter returned home, removed the ornament from his pocket and buried it near the middle of his Christmas tree, to avoid any suspicious questions from the wife.
That night, while eating another terrible meal, the wife began to cough. It was a slow cough that inevitably turned into a hard one.
It appeared that she was choking. Peter tried giving her some sort of Heimlich, but whatever was lodged in her throat wasn't budging.
She dropped to the floor writhing in agony, as he tried slapping the back of her neck.
Her face became blue.
Peter called 911 for any assistance.
The operator gave him stern instructions on how to properly do the Heimlich.
Three hard jolts to the abdomen, a bone was spit out leaving the wife gasping for air.
She passed out.
Peter anxiously awaited for medical help.
The ambulance came and the medical team did the best they could do to revive her.
She was taken to the hospital for an overnight.
Peter waited by her side, but she was oxygenated and put out with meds, to rest.
He feel asleep next to her side and was awoken by heavy breathing.
Standing over him and his wife was a hospital patient with horrible burn scars and bandages wrapped around their head.
Peter couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but the patient grabbed hold of his wrist and crackled out a whisper "you have to get rid of it."
Afraid, Peter pulled back his wrist, but the patient wouldn't leave him alone.
Again, the patient crackled "get it out!"
Peter hit the panic button by his wife's side and protected her from their hellish visitor.
Nurses arrived, escorting the patient out, who began violently kicking and screaming.
Peter was afraid.
A nurse had explained that the patient was delirious from medications due to the wounds being fresh.
He had more of a reason to want to stay next to his wife's side, but the hospital staff had told him he needed to leave until the next visiting hours.
Reluctantly, Peter agreed, kissing his wife good bye.
He returned home to a dark house.
In the living room, the dog was aggressively growling.
Peter flipped a light on and found the dog standing in front of the Christmas tree.
Peter called for the dog, but it continued barking at the tree.
Peter reached for the dogs collar and in turn was snapped at.
He tried again and the dog went berserk, attacking him.
Peter was pinned to the ground, as the dog chomped down on his arm and shook it.
Blood trickled on the carpet as Peter tried overpowering the animal, but it didn't let up.
He reached for anything he could to fight the dog off, but the tree was the closest thing.
He pulled at a branch to topple it on top of the dog and get loose.
A few ornaments crashed over the dogs head and on Peter, but didn't loosen its grip.
With Peters other free hand, he punched the dog in the head and pushed it off of him.
The dog lunged at him, but he ripped a glass ornament from off the tress and flung it at the dog.
Again, he struck the dog with a new ornament, until the silver ornament was the only one left.
He reached for it and struck the dog.
As it collided with the pet, the house lights sparked and blew out.
Peter backed away from the animal, expecting another attack, but there was no commotion or noise.
He shuffled to the kitchen, removing a large flashlight from a cabinet and a knife from the wood block.
He returned to the scene of the crime and scanned the living room. The dog was no where to be found.
A crunch under his feet, startled him.
He shined the light on a broken ornament under his shoe.
Next to it lied the silver ornament he used to strike the dog.
Peter scooped it into his hand.
At that moment, the lights flickered back on.
Expecting the beast to attack he turned every which way, but the dog was no where in site.
Peter searched every nook and cranny of the house, but could not locate the dog.
He decided to bandage his wound and clean up the mess.
He discarded all the broken ornaments into the garbage and threw in the silver one.
Peter put the trash on the street corner and returned to the house.
He cracked a beer and put the Christmas tree back up right.
There in the middle of the tree hung the silver ornament he had just threw out.
Perplexed, he removed it and discarded it into the trash.
When he returned to the living room, he noticed it hanging in the same spot.
Swigging another drink, he returned to the trash can, searching for the one he just threw out, but it was no where to be found.
He returned to the tree, removed the ornament and walked it out to the trash sitting on the front curb.
Back inside, he returned to the tree, noticing the same silver ornament hanging in its rightful spot.
He removed it and stomped on the delicate ornament, but it didn't break.
Peter raided his tool box and cracked a hammer against the plastic ornament, but it left no damage.
He tried a power drill, then a power saw, running it over with the car and burying it in the snow, but none could destroy it.
After a long and exhausting trial, Peter gave up and curbed the entire tree.
He drowned his sorrows with half a bottle of jack and passed out.
When he awoke, his lungs were on fire, along with the rest of the room.
He sprung from his bed and tried escaping the enclosed fire, but was trapped.
The ceiling had collapsed and pinned him down.
The flames rose higher, whipping and whirling at him, as if they were alive.
They engulfed his body, burning him up until he could no longer scream.
Later that night, a group of firemen removed his body and mounted it on a stretcher.
One firemen caught site of the glimmering ornament hanging on the curbed tree.
He removed it and showed it to the others.
When they returned to the station, the ornament was mounted on a small fake tree mounted in the kitchen.
He lied staring at the ceiling, while his wife pleasantly snored next to him.
What followed was the usual routine:
A freezing 6:00 A.M. walk around the block, so the dog could do its business.
A scalding hot shower to warm his frozen bones.
A quick dry shave.
Moisturizer.
Blow dry.
Style.
Get dressed.
Morning paper, and midnight black coffee.
Corn Pops.
Feed the remaining milk in the cereal bowl to the dog.
Teeth brush.
Mouthwash.
A dab of aftershave.
Scarf.
Coat.
Hat.
Gloves.
Get the car to come to a grumbling start.
Brush the fresh snow from the car.
Scrape at the windshield for any remaining ice, until the muscles in your arms throb.
Carefully drive to work.
Scan your badge for the parking structure.
Follow the masses through the revolving doors to work.
Remove the cold weather armor.
Settle in to your cubical.
Mindlessly data enter.
Lunch.
More data entry.
Bundle up.
Sit in traffic.
Arrive home.
Take the dog out for a walk.
Shovel the driveway and sidewalk.
Carelessly wave to the neighbors.
Fight with the wife.
Eat her shitty dinner she prepared.
Watch the evening news and whatever Lifetime show she has on.
Take the dog out one more time.
Some light reading before bed.
Attempt at sex.
Denial.
Lights out.
Seven hours of sleep.
Morning alarm.
Peter stared at the ceiling as he had every morning.
Sirens peaked his interest.
He bundled up and fastened the dog in its harness.
A few blocks out of his usual dog walking path, he noticed a commotion.
Peter lead the dog toward the noise, as neighbors stood outside their houses, watching the fire department hosing down a dilapidated house. The smell of fire and embers tickled his throat as he approached.
An ambulance screeched away from the house.
Peter felt bad, but knew there was nothing he could do. He led the dog back on course and rounded back to his house.
He resumed his daily routine, until he returned home from work.
His interest was once again peaked at the commotion he witnessed in the morning.
He led the dog toward the burnt down building and noticed a pile of burnt belongings stacked near the curb with the trash. Among them a fried Christmas tree with broken and melted ornaments still on the tree.
A glimmer within the tree caught his eye. While the dog did its business on the piles of garbage, Peter moved some of the crisp branches and found an untouched silver ornament in perfect condition.
Peter perused the neighborhood, before removing it and sliding it in his pocket.
Upon leaving the scene, he noticed the silhouette of an old woman peaking out behind her shade.
He waved to her, but she slowly stepped away from the window.
Peter returned home, removed the ornament from his pocket and buried it near the middle of his Christmas tree, to avoid any suspicious questions from the wife.
That night, while eating another terrible meal, the wife began to cough. It was a slow cough that inevitably turned into a hard one.
It appeared that she was choking. Peter tried giving her some sort of Heimlich, but whatever was lodged in her throat wasn't budging.
She dropped to the floor writhing in agony, as he tried slapping the back of her neck.
Her face became blue.
Peter called 911 for any assistance.
The operator gave him stern instructions on how to properly do the Heimlich.
Three hard jolts to the abdomen, a bone was spit out leaving the wife gasping for air.
She passed out.
Peter anxiously awaited for medical help.
The ambulance came and the medical team did the best they could do to revive her.
She was taken to the hospital for an overnight.
Peter waited by her side, but she was oxygenated and put out with meds, to rest.
He feel asleep next to her side and was awoken by heavy breathing.
Standing over him and his wife was a hospital patient with horrible burn scars and bandages wrapped around their head.
Peter couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but the patient grabbed hold of his wrist and crackled out a whisper "you have to get rid of it."
Afraid, Peter pulled back his wrist, but the patient wouldn't leave him alone.
Again, the patient crackled "get it out!"
Peter hit the panic button by his wife's side and protected her from their hellish visitor.
Nurses arrived, escorting the patient out, who began violently kicking and screaming.
Peter was afraid.
A nurse had explained that the patient was delirious from medications due to the wounds being fresh.
He had more of a reason to want to stay next to his wife's side, but the hospital staff had told him he needed to leave until the next visiting hours.
Reluctantly, Peter agreed, kissing his wife good bye.
He returned home to a dark house.
In the living room, the dog was aggressively growling.
Peter flipped a light on and found the dog standing in front of the Christmas tree.
Peter called for the dog, but it continued barking at the tree.
Peter reached for the dogs collar and in turn was snapped at.
He tried again and the dog went berserk, attacking him.
Peter was pinned to the ground, as the dog chomped down on his arm and shook it.
Blood trickled on the carpet as Peter tried overpowering the animal, but it didn't let up.
He reached for anything he could to fight the dog off, but the tree was the closest thing.
He pulled at a branch to topple it on top of the dog and get loose.
A few ornaments crashed over the dogs head and on Peter, but didn't loosen its grip.
With Peters other free hand, he punched the dog in the head and pushed it off of him.
The dog lunged at him, but he ripped a glass ornament from off the tress and flung it at the dog.
Again, he struck the dog with a new ornament, until the silver ornament was the only one left.
He reached for it and struck the dog.
As it collided with the pet, the house lights sparked and blew out.
Peter backed away from the animal, expecting another attack, but there was no commotion or noise.
He shuffled to the kitchen, removing a large flashlight from a cabinet and a knife from the wood block.
He returned to the scene of the crime and scanned the living room. The dog was no where to be found.
A crunch under his feet, startled him.
He shined the light on a broken ornament under his shoe.
Next to it lied the silver ornament he used to strike the dog.
Peter scooped it into his hand.
At that moment, the lights flickered back on.
Expecting the beast to attack he turned every which way, but the dog was no where in site.
Peter searched every nook and cranny of the house, but could not locate the dog.
He decided to bandage his wound and clean up the mess.
He discarded all the broken ornaments into the garbage and threw in the silver one.
Peter put the trash on the street corner and returned to the house.
He cracked a beer and put the Christmas tree back up right.
There in the middle of the tree hung the silver ornament he had just threw out.
Perplexed, he removed it and discarded it into the trash.
When he returned to the living room, he noticed it hanging in the same spot.
Swigging another drink, he returned to the trash can, searching for the one he just threw out, but it was no where to be found.
He returned to the tree, removed the ornament and walked it out to the trash sitting on the front curb.
Back inside, he returned to the tree, noticing the same silver ornament hanging in its rightful spot.
He removed it and stomped on the delicate ornament, but it didn't break.
Peter raided his tool box and cracked a hammer against the plastic ornament, but it left no damage.
He tried a power drill, then a power saw, running it over with the car and burying it in the snow, but none could destroy it.
After a long and exhausting trial, Peter gave up and curbed the entire tree.
He drowned his sorrows with half a bottle of jack and passed out.
When he awoke, his lungs were on fire, along with the rest of the room.
He sprung from his bed and tried escaping the enclosed fire, but was trapped.
The ceiling had collapsed and pinned him down.
The flames rose higher, whipping and whirling at him, as if they were alive.
They engulfed his body, burning him up until he could no longer scream.
Later that night, a group of firemen removed his body and mounted it on a stretcher.
One firemen caught site of the glimmering ornament hanging on the curbed tree.
He removed it and showed it to the others.
When they returned to the station, the ornament was mounted on a small fake tree mounted in the kitchen.
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