what i think about.

What i really do..

holdin on.

Dr 3D

We sit down and watch tee-vee
in three dee
on telemundo
with the subtitles on
pretending im moved
by the ballads of corrupt politicians

The ants on my skin
dig in the trenches
for the holy war
i always attributed
to afternoon cold sweats
the awkward facial expression
mouth half hammered open
in the back seat with
a heart beat reaching mild cardiac

arrest.

I lean forward and tuck
my spinning visions between my legs
and breath deeply
oh god fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckk
and the moment passes

i am on the verge of constant meltdown
some nights my ex soviet union bloodcells
and cosmonaut skeletons drifting around in deep cerebellum space
have forsaken me with the promises of revolutionary dreams.

Not dyslexic hand writing
and a faulty machina in the face
of steam powered afternoon gamma rad exposure.
You were built on a family of cuban cigars
and dutch architecture
the lead paint interior
keeps so sweet
as well as avoiding public crisis
a small star
a soul

falling out
and
consuming everything
returning all the fucking shitty things i never deserved

back to sender.

Crusader

I unscrew my top
and let the garbage fall out.
true north.
unaccountable movements
follow me home
for the days where late nights
weren't long enough to interpret
the length of time ive been drifting in circles
cutting holes in the floorboards
possessed by turned stomachs
and the ghosts lost at sea.

Family photos are elevated
above eye level
looking over my life list.
on my knees praying
if could make it just this once
just one more time
if i could just do it again
would i do it right
or find a path to turned down lights
and weightless feet.

I hold myself down
weighted by the baggage of a thousand
lifetimes of predecessors
predictions
and post dated letters.

The panic and hysteria is a constant
sound like a plane full of psychics
who dont make it home
and cant give a fuck
so they roll the ball and let fortune
slide into the pilot seat.
being fortunate wasnt a life skill i acquired

The ants in my belly
bite deep being consumed by honey
of a better tomorrow
looking forward
walking the balance beam over shark tanks
with a blindfold
a stiff breeze
and a comical banana peel.

The moment comes and passes.

My ears hit a hollow sound,
i cant sense the heart beat
the earth used to pulse beneath my feet
sending electric current into my dying battery
now i come close to digging my own grave
on a month to month basis
over exaggeration isnt in my repertoire
of human functions.

We sit on the roof tops
of this undeserving city
watching cars bleed into
the afterglow of the next morning mist.
holding on tightly
to things that curse our eyelids
like the phantom in the movie theater
playing the old reels
about the legendary moments
where the world was options
instead of slammed doors.
how it must hurt
to miss an ugly exterior.

We live with the choices we make
and the bad taste in our mouths
are just testaments to the flavor
of the way we used to be.

a body in the desert
is a gift to the sky
and the land is the witness of
the great communion
as it consumes a pound of flesh
and pulverize bone
leaving
an ending
fit for a king.

i am alive again.

--

I was always good
at seeing into the distance.
the self doubt
from the lighthouse
where the day wind came calm
and the pages of time
a page or two more.

I bite my lip
Growing a little older.
Growing old.

I can see everyone i know
and how the road bends
forks and dead ends.
but i cant see myself

Do I
feel afraid?
the loss of life
the final embrace
the unknown train ride
i would take anywhere
for you.

in this life
i roll the dice keeping faith
in the leaps i take.
landing hard and broken.
soft and unspoken
drifting out the backdoor
gone like a bandit

i imagine the place...
a dark cave waiting
at the end of it all
for people i know
thick in the blackness
warm or cold
burning or blissful
absent or absolute.

The question rolls around my attic
as i trace the memories of the first time
i took a ride alone.

The sleeping giant tumbles to the earth
out of his perch
in slow motion the broken bottles
cushion the fall.
The taste in my mouth
how it tasted to be alive

rubbing rabbits feet
clover rover afternoon park loner
sipping tea under a tree
blind to life
i see nothing
and i walk with boundless feet
the fool
sees the world
fast as light.

America: The land of the falling son

I run all night
losing my mind
on roads never been down before
hiding
letting the blood roll over my forehead.
licking my lips
and the vomit
pure and black with self loathing
or
how it felt to shed your skin
and unravel centerfolds
in the burning hours of an afternoon
holding onto seconds we call revelation

we were just kids.

The wood rot
from your wormwood figure
selects the fractals of water
to swell and purge the sap
from aching joints decompressing.
letting the toxic vents
in my epidermis pour out
spent stress
semen and old curses.

a cracked window
exposing the air to a wind of relief.
a smog
and the dense copper
from a deserted mine shaft
for a mouth.

You turn the radio way down low
so it feels like you have friends in another room
and its not so lonely.
when the telephone
never rings.

I used to have a ring
i wore to promise
id never do the things
i still do.
Just to get through the end of the night
i wake up with a shallow line
of pale skin
in a perfect world

this would be a sign of cancer
not a self delusion.

I spent my whole life trying to give meaning to my days.
through scars and turbulence
legends and out right lies
rested eyes and red eye fights.
i cant say im perfect
but im probably better than this.
and i wouldnt live any other way.

Relax dont keep your eyes open...

The grey days and tv snow.

You call your heart collect
across three states
over static discharge
frequency.

Your just an old ham radio
at the side of the road
breathing out smoke
short circuited fuses
blow out butterflies
when no ones looking
you lost your mind

and you still cant find it.

The air taste like ellaye
all the ufos get mistaken for planes
out here.
but everyone's an alien anyway
who the fuck can make any sense.

You sleep with one eye open
because you're afraid of yourself
the days feel automatic
without the great gospel vibrations
pouring over my afternoon reception.

The white noise
you are the holy ghost.
god damnit stop using that word
but it sticks to you
and you cant forget it
the day you threw up
all over the bathroom sink
and the coffin line
vibrated twice...
...it gets texts too.

how it felt to lose.
An old ham radio
at the side of the road
making collect calls
just over the noise...
hoping you can hear the sound.
and fortuna never told.

--

School is tough.
Life is tough.
An exgirlfriend whos one of the better friends i got.
And i prove urban legends wrong.
maybe life is hard..
and it fucking sucks...
but its not that bad....
all the time.

Maybe i didnt sign up for this
but fuck if i cant make the best of something.

Sometimes i wear nice shirts....

An Owls Story

My head
hangs like a broken crane.
Listening to the vultures
eat the eyes
from fresh green-gone-grays.

The sputter from a mental gasket
the duct tape binds memories
and holds in unhappy ribs.
These words will take any exit
they can.

my finger forces dew across the glass
entertaining the moment
letting prior engagements
and urges unsatisfied
fall victim to an apathetic afternoon.

A telephone that just wont die
blinking early warnings
cascading thoughts
played out on a motion picture ceiling.
messages thicken the plot.
the lighthouse never spots the rolling fog
before the cargo is a mercy to the tide.
all in a nights work.

I could almost sleep easy.
knowing these letters might find there way
to gods ears.
this never was a prayer for salvation.

Just a thanks for listening
for a moment.

Repercussions

Ive been drowning myself in bottles
outside old churches
leaving notes to old spirits
in street chalked breeze ways.
But he always sends his regards in heavy rains.

Just like the old nights where a needle collapsed vein
raised from the dead
just to speak to the lake monster about the miserable words
you left half buried in my head.
In chalk, he continued...

The clouds.
I was so distant
i drifted across two states
looking for a soul
sending postcards from a forwarded address
of the attic we grew up in.
Asbestos and all American
I stormed for nights letting lightning and hell fall from mouth
Dimming down the lights
letting the gloves fall off.

We drink from the blood of the old moon and spoke to the text wizard all night
about alternate realities and handcuffed bedposts
our hung out heads
making drug fueled getaways
from highways or highwaters
We could sleep in again.
It was never gonna be safe
so who cared anyway.

Now the coast looks poisoned and pale
like a tv that just dont work right
reclined in the condom adjacent front row seating
to the apocalypse
or the end of everything
Ragnarok to my viking friends.
God was god to me.

The way two suns get too close and the gravity is so dense
a misplaced hand could backlash time
and the fire would wash away the guilt from the ink stained excuse nailed to the back of my head.
its the most beautiful
scary fucking thing, and i was alive.
--
A recap on my life.

Problems...
Tight shit...
Bike Stuff....
School...

A few pictures....

talk to you soon.






fuck.
crap.