It Wasn't the Distraction, but the Bother.

It wasn't the sound of the train,

The constant or consistent churn of it's measured gears,

And careful path.

It wasn't the idea of an operator I couldn't understand,

With a path so plain before him,

So much weight behind him,

And so little to do.

It wasn't the half kept business hovel,

Occupied by landlords who kept their order,

Of currency and obligation,

Without the aesthetic to purchase dutiful faith,

And a sense of obligation.

But with tittle enough to sit in a filthy wheeled office chair,

And crack a whip,

Without raising a finger. 

It wasn't the cheap jug of drug store wine,

Round and loving,

Cradled by the fetus of my adulthood.

Emptied by the child of the upright bearded forever-untill-never.

It was the past-tense,

Easy and painted up,

Shinning like a new bike.

It was the nonexistent,

Ever present,

Always fading,

Never leaving.

It was the unbrushed hair of childhood,

Made to look intentional by backward eyes.

It was true love in the classroom,

Made to seem undying by the sound,

And texture,

Of a crumpled and miss spelled note.

It was the pocket hole in thrift store pants,

For a dumb girl's hand,

And an anxious boys cock.

It was the lunch bell,

That tore apart the most important conversation,

That had ever been ended.

But really it wasn't anything.

Because it still is.

And it will be.

I still think one day I'll see the future.

Despite my fetish for the past, 

Mt washington warzone

7 beers deep, sweating that good july sweat on a friends porch.

Redwood planks kissing the leather souls of my second hand kicks.

4 hours of fire works, illegall yet accepted pyro launched into the space between Mt washington and echo park.

We cooked these bombs up to show thanks and respect for those who gave their lives in order to make a home, a new country.

Fun bombs to stage a less violent reenactment of the bloodshed that led to our beautiful unyielding freedom.

plenty feel we glorify the violence humanity has adopted as a way of shuffling itself into order.

I dont feel violence needs glorification, there is an inherent glory in offering your life for an ideal.

This isnt a poem.

It isnt a story.

Its a calm, comfortable fuck you to those who wont accept that our life here in America, the greatest Nation in the world, was bourn of bloodshed, death and sacrifice.

Reality is dirty, get witht he times and salute the fucking flag