I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone.
-Rainer Maria Rilke-
Today I tried out for school police.... I passed:
The Vertical Jump
The Push Up's test
The Sit Up's test
and the 300 yard dash
I failed by 20 seconds.
I get to try again in 4 month's.
Somehow I will make it.
On a lighter note.....
Oh fuck, there ain't one.
Coming Monday... Updates through the "Almighty Youtube" Viddies! Stuff that has gone down in the last few days/week's? and below is some crap I wrote... about....crap.
Like Alice on her decent to Wonderland we slowly fall.
Focusing on the pictures in the picture frame.
Smiling faces long gone and no longer grinning…
Makes me lay them face down…
I can’t bear to see them so happy.
And, Their eyes seem to follow me around the room as if to say
“It’s ok to smile still kiddo.”
So I lay back on a comfortable bed and listen to the silence.
Half asleep I daydream about you.
And you can’t stop that.
You cannot command away my memory.
How long can this faded photo in my mind last anyway?
When it was me you would smile at…
no camera, no forced smile…
Just a natural smile all glowing and real for me.
The wave sweeping in.
I have long hallways staring me down whenever I walk ghostly through my home in the odd hours of night.
I leave the apartment and climb into the car and sit staring at the ignition…
I want to leave but have nowhere to go.
The key never finds it’s place…
but my head knows where to go…
crashing down into the palms of my fat hands, at the ready to catch the tears that almost always come.
I imagine being covered in an immense wave that comes crashing through the empty cars around me and drowning out the sickening casino neon of theLas Vegas Strip.
But I open those tired eyes I have trained to stay open, but never awake.
All is the same.
I walk back to the apartment where the door is ready to swallow me whole.
So I can sit alone with terrible thoughts in the lonely belly of this Apartment.
Waiting for something that I can be damn sure will never arrive.
And he shot me dead.
I know this kid,
This devil of an angel…
This sweet faced terror who gives out the warmest hugs and vicious bites.
My little boy, Gabriel.
My only fan and truest friend.
Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know any better…
Like my wife says.
But I like to think he does.
It’s nice to be somebody’s buddy and best pal.
He makes the repetitious visits to the Natural History Museum always seem new and exciting,
Even though we go at least once a week.
And it’s moments like now that I miss him the most.
The clouds looked amazing today
Momentarily, I forgot all the trouble in my head.
I looked up and saw a penetrating blue sky with the occasional dark cloud floating along.
The wind was gentle and cool.
The clouds looked like handguns and ships from “Star Wars: Episode IV, A New Hope”.
And the low background chatter seemed to drop away if only for seconds while my mind lifted up with those beautiful clouds in that blue painted sky.
I felt like I was floating and realized I was humming a cover song by Cat Power.
I guess reality shifted again and my mind came crashing down reminding me how fragile I had become.
And as I walked back into the building I felt a tinge of sadness sneak up in my throat,
like I had been unplugged…
I think that’s how most things end for me, a little sad, a little like being unplugged.
Sounds like me.
“Come with me, my love… to the sea, the sea of love….”
So many places to be and nobody wants you there.
Phantom horse head looking straight through my guts and into my sublime future.
Big white eyes swirling with dark storm clouds and grey dead skin.
Love notes in my mailbox addressed to no one in particular
heavy with the weight of heavy words.
My smile is so fake I wonder to myself when trying it out if it’s noticeable?
My pillow has become ragged and torn from the constant hugging while I lay alone in a spare room on a spare bed with my spare heart where the good one used to be.
Unfortunately there is no Wizard of OZ in these here parts.
No Miracle Men or Women.
Prayers are answered by a mute silence that almost makes the hearing fear that they have become deaf.
Not me though, I am deaf and dumb.
I am the worst pirate who ever lived.
Though, I can still give a hearty pirate laugh… given the circumstances.
I think to myself I am just a kid…
Just learning how to get through life…
And then remember I am almost thirty.
A long time since the word “kid” could apply to me.
I don’t laugh near as much as I used to and really only have myself to blame.
I wrap my dead body in a sheet and toss it off a cliff in Red Rock Canyon,
Throwing back my head and laughing maniacally…
But suddenly stop, remembering that the car keys were in my pocket now at the bottom of the cliff with my broken dead body.
It will be a long walk home I guess… It always is.
This sun has given it's last sunset, as it falls down dead...
crashing in a cold bottomless ocean.
How many bottles have I tossed out into this dark and brooding sea?
How many have crashed against some bit of rock and sunk my messages to the bottom of the ocean?
Do the fish read my letters?
Do they share my concerns?
Do my letters make them cry?
Now it's dark.
It feels like the sun, on it's last glorious setting committed suicide and plunged itself into
the icy depths of salt water.
Bringing it's shining corpse to the bottom... littered with crabs, broken bottles and pathetic sad love letters written by yours truly.
But it's all make believe isn't it?
The sun will rise again, far away from the ocean, the clouds and this planet.
I can't even send my messages in bottles.
I have no ocean.
I have a desert eating up all the color that surrounds the neon city I call home.
I can crumple up a paper with something scrawled across it's body and let the desert wind pull it slowly from my hands.
Blowing away on heated air current.
Nobody picks up the garbage in this town...
it just tumbles on and on until it ends up stuck to some metal fence surrounding another piece of desert landscape...
crinkling up under the blazing hot sun that will never set into a rolling ocean.
Not in this place.
I keep my secret messages to myself these days.
Maybe one day my dreams will be realized.
Maybe one day these messages will float along lazily with the oceans current while I watch a blazing hot sun retreat beneath cool, clear waves.
I have the perfect letter set aside for that very day.
The day is young and you are getting old.
Some force field keeps you safe from:
The wrinkled old men hands that want to sneak up your thigh so badly that they would embrace a full on face slap any day for.
The cat calls from math geeks gone goth with gigantic skull belts, trench coats and Insane Clown Posse shirts.
The careless world full of random vicious "hurt" that tears normal folks screaming from their car seats and creates drunken bare knuckle, skinned knuckle fights in the back alleys of dive bars inhabited by out of work prostitutes and old men with misshapen twisted faces taking tiny sips from beer they can barely afford.
I want to say you must be an angel, but to say that would sound so cliche and phony.
Though the category still wouldn't suit you as angels could never be on your level. You are that girl.
The one that makes us sad little writers want to sugar coat every sentence and make every word drip with mushy goofiness. The stuff that makes pretty girls wince. So sweet it makes you sick. Like, vomit.
But baby you are getting old.
Those looks that set the world on a spin are going to fade.
So will these words written down specifically for you.
New poems and sonnets full of sugary narcotic laced words will be written for a younger, cleaner, up to date youthful version of you...
as you my pretty girl, waste away.
Luckily some of us start ugly, stay ugly and die that way too.
But my dear we have our memories of you...
of course only the you we liked best.
Shallow like the masses
I wave at the addicted masses injecting their born again, suicide bombing, bargain basement Gods, Angels, Deities and Cult leaders.
Waltzing to organ music while pickpocketing the small change and leaving little plastic crosses in it's place.
And my God looks at me and shrugs her shoulders saying...
"I don't get it either."
Lot's of Love and all that fucking, God Damn, Shite.....
Milk and Kisses.
How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark,
in some quiet, unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest of songs.