(commonthread)

I listen to music. It helps me relax and heals me when I am hurt.
Ties everything in together in a moment.
A language you can speak. It`s so `nice to hear it.
I had a ton of great conversation but I had a letter to send and I never produced the package.
It may just end up in a dead letter depot even though everything I wrote in it was true.
I gotta work up the nerve to send it.
I already got the idea for the story.
About memories and how they change.
About the things that we live and how we understand.
All framed up and tragic.
All new and exaggerated and dramatic.
How everything gets rewritten with age.
I put my best foot forward and my pen to a page.
Fingers on the keys, tapping away.
I`ll produce what time has to offer me.
Some sort of beautiful, pretty legacy.
A story you gave me a tale of loss and redemption; what every good story needs.
Themes, tension and richness.
I want to get lost in these characters as I write it.
Good inspiration is so hard to come by.
Your just giving it away.
All the proper characters, all the scenes, all the headspace.
Thanks for inspiring me.
I hope I can do it for you one day.
I think I`ll mail that letter anyways.
Why not just say what you want to say.
Fuck what anyone thinks.
I will mail it away.
Smiling I smoke as she pulls away.
Great evening, good conversation so glad we had the chance.
Before you went your way.
A pleasure to get to know you a little bit.

I`ll write but the old fashioned way.

(hewhoiwillbe)

I sit alone with a keyboard on my lap.
Eleven thirty and I can't sleep.
The car is running but there is no where that I feel like going.
Eyes closed I lean back and imagine what it must be like with nothing.
How hard I didn't have to grow up.
This is a brave new world one lacking of principles.
Its cold and silent out, the snow mutes everything.
I wear a sweater and a scarf but I have taken my hat off.
A simple black touque.
The snow is falling and the light is different here.
It bounces and chatters, reflected off the perfect wet surface of a sparsely occupied parking lot. Its comforting in its silence.
It seems to deaden the noise of the world.
I feel like shit but I spark a cigerette anyways.
I want to change something in my life.
Build better habits.
Its not that its hard, its just that I am vain.
I that simple honest way.
I have been feeling more and more myself over the last couple of days.
Finally letting myself sway to the rythmn and stagger.
It's been here all along.
I just couldn't rise to my feet with all this weight bearing down on me.
It took me eight years to find my way through all the bullshit I imagined.
So i'm out in the cold slowly killing myself.
Learning how to just say fuck it.
I have half lived my dreams all my life.
Stood on the crux and carried this transparent cross.
Stumbled around drunk putting words together.
Not an ounce of training and it shows.
In a true paradox thats what makes it great.
Buried my potential and lied to myself.
I said I knew how it felt to be open and venrable.
Let my talent figure itself out.
Its been far too long,
Since i believed in myself.
I know what is good and I'm teaching myself to let it out.
I am no longer scared.
No more afraid then the next guy.
Failure is part of life.
Rather it is how we react to it that really counts.
I am just an animal.
A living breathing machine.
With eyes, heart, stamina and courage.
Always learning and I will always be judged.
Weather I like it or I don't.
I refuse to agonize anymore.
To tell people its alright when I know it's not.
Like it or hate it.
I will project my own luck and pay my own way.
I will succeed where others have failed before me.
The snow is falling slowly.
The flakes are large and they melt on my windshield.
It seems so perfect its sexy.
In the most natural way.

(thosehornsandchellos)

I can hear the music as it plays him in.
Hes dressed in fine robes and his beard glistens.
Its hot and oily but the dust doesn't seem to stick to it.
It just drifts aimlessly around around in the common breeze.
He walks with a certain source of grace. He floats along and seems not to touch the ground. Commanding.
A prescence.
He sits down slowly and starts to speak.
A low kind of voice that seems to sooth and persuade.

I can hear the music as it plays him in.

A soft reggae groove.
A pulsing healthy rythmn and a sweet melody.
"Your novel", he began to say.
"I'm not sure if I want you to use my name."
"This one wasn't really written by me. I'm not sure your accurately representing me. "
He paused and said. "People are taking this so literaly."
"Really? Don't they have anything at all to add?"
"Someone? Somewhere? with something that they need to say."
He would be confused thinking.
"I thought that dad gave 'em free will. Does this have something to do with me as well?"
I can hear the music as it plays him in.

(waiting...)

I love it when my prayers get answered. A little sun for an overworked heart. The day before halloween was beautiful, sunny and serene. Nobody made a remark about my spelling or put me down for being a human being. Today was a solid day. Roots and foundations are like tall trees. They stand quiet and listening and talking with the wind. Just admiring the vista as the winter rolls in. A pause long enough for you to catch your breathe, just enough time to feel like you are catching up from so far behind. Gaining on that ideal imagined life.
The pause before the go. That spot that time seems to slow down and let go.
Before its crashing chrescendo of action and reaction, before its arms close.
I learned to love to know its getting cold. Such a long summer, such a short autumn.
The its ice and snow.
Its hard not to love changing seasons.

(awelcomematfornoah)

This is perfect, this is why I seem to function best at night. It feels safe here in the dark, basking in the purple glow of the light that hung around late smoking and conversing. The subtle shine that the day left trapped. Locked up under cloud cover it hisses with the wind trying to escape back to where it belongs. The wet ashphalt glows in sepia tone. This province is sleeping and I am all alone. Loving every second of solitude. Curled up in the cool october air. Watching the weather as it changes with the day. A journal made up of wires, copper and silicon. I like to leave my skeletons out here, its not like my closet is full. I figure they could just use a little air. I've been brain storming a story lately. One about loss and beauty and the things that pull on heart strings. My cheeks are flushed and I am tired. I feel all out of ideas, like mine just aren't pretty enough. All worn out from thinking about the things in life that really mean somthing. Not the vain world ending fantasy that has occupied my dreams form day to day this week. It all seems unreal after the events of an otherwise innocuous monday. Overshadowed by a sense of euphoria and joy. Today a couple of good friends of mine started a family. I am mighty proud of them and they will be fantastic parents. Standing in the white sterile halls of the hospital made me ache. It seems everwhere I look there is a reminder of the cycles that run like a hidden application in the desktop background of existance. It made me wish that I could start a family. That I was with someone that made me that happy. I'm sure that one day it will come. That strength I see when I look at them. The strange uncanny feeling of creation. The divine grace that comes with being a parent. I can only guess at the weight of such responsibility. I want to find a way to capture the feeling I felt today watching two people so in love bring something so incredible and beautiful into this frightening and mangled world. I felt like an outsider in many of ways in that hospital room but I do really, truly appreciate how hard these two and a half souls have worked at making me feel so welcome. I am honored to think that someone asked me today how it felt to be and uncle. Even if its only honorary. I want to be blessed with the same sacred journey someday. The beauty in life seems to just floor and amaze me everytime that I think hope has disapeared. It leaves me mute sitting out in the cold tapping on a keyboard. It leaves me feeling short on time and pressed for action. I am 26 going on 27 and these two seem to have it all figured out. Such courage and tenacity and all I can do is stand in awe and respect it. Put my nose to the grind stone ad go to work at making my life a better one to live.
Good luck and god speed and welcome to existance, welcome to this crazy strange place.
Hope abounds after all it would seem.
Hello Noah, be blessed and live a wonderful life.

(theprocess)

Can't sleep. It's two and I'm exausted. I can't sleep. I can't drink, I still feel last night. It might seem to the casual passerby that I can't keep trouble out from under this cloak. This isn't for me I think, channeling this feeling into key strokes. I have slipped back into uncertainty but it's only a temporary thing. Watching my breath dismantle itself in the cold morning air. Anxious but aware knowing this time how I got here. A slim chance at reviving old habits but I'm smarter this time I think I have finally realized that line. The one you observe in a third party way. You respect yourself by not crossing it, by being aware. I will find my way in this dying empires glow. I will sacrifice the pleasures you seek in the burning embers of street lamp glow and insomniac twitching. I really don't need this anymore and it makes me happy to know that. So here we go maintain the strength an will this bullshit out the window. I don't feel like punishing myself anymore. I think I'll build my self a home. It's without walls and mortar, bricks, wood or stones. It dewlls with me where ever I lay my head. A strong foundation of family, responsibility and song. I can take this feeling with me anywhere I go. Remind myself how rewarding soberness is.
Moving slowly along.

(whatsouttheresmiling?)

It's like your looking through me. Give me a break throw me a coin so I can pay that river boat ferryman. This thing is dead, were rotting. Decomposing back into the greenery, becoming one with the scenery. I ain't rasing no tomb stones baby. I ain't sing no heartfelt eulogy. According to you this would all be contrived anyways. Some people just love to rain on anyones sunny day parade.
I'll time my log entries by the time it takes for the cold to kill the steam from this cup of coffee. worlds away and only separated by a car ride. Boredom that enemy, we were all always so afraid, it tends to penetrate the lines with time anyways. Its ok were still young and healthy. Lots of time to live before we get weak and elderly, so what are you wasting it for here anyways.

Someone somewhere sings those lines everday but keeps on going anyways.
I heard it all just yesterday; some guy I never met on a cellphone. He makes amends and keeps up with his everyday despite the way he smiles at the barrista, she's a she and she looks great. He doesn't hide the fact he notices her looks over the pretentious indy pop music. It sounds like dead people speaking in an old tounge, one that hasn't been translated execept by those heartbroken ones. The ones who keep going just so they don't have to say that they called the bluff.
I sounded like that once just before I gave up, just before I found the courage to be born into a new life. Now I'm not bigging myself up. I gaurentee at the time it will hurt like hell. You live through it though. Stories to write, antecdotes to tell. Everyone has a book to write, one that could sell if they just go the words right when they discribed her smell. Images and totem poles, boxes of shit you just don't have the heart to throw out. Advice added up like emotional nomenclature. A perodic table for love, angst, and growing up. So why sing that song like a wounded hawk when someone with a perfect smile waits in the alley behind the show. In the chalet blanketed with snow. On the buss or in the grocery store.
Were still young andterrible, hearty and beautiful, we can still give it up an not be afraid to show that we are still living.
Choose your battles wisely. You never know what's out there smiling.

(wakeupwhatshappening)

Flick, scrape, Snap, flame. Lick this ivory tip and lets get it started. What do I want to say today. Take a moment and see how I'm feeling. A required break. A little peice of imaginary company. A vibrant field of stars dancing in front of wide open eyes. Reflections from another place, another way, another time. Somewhere far away people are dancing. In another hemisphere, in another country far from me someone is locked in embrace. I'm looking to tap that rythmn with keyboard strokes. Here alone in the middle of the night just reeling at the connections that seem to pass me by. Sometimes I feel like I'm sinking but its never that bad. We are only as lost as we want to be. Whatever bare degree that suits us best is where we ly, prostrate and beaming. Suck, drag, inhale, exhale. Fingers tapping out hip-hop beats, listening to Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros wondering what I want to do with my next free weekend. This seems to be as carefree as it gets but what the real point of bitching. I'd much rather give a tidbit of literary cubism. Something real in that surreal sense. This is good, I'm feeling this. Head nodding to the bass drum, foot tapping like I was in a club. I have this sensation I only get at night as the fly's break their necks against the hum of the outdoor lights. Everthing is rushing. It's all going on. This music only I can hear, a personalized playlist for midnight free form. I love it when it's quiet, watching nature unfold it's wings.
Some random traveler walks by I take out my earphone's and give him a cigerrette. He was asking before but I was still deaf. He asks me if I'm gonna vote tommorow and I say I am. He say's good and I agree. He light's up his smoke and hands his lighter back to me. Thanking me as if I was a wise man sitting by a desert oasis giving him water. I say it's cool, it's all good. It is cool and it is all good. He keep's walking and I go back to typing and listening to Joe. I'm hungry and tired but for some damn reason I'm grinning and I feel good.
There's always something unfolding, always something on the go.
I imagine two lover's fucking in a flat in Tokyo. They are making love, getting it on like the whole free world was gonna fall. I close my eyes and feel for the pulse on the wind tapping it out into words magic, echoing on my computer screen. Somewhere this is actually happening and it's just fucking beautiful. New Zeland or New York, lights blazing like blury eye'd party girls. Las Vegas or Thailand mist creeping aross the desert or up into the Jungle Hills. I've never been but I really want to go. I think I would like London at five thirty in the morning or summer time in downtown Montreal. I really would love eastern europe on a train bombing through the country side. I always wanted to fall in love with the open road. Sing on the streets of Paris with an acoustic guitar. What is stopping us from dreaming. Nothing but wallets and false defeats. I want to feel impulsive again. I feel like my standards are slipping like I'm getting old. I think I'll plot a murder and that dead man will be me. I'll split me in two with a rusty set of garden tool's and let the adventure in me take my place. This life isn't killing me it's me sitting here dying while I work and smoke and breathe. A saxaphone and a dub beat, swooning and snapping in my ear, I'm still grinning and listenig to the stars silent serenade. This life is a rock'n roll caberet, a multi-cultural smash up car race. The wind is picking up and the cool indian summer breeze is filling up my lungs. The flower beds are alive and plusing with worms and beetle's and spiders and toads. They dance to a rythmn thats new and alive. Listen close, I'm digging up that throttle and when I find the courage I'm gonna go. Theres music on the wind and it's singing me home. There's a beat rising in my heart and it's one that never stops it's just go.
There's always something happening, always something going on.
Finding that harmony on day at a time.

(trulysorryforthetimeimadeyoucry)

It's one fifty one and I'm am exausted.
I can't sleep, once again falling victim to the late afternoon nap. Tonight I feel restless and old. I wonder if luck has abandoned me and if there is some all controling deity in the universe. waxing poetic with my new best friend the keyboard I sneak out past my brother (sleeping on the couch quietly) and exit the building armed with a cup of tea and a couple of cigerrettes.
I've been thinking again. This for me can be dangerous.
Insomniac fuge, clicking and surfing to the taste of lemon and honey. I stumble completely on purpose over picture of an ex-girlfriend. She looks happy with her new former boy. I smile at her image and it brings back memories of another life. One where I was reckless and selfish, it all seems lost in shadows. Was I really so bad back then that I forced myself to leave someone who tried so hard in so many ways to love me? I ponder for a moment.
Yes and no, we both had our faults. My largest being that I just refused to grow up. For some reason something she said floats back to me. She told me once, I don't remember where, that the sexiest thing is when a guy smells nice. Funny how those little things stick with you. Pressed like a summer rose between old parchment pages.
I've been lucky. I have dated, seen or just slept with some of the nicest, prettiest, kindest young women to walk the face of this earth. All in my prior incarnation much too good for me. They all taught me something and in a way I just wish I could say thank you. I wish I could go on some epic journey and tell them all face to face, one on one that even if it didn't seem like it at the time ; I loved each one of them for who they were. For what they gave me and for how they lived. More so how they lived with me.
These days I seem to be growing much more of an appreciation for those lovers that I passed by. I never knew how lucky I was. I've never tried to be an asshole but it seems that I have excelled at being one at times. The girls I never called the young women that I never treated the way I should have. Now, ironically , when I have my shit together the most I ever have had it together, I find my self walking alone at night. Along side the river that skirts my building wondering how each one of them are or what they are doing at that given moment of introspection. More than that, I just hope they are happy and that I left them with something as important as the things they gave me. Some passing phrase or kernel of knowledge that stuck with them in a positive way. I hope that they remember things that I did right not just my sometimes glaring faliures. These are the thoughts that occupy my mind as I smoke and sip and recant to myself tales of a dead age. These days I don`t so much feel lonely as I feel ready. Ready to share my self with someone special. Someone who is as passionate and heartfelt and genuine as some of the people I have let drift away; as some of the ones I have pushed away or I just plain let get away. I`m not rushing though. I just pray that my luck has not run dry and that somewhere out there is someone like me. Writing honestly about the way they feel and hoping that they get the chance to do things the right way. I used to joke around in the company of old friends that I was an artist and a poet and a muscian. Us folk, us creators we were in the business of breaking hearts. These days I feel honest when I say to a friend in passing that those days of self-importance and narrcisisim are gone (the days of shitty spelling and grammar they still hang like late summer heat). These days I feel better when I can make a girl laugh and smile and feel not just moan and cry and curse (not that I enjoy that I just thought it a nessacary part of life). I guess I`m growing up, who would have thought it could be true. One thing is for certain; even if the critics don`t agree, I am still a poet. I still like to write about girls, from now on though I would like to focus my attention on just one.

(whoknows)

What should I think? I feel easy. Life feel`s easy in a slutty disposable kind of way. Cheap, awkward and secretly beautiful like a crying teenage lover. Thinking everything I feel is so damn important. A cliche repeater, serial, pulp paper back burning. You want the challenge, you like the way the words sound. Then you fuck it and it was just a good idea so you throw it away. At least thats how I feel tonight and maybe at some point this will change. Maybe tonight I'll teach my self something about love and faith. Maybe I'll just go to bed wondering why every time I think I'm making some headway I lapse back into confusion. Television humming, tea on the table; candles lit and burning. I guess it serves me right for falling apart on others time after time. Sooner or later you build yourself a reputation. People start shrugging off excuses and the phone goes black and still. A dead ringer for a lost evening. I smile at the people on the street and watch as they walk by. I'll trade you for that happy go lucky night on the town. I've learned to live on my own and rely on no one but myself. Luck though I am for family that loves me and a few last souls that care. I still find it easy to stumble on sadness and longing with every mile worn and every stone thats thrown.
Now all I want is to feel that sun. The kind you feel shining on you when you know who your friends are. I guess I know but I did well at murdering those old days. Through folly and neglect the gates rusted shut. Laughing tends to go silent when you don't bother opening your mouth. Memories go dim and dusty when you don't reciprocate the love that others show you. Sometimes I feel like a soldier come home to ghosts. Find a world that has changed around him. Everyone grew up and moved on while I fought my own personal war with myself. One someone could turn into a film. It`s funny how the screenplay those great epic war movies never tackle what happens when the oddessys done. The distortion and the displacement when the hero comes home. I ain`t nobodys hero. So when I'm down I won't drink or cry or take a war bride. I'll pick up and pen and ask myself. How did I get here. When did I find the time to build this stale reliquary to house a bleeding heart and a silent soul. When did I find the time with that gun in my hand. Pointed at my own head ducking in a muddy trench. These days instead of pining of lost and forgotten glories; I`ll ask where I strayed and where it was I chose to cut my own throat. I`ll write an eulogy for an evening. Not pissed off just wondering if it really was me all along that was pushing everyone away. Maybe I grew up. Maybe this is life`s way of telling me that it is no longer a girl that comes easily when smiled at. Maybe this life has grown into a woman and I have to fight for her attention. Maybe she plays hard to get.
Either way confusion abounds.

What`s new, what should I think...

(whosechoosingforyou)

Candles like a cathedral, swelling strings and a choice. There is a man playing poker in the middle of the church. I only hold partial knowledge of why i'm here. Floating like a dream. I sit down beside him in the pew and take the hand he's dealt. He smile's and asks me to bet. I push it all forward. No waffling, no thinking just a bluury hand with melting suits. They sound like they are smiling maybe laughing. He asks "What do you believe?" and says turn over your cards.
What are you betting on?
What do you believe?
Who tell's you how?
I wake up and shake myself to life. Another bombing, another lynching, another book burning, another hate crime.
Why? Who's benefit is it to scream bloody murder. Keep us at each others throats. While bankers and diplomats play chess with our children. Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Jew; why does it matter?
Matter is indestructable isn't it?

(allfuckingpissandvinegar)

Whats it like to fall in love? I'm not sure that I know.
I must love these cigerettes though. I keep on smoking them one after another. I swore I would quit. Thing is I love smoking like I love drinking; like most people love their children. I love smoking like I would love to love someone beautiful. In a way that I wouldn't quit no matter what people told me I should do. I want to fall in love with someone angry. I want to fall in love with someone who won't take no for an answer, with some one who would hold me up to the light and look inside me at my twisted gut and make some sense of the everything in oblivion. I'm not negative as many would assume. A realist maybe but I take pride in looking for the light inside the dark. We are all holding candels in a subway tunnels. Living in some part underground. We stumble only to drag ourselves to our feet and faulter only in attempt to know and understand ourselves.
I never wanted to be me.
I always wanted to be them but I have found peace in knowing that I am everything. I found solace in the vanity of thinking I could be better, better then myself. Where do you find the strength to move on. Fascinated by tragedy. Obsessed with survival. It means something new in the world. Such a massive nerve center always alive. Coming to you via live internet broadcast with nothing to say but wake up and live. It's good for you I hear. I've been thinking of getting around to trying it one of these days. Technology has given us a body and we give it feeling. Only we are disolute and autistic. Grasping at hope like straws. I want to fall in love with someone who oozes sex appeal, with someone I can't figure out.
What do you do when the only thing that drives you to create is absolute destruction in any sense? What do you do when your muse could someday cripple you. What do you do when you need conflict and those awkward situations in order to illustrate all that you feel with a paint brush or a pen. No one writes love song when they are in love. They write them because they did something wrong to someone that they love. No one did anything prophetic when they were happy. No one did anything gut wrenchingly true when they were content.
I want to fall in love with an ideal and fight for that something I can't define.
Romantic? Maybe.
Foolish? Probably.
Cliche? Most likely.
I'm just saying it how it is. Calling a spade, a spade. A heart, a heart.
I want to fall in love with that person that will plug me in and light up all that potential everyone always tell's me I'm waisting. Someone that will give me the truth. Some one that will light up my craft. Teach me that language of longing. Fuck me when I'm down, drunk and rambling about how this world can't possibly turn itself around. Someone to do it on a lonely stretch of beach where anyone could come walking along. Some one who would do it just to show me that I can still feel and that there are still things worth writing for. I want someone with a fire inside, someone strong to love me more for my faults then for my features. For my quirks not for my perfections. I want someone to scream at the moon with high and without reservation. Someone that won't make me small and subserviant. I always had a problem with that.
I want to be loved by someone fearless.
So I can be fearless too.

Light me up a fucking cigerette. All piss and vinegar. Never to be stopped.

(couldtcarelessdosntmeanidont)

She seems to be aimless.
Looking around at everything like she was born walking. Beautiful slight and coy. She notices me noticing her and smile's. I tilt sunglasses and smile back outfitted in a slick black jacket. She keeps walking like the previous moment never happened. Maybe shes just playing hard to get. I wonder where shes going. I want to go there too. Find a warm bed settle down into and learn how to love. From the bottom up, instead of just going down. Looking awkward like an airplane crash with out the nesesary tragedy. A spelling mistake that everyone can see.
Oh my how fucking embarrasing. Breaking down that boundry bettween thought and speech. The one that seems to cripple me. I know you know it too cause it's crippled you on one occasion or two. Its the same one that has left me standing in the middle of the street not knowing what to say with no idea what to do.
She looks Russian maybe, european anyway.
I turn my head hoping she will look back and flash me a sexy smile. What more could a boy want? That actress dream. Someone to go about figuring out. Some thing pretty to persue. I miss that companionship that I felt once. I only get it once and awhile and these days and it never seems to stay. Phone's are complicated and they should come with a warning. Pick me up at your own risk. Cause every time I try to place a call there's someone screaming at me on the other end. Is it my fault that I come and go like a whisper? Cause it never seemed to bother me. Eternally restless just out to appreciate this beauty. The kind that lives in humble words but somehow again I stumble over what I meant to say. Language is so curious. So make or break. She usually sleeps with me anyways. We both know this is going nowhere but we make the attempt just to learn. At least thats the way I look at it. Maybe she is different, maybe not. She caught me off gaurd and now horn's are honking and she's long gone. I could go after her but something tell's me I'll see her again. Maybe then I'll have something other then a smile to share. Either way it's not that I don't care it's just the game that I don't try to play. The one that keep's me in the mood to create. Curious and prodding at this life's little quirks and curves.
Insecurity.
I seem to constantly be existing in that space that lover's exist in the first time they decide to go and fuck someone. I'm falling over myself with a bloody nose and leaning on her hair. The key that is, to existing here. Well its just to learn to laugh when you are told your supposed to care. Nobody thinks I'm serious and that's ok with me. Cause when serious goes and hangs itself I 'll be the only on in the room not crying out bloody murder then feeling stupid for saying that it was the end of the world. I'm good with this, here I am standing naked and proud with a quart of tequila in me singing songs with word that I don't remember.
Telling obviously tall tales.
Besides it was always he melody that mattered anyways.

The words in these old blues standards, well they always seem to change.

(autumnhasarrived)

Fall is here.
Its beautiful and cool. A summer's soft whispering rattle, summers warm lips pursed so close to your ears you can feel her breathe. The last cool breath of a lover slowly being laid down to die. A sudden awareness of spinning cycles; lifes like that.
It tends to end where you began or begin where you ended.
Speaking in riddles eloquent and unforgiving. It scolds you with torture and rewards you with joy known only by witness. I walk like the clouds through fallen leaves. Tiny green soldiers gone back to their homeland with the passing of the september wind. The autumn brings it home. It makes me long and feel; like some great hero on an oddessy alone and free. The way this new wind get's behind you. As if it were destiny or fate pushing you on into the unknown with a bare and naked drive.
I can do anything this time of year.
This time of year cigerettes taste different in the cold.
Simple pleasures are accelerated, feathers on bare skin or tears welling up in a moment of weakness. This year it feels ok to feel like me. So tonight I`ll stand on the old locks, forgotten and breathing shades and voices. Tonight I`ll scream out into the chill evening air of the navy dusk and tell the world I`m ready for what it has in store. It has been along time since I felt alive like I do tonight. Sober and clear headed. Wheels turning like the belts on a big block engine, pedal buried until steel touches floorboards.
On my way home I walk slowly along side a stammering creek. In the tangerine glow of the lazy street lamps I watch my own distorted reflection, my skin stretched across bone. It lists and wavers and bends. The old me being dragged like a corpse across stones and sticks. An aincent funeral rite. A decaying mass, smashed and wobbling.
Once he was me but I will never be him again.
Leave me out, expose me to these elements and weather away any memory of what I was. A weak child that refused to grow up. The wind licks the back of my neck and I quiver and quake. This incarnation a last midnight excorsisim sharing a freshly lit smoke with the infant winter wind. A suckling funeral pyre for an old dead mate. I reach down and pull a thin peice of concrete from the trampled brush. It echos like time splashing in a shallow arc across the moment. I stand tall enjoying every simple movenment. Careless and free I need no one to tell me I will be ok. No one to accept me. I have no regrets and will give no apologies. Anything that matters will come to know me for who and what I am. I need nothing to stay my hand as it pull`s the hat from my head.
I stand for an instant frozen in time and inhale.
Clean and cool and embracing, the coy as the weather filcks and flitters about my body. Wrapped in black cloth, white cotton and the wind. I feel the old fammiliar kiss of peace on my forehead. I need nothing else to usher me into this season. I have myself, I have my friends I have my family to keep me warm; that is all I`ll ever need. The stars feel like they are smiling as the earth greets every footstep. I follow the concrete path home to my bed where I will dream pleasantly and await whatever tomorow brings.
Fall is here.
I am ready.

(doctorifyoucanthelpwhocan)

Everything in moderation.
Ever pushing the envolope anyways, despite the warnings.
Becoming phantoms, an escapees wet dream.
Its like a Vegas contradiction.
Well scripted star studded but distinctly north american, western european.
Fun loving but twisted, callouse and disconected.
Everythings become larger then life but none of it is real, tangible or solid.
I want to ask what do you think? I want to ask what's your take? What do you see?
I won't ask you cause I know what the answer will be.
It's ok just do it, if it's not hurting anyone it's ok by me.
What about tommorow?
This is a new spiritualisum based on thinly veiled materialism and reality television.
Is this the world you want to raise your children in.
It all good, it all fair game.
Playing both sides or the coin.
Boths sides of the buracratic establishement.
This is how busniess is done wether its corprate american, toronto on london.
Everyone loves a party especially this one.
Until your diagnosed with cancer, kill someone with your car, smash your own dream's with old age and or denial. A self-destructive tendency dressed up like a girl with long legs in a summer dress looking all but innocent.
In that flowered pattern of reds, whites and blues standing there in a birka, a yamika, with some aincent book.
We borrowed this place from someone wealthy and cheapened it with xenon lights and turbochargers, high brow clubs where there's no one on the dance floor but there's a line up that stretches around the block and back to the door.
How did we get too cool for ourselves.
How did we get so lost in a place that's so small.
A place where love has turned to pornography, it used to be we wern't allowed to connect with our own sexuality now its that we can't connect with a tender touch.
All I can seem to do is stare and watch with tremendous, trembling fascination.
First class whores walking rodeo or queen searching for an expensive handbag with that limited edition sequined design.
Out sourced and manufactured cheap a dollar on the dime.
In a place where it's preached that less is more. More is all we strive for.
Carrying a lapdog or an infant child surrounded by men in suits that just say yes.
The rest of us are as guilty as the so cleverly branded best of us.
This caste system is dictated part in way by how we choose to embrace the realitys around us. So many people I came up with came from familys that were affluent but they are still standing in alleys ignoring the gifts they were born with.
Method acting like we were teen's drinking for comfort from whatever glass you choose; wether it's crystal or plastic or disposable skin.
A forty ouncer wrapped in a plastic bag we can't even be bothered to use paper anymore.
We only pause to down the antidepressants that we were perscribed like a political platform with no mention of the side effects, the detriments those are the things we saved for later, saved for ourselves, the suprises.
The ones we scandalize with the next election race approaches.
Acting stupid like we wern't the ones screaming for blood with one hand in someones pocket.
Gotta keep this life interesting the deity's forbid we actually have something with witch to get bored with.
God forbid we stop for a second and begin to think.
Begin to think of some way to fill our time that isn't the abuse of a freedom or a substance or someone else's way of life.
This is modern existance composed like pop music.
It's all single serving, processed, one use, engineered for a short attention span.
So go ahead throw it away its biodegradable just like us just like them.
Who are they really anymore when everone has become the proverbeal man.
Theres no thought anymore to the process, to the impact, only syntax and arguments and excuses.
A shallow comfort for a face that smiles like it's been sewed on and cut from a fashion magazine. To afraid to frown or get upset.
Ashes to ashes dust to dust and sooner of later we will age and rust and then what?
Hypocrites dancing in circles and I'm dancing with them so sweetly conflicted.
Confused and restless and felling helpless and aflicted.
I would make a change if I just knew how.
Most day's I don't and others I think I do on I seem to just try and fail.
A terrifying paradox acccentuated by time a short lifespan
A culture of consumerist complacencey.
Doctor I think I have a problem I just can't seem to go into a shop these day without the urge to buy something.
To Possess anything and everything.
All things in moderation.

(areviewofatelevisionshowihavebeenforcedtowatchmywholelife)

You can't always get what you want. The rolling stones taught me that.
This is a surerealist television series full of heart break and longing. Rotten joke's at the expense of the main character. A horrifying set of twists and plot turns. Overwhelming themes, awkward writing and bad acting. It is set in the suburbs with brief interludes in citys and towns. Foreshadowing so obvious its nearly nauseating. Somewhere though through its folly there is a sweet sub plot. Some redeeming quality that keeps the writers scripting and the actors acting.
One that keeps me laughing, crying and watching. Our main character is an artist, a muscian in fact. The kind of hopeless dreamer that sums up a different generation. One that is forever restless, a little vain, kind of clumsy and bit awkward. Much like himself though they are noble at heart. He longs for a life worth something and feels he is drowning in a digital sea. With tremendous talents and potential he fights himself unknowingly to let them bloom. He just can't seem to find the means to come out on top. Average in many ways he constantly worries about other people opinions of him. Yet he tells everone he dosn't. He dreams about his child hood and wishes he had taken better advantage of it. It seems to cripple his abilitys. Amongst other things he is typicaly young though even in his mid twentys he worries his time is up and that he is becoming irrelevant to the world and the people around him. He wonders if he was ever relevant. This is a story about self-confidence. The themes however rich or sparse are mostly him searching for some sense of purpose and meaning through failed relationships, internal and interpersonal conflict. Its a slice of life story about someone who just wants to be loved by everyone. We pick up in the midst of the 26th season. Fall sweeps are on the rise and in the premier episode our character has decided that due to health concerns and his own self-destructive tendencies he will quit drinking, consuming coffee and smoking weed. Mayhem ensues, sort of. This choice however positive seems to distance him even further from his inspiration. These things were his muse in a way. Everything to him seems stale and with out sheen. So off he goes to repair years of damage. Broken friendships and tarnished reputations are the emotional landscape that his life's highway is paved through. What he has left to work with at this juncture in the story seem so desperate and far away. Even if they might not be . Needless to say he is nearly paralyzed when he tries to reckon with how to begin.
His new spartan lifestyle has its ups and downs.
He dreams of meeting someone perfect that he can fall helplessly in love with. He can't though seem to motivate himself to pursue anyone he meets. Not that he meets anyone that interesting anyways. A few characters are introduced but most of them that seem appealing in anyway are too young or leaving for greener pastures.
Todays episode ends with the rolling stones playing as he writes slowly on his laptop outside his home. He considers his life and tired comes to a realization. Sighing before he logs off he thinks out loud, "Its just seems so uninspired, Should I even post this?" He does despite his misgivings regarding its quality. He signs off his slow rambling blog with a line from the aformentioned musical group, "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might get what you need"
Good advice, some the character should learn to live by.

(ifyoudontgetitthatsok)

Bait.
Something left for a stranger to find.
A post on some random internet dating site. A song playing out a car window. A loud bit of seemingly interesting conversation in a busy crowded bar.
I'm trendy as fuck and not even trying.
Does that mean I'm cool? Even through this eternal partisan bitching.
A static canvas to be painted and made full with numbers and signs.
Language has no meaning in this world of short speak text messaging and stars.
All of us greedy hipocrites lying all the while to get a ahead, to get laid, to get rich, to get respect.
Embelishing old stories like we remember them that way.
Still searching for a legacy?
like it really matters.
We should be able to see now that we've cut down all the trees.
Can we? Or were we blind always?
I can't reconcile myself and me. A miscounted bank deposit. The spelling and arithmatic is just fucked and its got female back up singers to lend it some sort of soul credability.
does it matter?
what really matters?
If I make it big doing anything will it sink in?
will it mean anything like I want it to.
Confusion seems the only norm.
Just in case I would like to lend a bit of contextual relavence to my own existance, my art if this can pass as such.
I don't care if I am unreadable, I do this for me not you.
I don't care if I can spell cause I can understand just fine,
even if my syntax is lacking and I'm just underacheving
I don't care if I tell the occasional bullshit story cause it's only you thats gonna call me on it.
Only to make yourself feel better wether you know it or choose to ignore it.
Right for the sake of being.
I don't care if I'm cliche your just strange for to be that way.
There is some beauty here in the suburbs and its a kind of zen you find only when your suffering.
Inches from where it is to be truly happy.
So fucking sick of what you have got.
You find it where you can and I understand that.
Be happy while you can angst is overrated and so is conflict.
I would much rather be watching the bats swarm in the last rays of the last day of the summer.
After the rain eveything feels new in some strange way.
Yes, even if it isn't.
Religon is fine unless your sticking it like a dick down my throat.
Beleive in what you want.
I simply belive that I inherently alredy understand what I need to know.
Not that I'm not down for learning.
This road is flying under my wheels.
Wether its a prophet or a saviour or buda or satan or krishna.
I'm much to busy to care, unlocking my own infinity.
Oh and one last thing...
If I ever made you angry by saying anything hat I have said.
It's OK I probably still love you anyways.
Even if you don't love me.
do your thing
Thats what make you beautiful and free.
Not the figures on your paycheck. Not the shirt on your back or the skirt that covers your legs, the car you drive or the guitar you play.
Baby this is divinity.
This is modern zen.
I don't need any teacher just myself.
If I amakward, ugly, crass, or just honest.
It's Ok with me because thats just who I am.

I'm cool with that.

I wouldn't give it up for anything.

That's freedom baby.

Thats modern divinity.

(asongforanoldfriend)

Its so easy being sad.
Too easy these days to get lost.
This path was never clear, always curved, broken and jealous.
So many instants of passion and justice, sorrow and love that instant seems to be all we've got-
but its not.
Entrys and exits so beautiful like wedding ribbons and funeral blacks and greys.
Tears and glory, triumph and tragedy.
Songs we sang as children.
No idea how or where growing up would take us.
In this terribly beautiful space we are all but blowing leaves.
So many of us are born and die in the suburbs , in the cities, in the wide open starry eye'd country.
Us gifted ones, us spoiled rotten.
Its so much harder to be content then it is to stand up straight and smile.
Hurricane eyes a small glowing child not yet hardened by this tempestous gail.
Stay young at heart and steeled with will.
Find something that makes you happy.
A boy, a girl, an electric guitar.
How long can you go with booze, cocaine and longing?
Before you completely lose sight of that little kid that once stood in your place.
Eyes wild and bright burgeoning teeming with life and fight.
Thats the person I want back thats the one that I miss.
That calming innocence like a glass filled up with all the things I never had the courage to speak.
Those holes empty you out like some vessel that has gone and sprung a leak.
Its so easy being sad.
Its too easy to get lost.
Find your way.
Before it costs you all that you've got.

(engard)

She turned and looked at him.
"What the fuck is this then?"
A query.
"Nothing I guess"
A response. Followed by inate unhappiness.
"What you think it's funny.", She blurted.
Shocked and acting frusterated; this was a definitive case of emotional indigesition.
"So what? We just fuck. Is that all this is to you."
He smiled a wry and crooked smile.
"Well I kind of thought we were friends too."
Rebuttle.
Words to duel with.
"Asshole! Fucking asshole!", She shouted.
Stab.
"No I'm not"
Parry.
"And how do you figure that?!"
Slash. Footwork. Stab.
"Well you don't seem to have a problem calling me for weed on a daily basis. Especially weed that is very, very cheap"
Parry. Counter. More footwork.
"Thats how we met remember."
Stab.
"You make me sound like a whore!"
Return. Footwork.
"I hardly think so."
Pause.
"I seem to remember that you wouldn't call me unless you needed something; something like weed. Then we started eventually to speak when you grabbed and then, one fateful evening, we-"
Jab. Footwork.
"We fucked! I remember it well!"
Attack. Jab.
"I'm glad you do that means I did something right. You were drunk I didn't think that you remembered at all"
Return.
Point.
"Coming from you that says quite a bit. You could barely get it up!"
Attack.
Point.
"Thats besides the point I'm just saying labels make for awkwardness"
Jab. Parry. Jab
"A label or nothing at all!"
Jab, Jab again.
"Not even friendship? It's just fucking really its not so complicated!"
Jab. Parry.
"It's always complicated"
Return.
"It doesn't have to be."
Jab.
"All I'm saying is that if what you want is someone to change your facebook status for then it ain't me babe."
Point.

``Fine then I`ll keep that in mind the next time I pickup the phone now come back to bed.``

Twisted up like a spliff we all dance with sabers.
We all want the same things someone to want us. Things are bound to change sometime.
For now we make use of quick feet and sharper wits. Tounge in cheek, amongst other things.
Love is a formless battle most often just a hair shy.
Just not quite enough.
In that Tangled Up In Blue Bob Dylan kinda way.
Listless and floating like a bird searching for solid ground.
Live to fight another day.

(didntgetthememo)

One O'clock.
Dark out the street lights are screaming so quietly you'd think no one could hear.
Humming tunes as I walk. The sky is pale navy purple. Closed up like a flower trapping a fly.
No stars out tonight. I couldn't care less. Its errie and surreal like living inside a dome.
A film projector running on loop, there is no one to turn it off. No ones home.
Did we miss the note he left on the kitchen counter.

Dear you,
Its up to you now. This responsibility its yours. Don't muck this up with neon lights and campy faux paradise trees. You'll see I built you full of cliche, we don't need you going out and adding anymore of it on your own. There are things much more important. You have to learn to focus. This is a painting not a playground. Try not to dissapoint. I'll see you on the other side.

One thirthy two

Crossing gaurd lights are sleeping with distance between them.
They work to warn but never seem to get along. Unless there is a job that needs to be done they don't bother extending there arms. Funny how we just sit and wait while they argue and flail. No one does anything these days unless it comes to blows anyways.
So ill keep walking. Somewhere out there theres a home waiting for someone like me. A pretty wife and a pair of kids. I heard it somewhere in a song, on the radio or maybe I was told in a one way conversation with a strange TV. We never did get along him and me. He just kept talking. No one stops to listen these days.
Did we miss the note. Mabye it didn't have a sticky strip. It fell in, down behind the microwave. It's under the couch or lost in a pile of video games an DVD's

You need some dark, a little quiet once and a while.
Sooner or later you'll remember how to feel? It dosn't work that way you have to try. Give it a little elbow grease. Remember the last time we said we would just let things be. They didn't exactly work out the way you thought they would did they. This apathy it never plays. Dig down deep and be still, you know the things you have to do. It was never them that put you up to it. That history well son that was still you acting up. Thats the beauty in this fish bowl there is no where you can hide. Nowhere to go. So make that descision. What are the kids saying these days "Thats how we roll"
This is a painting not a playground. I'll see you on the other side. Do better than your best. I know you'll try not to dissapoint.

Four thirty and the sun's rising on a fresh new day.
Still standing up right still making our way.

(gostraighttohell)

I stole this note book from a friend.
Your scheming to steal this flag.
Market it en mass brand.
I won't sit at god right hand.
Not if he's draped in a US flag.
Huge disproportionate breasts painted with star spangled hands.
Take more and more.
No cheap proxy whore.
They have feelings too.
Just like soldiers.
You think honestly they want to fight in the name of war?
Face burnt off or do you truly not care?
oil crushed form an olive branch.
Blood squeeze from a sunny hot stone.
You think we really want to walk through that door?
Singing rebel songs for ears that don't care.
Dying in throngs. Dis-ease and dis-pair.
Go straight to hell boys.
I imagine it as Mr. Joe would have said it.
From what I have read.
We stole these songs.
We stole this heart and the after echo of throbs.
Watch them play, out on the desert below.
Hell beneath us.
Ask calmly for identification.
I say cosmopolitan and for now, real.
those who don't know need to stop living by what they see on television.
Others know but don't know enough to explain.
I am not sure who I am.
Just eternally restless eyes.
Jumping from sight to sight. From am to pm.
Eager young boy in an old mans bank.
I stole this note book from a friend. I don't know why. I don't remember exactly and when.
You though, you have a definite plan.
I won't sit at god right hand. Be tatooed read white and blank.
You can go straight to hell boys.
Culture killers, forgetters, more than just bloody hands.

(abeachoradesert)

There are eyes everywhere.

Looking constantly at tiny grains of sand. A beach teeming with life that lives unaware of the larger beasts that step and trod. Plodding along on dreams and hopes. Destroying everything we would love to hold close. Familys torn apart. Love crushed by social boundary and subconsious hatred. The kind we have all been bred with. Wether we know it or not its there. Whether we choose to bury it or lock it up. Our biases float like a man hanging from the gallows. A beauracratic monster that knows no love.
No compassion.
No understanding.

Just thinly veiled wanting and convenience.

Walking along a lonely stretch of beach under stars that once twinkled with a famillar childlike innocence. Dim observers frozen billions of miles away they store a history forgotten like yesterdays headlines. Icy and still under the terror of an ambiguous threat. Inaction trapped in city gridlock. Mute and unspeaking they no longer sing. Only the brave ones flicker to far gone to be heard. Transmutating into legend and conspiricy. There are ears everywhere. They listen in to the static hum. Millions upon millions of voices speaking at once. They have become numb and disparate, healed over with skin. Forgotten by an evolution of social brutality. Water sucked up by the wind and dumped back into a endlessly deep sea. Once rain but always ocean simply rearranged. Diluted by the electric hum of cellphones, computers and advertisments.
Television sets speaking in new modern tounges.
Even everlasting stone is everntually ground into meal.
A long winding beach. Bilions of grains of conflicted co-existance unaware of the scocopathic grace that hunts them among these lost dunes. Cost effective progress attained at any cost. Your or mine. Bought and sold with grey steely opaque regulation.
Progress, greeds bitch of an obtuse ex-lover.
Alone and a man walks listening to the simulated rush of waves on a concrete. A freeway bisecting farmers field. Homeless and down trodden with pockets bulging phallic with cash.
Crushed like granite and limestone to create sand.
These creatures walk on above us, amongst the endless systems of control that in the end truly control nothing. Chaos burgoning like some wild animal to strong to subdue.
To cunning to just not escape.
Here we are tiny specks washed away by disaster, cities, politics, syntax, fashion and human ambition. Flushed down a hungry drain by technology, lifespan and impatience. We that make up the beaches littered with shell casings and camera lenses, plastic wrappers and archaic legislations.
Blast craters and broken legacys.
The eternal tiny hypocrite searching for meaning in porno videos and empty bottles and baggies; in god and country, in love conflict and flawed reason.
We modern man whom chooses to look for solace everywhere but inside ourselves
Searching in and amongst the miniature wreckage of an old, good idea.
There are eyes everywhere. Staring all the time at themselves and telling us we aren't them. Tinys grains of sand on an ever expanding beach. Lonely cruel miles inhabited by preadators and prey dancing in a never ending sultry embrace.
A long alien beach teeming with life.
While you and I walk hand in hand unaware, dressed to the nines, opulent and ignorant in bliss.
All the while strolling on someone else's stolen beach.

Who's dreams are you walking on?

(bornofashesandflames)

I like to smoke cigerettes and make profound statements. Unfortunatly I am much better at smoking cigerettes. The former will kill you much faster the the latter will and when you die, eventually, you d better hope that you said or did something goddamn fucking poetic.
Some sort of impact.
Isn t that what were all after in the end anyways. Poets, muscians, artists, politicans; all were after is some sort of lasting legacy. Some sense of meaningful imortality. A vain pursuit.
In this life, this culture of convienence, vanity is really all we seem to have. Blogs, facebook accounts, flickster and myspace. All just screaming attempts to be recognized. Blazing attempts at life after death cannonized on digital mediums that are infact more fragile then our own flimsy cardboard and plastic lives. Our opinions floating like a sinking ship, listless in cyberspace. Firing flares into the black empty air.
A final s.o.s. screaming do not fucking forget me. I mean something.
The primal human instinct to recreate ourselves. We will do anything to further our family line, further our species , further our knowledge or ourselves. We long to understand a world with no comprehensive guide book, no google map for existance, no wikipedia for the soul. For every question answered a million new ones arise. Our faliure to comprehend has birthed this artificial world. A second life and new universe to help us cope with our own confused existance. To help us to justify it. The oldest question anyone knows, the first question most of us ask ourselves...

Why..

Why are we here...

What are we doing..... What is our purpose.

I guess this is my own way of grasping at cosmic straws. My own intellegence struggling to figure itself out. My little black box flight recorder. Maybe someone will pull this from the wreckage of internet porn and pirated software and give a little insight into the slow madness that is ourselves. I don t count on it though. So I light another cigerette and hope that someone one day finds my message in a bottle floating free on this vast electronic ocean. That they pluck it from the cool black void and unfurl this message. A message in a language long since unspoken and forgotten. I remove another cigerette from a crumpled pack and let the flame from an androgenous, disposable, enviromentaly unfreindly lighter lick its tip. Born from flames and ending in ashes, just like us. I like to smoke cigerettes but one day it will kill me. That is if nothing else does it first. Welcome to infinty, to possibility extended. This cyclical metaphysical dialouge bettween you an me. It never ends and as it moves and if there is one thing I can be sure it is that......

I will never be him again.