So I had this Idea Right? Right...

So Im squawking and squealing,
Right?
And you think this and I feel that,
Right?
And if Watts said this,
Then,
You gotta know that its one,
Right?
So you don't pray,
Right?
Right.
Then you don't know faith.
Na.
Then you don't know true faith.
Na.
Then whats it worth looking,
Right?
I don't know man,
Go get me a drink.
Na,
You.
Right?
Right.

When You Used to Love Me, I Loved Myself.

To be read listening to: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-Flat Minor Op. 23 - Allegro non troppo


When you used to love me,
I thought loved myself.
On teenage stomachs we kissed,
On old friends sheets we stabbed one another.
One knife bent and lost in a concrete river,
The other shining and clean.
Upon entry,
And retrieval.

When I used to love you,
I wasn't who I would be tomorrow.

I wasn't who I will be tomorrow.

You weren't who you are today,
and thank the Gods better men worship,
and the scrapes,
and scabs,
I was too stubborn to learn from,
An unforgiving,
Open,
Cracked,
Bleeding,
Iron soul,
Brittle and un-tempred,
Said no.

When we were young and beautiful,
Vodka drool on an un-dressed mattress,
In the wake of an early arrival,
In a sea of chest out- face down- bottoms up- tribe,
We could touch the tops of our hands together,
And shiver.

When we were bound by the contract of teenage love,
We could forget the passing of smooth,
Un-bent knuckles,
And hold grudges.

You could find my smiling enemy,
And in the glow of a cyclical DVD menu,
Find a temporary peace.

I had found an answer to a question,
Of Truth,
And Falsity.

You had borne the scar of a beautiful,
And freeing lust.

I had borne the scar of a filthy,
And selfish conquest,
Ending in defeat.

Or so I pictured.

Cotton passed over shoulders.
Tears landed on poorly produced fabric,
Blue,
The interior of a borrowed Honda.

I had left,
Retreated,
From a war that couldn't be won.

With blood soaked dungarees I knelt,
In mourning for,
At the time what I thought,
Was a girl who deserved more.

As i washed the Cannon soot from my palms I saw the swirl of filth on white tile,
Surrounding my mothers sink.
I felt the guilt of a publicly justified murderer.

But in time,
The roughness of a noose never wound became as soft as the skin on our teenage knuckles.

The planks of an un-used gallows ceased to creak in my dreams.

Guilt I had purchased from a boy who looked just like me,
Found the foul in the stitch of my pocket,
and leapt downward toward finely partitioned sidewalk pavement,
of our home town.

The gods inside us both wrestled with one another.

I forgot who I was.

I lost my mind.

But it was replaced,
Re-configured,
And arranged in rows only I could navigate.

We didn't speak.

We began to speak.

We began to weep.

We began to push against one another,
And remember the softness of the skin that covered our hands,
and the rest of our bodies.

Herded by the herd.

Poisoned by the thistle.

Im certain Ive said sorry.

Im sure Ive begged for forgiveness.

But Im not so sure,
Ive said thank you.

Whiskey to Gin, Where have You Been?

Whiskey is the life of man

Whiskey from an old tin can

Whiskey-O

Johnny-O

Rise her up from down bellow.

Stay away from me 'cause I'm in my sin.
Stay away from me 'cause I'm in my sin.
If this place gets raided, it's just me and my gin.
Don't try me nobody, oh, you will never win.
Don't try me nobody 'cause you will never win.
I'll fight the army, navy just me and my gin.

I studied the brown.

I studied the up.

I studied the down.

I sipped and I studied.

I sent it all down.

The bottle was emptied.

My conscience was drowned.

From murky to clear,

My new love was found.

Father said

"Whiskey- The drink of a man!"

Bessie said gin,

"You don't choose where you land."

Ronnie said,

Rover.

Williams said free.

London said

"Freezing"

And

"Walking"

And 

"See"

The switch was a guess.

The change was lark.

Im trying a new taste,

To clear,

From dark.

  

Mt Washington Cave People.

We didn't have enough money to live in a cave at the top of the hill. Up high where the waves didn't crash. Where the exhaust foam didn't break upon the sidewalk shore. Where the sand-crab-ass bottle and can hoarders were too tired and hungry to climb for the bounty of a holiday party or a tuesday night's unwarranted yet ever welcomed celebration of our ability to purchase even count boxes of beer. All of which claiming to be unique and offering not just a refreshing, intoxicating wash for a dry throat but a different experience. It's sweet of them to try but it always ends up the same :

Ika drinking beers faster than all of us and berating Mundo for no reason other than its become a hobby of hers.

Mundo Hunched over some sick, sleek, current-gen controller gaming, making my avatar more rich than I ever could, while somehow simultaneously SnapChatting everyone he's ever met.

Amil in a corner chair, face aglow with muddled text locking in the next joyless yet satisfying fuck, laughing at the jokes that matter.

Cade with a calm smile spectating as if he didn't care. Ready for the next B1,000 conversation with myself that would start soaked with intellectual brilliance and end dry and chaffed by the busy shoulders of nearly innumerable and useless musings.

The Chief, constantly in and out, back up to his cave. A jest here, a smoke there, an uncountable number of hellos, goodbyes, whats ups, and laters.

Phoenix with endless Two-dimensional entertainment. With an endless drive to frame the existence of the new 20-sided sub-culture.  He's the king of critical hits.

Froggy, making face. Making pastries far too easy to consume. Making my oldest friend, The Chief, warm at night. Smile in the morning. Cold when my assumtion is a lie and fetal, bent, around something that was before it wasnt.

Thelonius causing trouble with yours truly on equal level. Unable to sit still, matching drink, and harassing with great precision. We two are both equally within the madness.

Big Fish and Little Fish, coming by infrequently but still leaving their mark. And their clothes. Punkrock Duos make the best company, the most noise, and somehow always leave their shit.

I took a drive to the top of the hill to see how the cavemen there lived. Turns out: way better. They had caves made of polished wood. Paths flattened and laid out in an earthbound weave, leaving no question as to the direction of anyone willing to venture to their hidden peak.

But fuck em.

Maybe shit rolls down hill,

But even when were faced,

Were quick enough to throw it back.

More Than a Tractor, Deeper than the Can.

Theres a happy sad,
And some people can sing it.

Some people can paint it,
Sketch it.

Some people live it,
Not because they can,
But because they are cursed.
Because they do.

Some people learn it,
And still,
They never feel it.

Some of us feel it,
Wrecked for years,
Smiling with tears on our cheeks,
And never learn it.

I have felt it.

I've never stopped.

It's when eyes point at smile.
When smile points at eyes.

A confusion of emotion
Our senses cant define,
Our logic cant disintegrate to build anew
In the form of a typical
'Yes'
'No'
Stack of hopeful brick
And comfortable
Mortar.

The root of every well wished mistake,
The branch of every messy memory,
The leaf of every bent back,
Hunched to find a dry and fleeting meaning
In a decision that was never really made.

But there was never any seed to blame.

There was never any sprout to punish.

That happy sad was born as it was dying.

Blessed to wither and rest forever,

Cursed to grow and never know for sure,

'Am I happy?'

'Am I sad?'

Im Gonna Go Until I'm Not

Who the fuck could run a marathon?

What kind of psychopath does it take to remain in physical motion for so long?

My limbs have never been as strong as the rest,

As far as endurance is concerned.

I can lift

Operate

But the idea of a marathon is bullshit to me.

We run because we must.

Limits are fun to break

But some leave no value in the wake of their destruction.

What is left at the end of one of these daunting jogs?

Sweat?

It evaporates.

Fitness?

It fades with age.

And suddenly the clown wearing a mask of my own face laughs on my shoulder.

"The sun rises and your words are as cheap as when it set!" The Jester cackles.

And here I sit.

As futile as the pace keeper I mock.

With no sweat.

With no physical gain.

But with the same nonsense,

That has echoed,

And will repeat itself ever fading,

Into the cavern of my past,

and its bound future.

A Typical Superstitious Bother

For a hunchback loudmouth with a laptop and too much to say,
Superstition is the hat
the idiot I hate
Is alway wearing.

Practical and as dictated as it can be,
Our written language can only guess
At how impractical
The Typist can be.

And how aware
And unyielding
The dumbfuck in the
"Im scared of the nothing something"
Hat
Can begin
Can continue
To lay down the world in bent and agreed upon code,
Only to shrug his practice of creation
To take an extra step
And yield to the apex of every ladder's crest.

It isnt fear,
But a prayer
To the "I hope I'm a nothing something too"
That guides my step
And keeps me believing in these thin
Black
Bent shapes.