(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.