a priori / a posteriori

Lasers, Quiet Time & What to Do

2011-06-08T13:02:00.000-07:00

A beautiful Columbian woman precisely executes the injection of Lidocaine (anesthetic) into my neck about 35 or 40 times. Maybe more. My body is metabolizing it so fast she tries ice. The ice burns. She soaks a cloth in alcohol and puts it near my face. It tastes like shit and I'm moving into a state of helplessness. I'm just lying there, twitching, cotton balls in my ears and blinders on my eyes. Twitching like I'm on LSD. She talks sweetly; she's so kind and understanding. She tells me football players come in with tiny tattoos and tears roll down their face. She's probably just telling me this for empathy's sake. The laser clacks like a low-caliber rifle directly into my ear. I can still feel it. Fuck it. Just deal with it.

I guess I fell asleep. I woke up and she told me we were 90% finished. She starts again, I twitch some more; deep breaths are my truest friend.

It's over and the bandage is on. I nearly fall off the table from the anesthetics. All I can think about is what my life was like when I decided to get a tattoo on my neck. I was so proud of it, but nevertheless, it just wasn't me. I circumnavigated my gentle personality and let this other person in. Feeling so small, I realized the rage welling up inside of me was too much to bear. Much like the laser was pain, so was the self-rejection an excruciating burn of white-hot heat. Much like the Lidocaine did its best to numb the laser, so did chemical substances do theirs to wipe away my malice and depression.

That's all really personal, but it's relevant. I'm at this place in my life where I need to remove myself from social networking (including this, I suppose) and seek enlistment in a quieter life, far removed from the pressures of drama and paranoia. I seek a little bit of sympathy, but more than anything, I seek acceptance and inclusion. In the worst way, I stumbled upon love recently. That paranoia has left me suffering; the circumstances are by no means ideal. I see a best friend and a lover in her, which is ironic. Never before have I felt like my insides are about to explode because of all the information and emotion I inhale when I'm with her. Never before have I wanted to trust someone so badly, but don't want to ask questions because I don't want to scare her away.

TMI, TMI, how you get me every time. Point is, I'm in severe pain right now. The noise of the train off in the distance is overwhelming. Knowing I have to sleep on one side for three nights is overwhelming. Being uncertain about whether or not I will ever have the opportunity, if it gets to this point, to tell this girl I love her and I want to run away with her, is overwhelming. Far, far away. I ran out of marijuana. I can't fucking believe it. Of all the times to be unable to get stoned. Nearly broke and weedless. I shall overcome.

I shall overcome.

There have been a couple inspirational lyrics that are carrying me through right now. I'd like to share them with you:

The first is from a song by Islands called "Life In Jail."

Besides, there's nothing to live for unless you live a little more like you're going to die.

This is remarkably challenging and comforting all at once. I think sometimes that my music will fail completely, leaving me without motivation or a cause. But the truth is, I can't sum it up any better. No holds barred.

The second is from a song by Girls called "Heartbreaker."

Because when I said that I loved you, honey

I knew it from the very start.

Because when I said that I loved you, honey

I knew that you would break my heart.

The only reason I appreciate this is because it makes me understand that preparing for the very worst is pointless, complete bullshit, a worthless waste of time. Hearing those words makes me understand that it's okay to feel so intensely for someone. You never know...it might end there. No need for that second lyric.

Thanks for reading to here. Or skimming to here. Either one. It's great.

Breath & Bones

2011-05-30T07:13:00.000-07:00

This was the first song I consciously wrote (and liked enough to record) in an effort to combine all of these experiences I had had in past relationships into this one person for whom the song was written. In that same vein, I address the person I had been in those relationships.

Listen to it here.

Love,

Joyful Comets to be Witness Pts. I, II & III

2011-01-29T12:55:00.000-08:00

I.

Two friends, hand in hand,
walk amidst radiant sunlight;
the man's tan, rough hands,
suggest a good work ethic.
Her demeanor, leaning into him,
are the pace of a careful home maker.

Her voice only shakes when
he makes love to her.
He never shakes her,
only shaking when,
in a loving joke,
she turns the shower
to cold.

Imagine, clear as sky,
her solemnly swearing kisses;
he imagines, head in sky,
of the future blisses.
She walks by me, casting light,
a stranger smiled upon me with mother's love.

We cannot be certain
of anything.
But upon analysis,
they are everything.

Once more do I presume,
sitting in sailboat sunlight;
a homeless man, blinding sweat riding,
is suited for another world.
Furthermore, I must ask,
how many worlds are there?

Of all the sandy kingdoms,
I wonder to which I belong;
do you live there too?
The wonders of said sandy kingdoms,
only in their glory when
there is revelation,
and an inhabitant
is shown them.

In consciousness, as if through mist,
they explore their world;
joys sufficient, perhaps not to you,
are gifted unto them.
In a flash, like shooting stars,
they are in heaven.

Our skies are only as pitch
during hell or earth.
Either may be illuminated
like a clear sign
when in loving adornment,
we are given joyful light
with hurried sentiment.

Some of us do, in a whirl,
rush through our kingdom.
Sporting sunglasses, we fail to see
these flashes or wonders.
Saving face, we turn around,
and the negatives are in the horizon.

II.

"Move on, move along,"
shouts another traveler.
He beckons me forward;
I try to see the picture of past faster.

This person had wandered the life lands,
between kingdoms spending much time.
Urging me on, "remove your blinders,
your comets were bursting in the sky!

"We all saw, even tried to warn you
of your condition.
We didn't even know, even understand,
the position you were in."

Much like last time, I
was reminded of a situation such as this.
With a shrug and a nod, I
don't remember, but listen that he might
have the key to bliss.

III.

I didn't move
any faster.
I sat there
for awhile.

But sense was
given me.
With slow pace I
moved along.

Little did I know of light,
only of deception and dark.
But I did stare up head,
my feet now wearing blinders,
my eyes taking marks.

We cannot be certain
of anything.
But I reviewed notations;
this is everything.

We cannot be certain
of anything.
But I have seen the stars;
they have been everywhere.

I have seen much dark,
only glimpsing into light.
But I have been given glasses,
and a blanket, lying on my back,
staring into sky's night.

I will treasure each hour,
under canopy of backlight.
And with each oceanic sky,
I will find you in your kingdom,
that may lie together under bright night.

Two Poems

2011-01-24T12:55:00.000-08:00

Untitled

I begin,
in 4/4,
with preliminary
justification.
I need asylum.

Insanity,
rest assured,
is becoming
reality.
I need to be freed.

I laugh and cry
in alternate timing
switch
from talking to miming
to myself.
I pace the floors in parallel.

Never before
have I
been so disarmed
at such an alarming pace.
I am not cut out for this world.

I step in and I step out,
doorbell rings,
smoking cigarettes
staring at your picket fence
from two blocks away.
I need evaluation.

Could Be, Is

I look to you for an answer;
seldom will I try and hide my pride.
Far inside me is buried a love for you;
to be indifferent I would have to deny
the
questions with tissues between my knees,
but quietly I'm retracing my steps.
Your beauty do I stand and proclaim to windows;
"I am only a man," I confess.

Which one of us
more tortured
moves forward?

To which loves of ours,
by design
will we resign?

I choose to walk away from the cage;
I spit at the notions and rules of our kind.
Which man is perfect to your mind's eye?
Or which man will love you for all time, undying?
It isn't
a burden of empirical bliss;
for to be mine is freedom.
This heart is for you to kiss.
It could be, it is.

Which one of us,
with humble stance,
extends the first hand?

Let it be the both of us,
in darkest night
take to flight.

- present [thoughts interrupted by thunder]

2010-06-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

hardly progressive storms
pause
long enough for a day. it'll
cost
you a headache as collateral
for the bright noons you laid to waste.

one after another,
weeks
of suggestive archetypes. my
sleek
seduction of you people
is neither civil nor twisted nor right.

sudden dashboards pass porches,
feet propped in implicative status;
their forward glances careless,
my placement insisting syringes.

at least it's not a quip,
for my part.
it was hit for hit; one year
ago was "a start."

sudden dashboards pass blindly,
my feet propped on porch's railing;
it couldn't be agonizing for me,
my situation corrected for benefit.

everybody's writing about whiskey

2010-03-18T07:19:00.000-07:00

burning and red,
this whiskey's
still sweeter than you.

you climb into bed,
this whiskey
would die for me too.

that thing you said,
this whiskey's
my penance in a suit.

choked up and red,
this whiskey's
still much nicer than you.

--

i've been spending my time with bourbon and it inspired me enough to excuse my consumption.

She-Haul

2009-10-25T16:44:00.000-07:00

I moved to rhythm
of hearts sinking.
Each revels in my
curses still ringing.

Bliss treats the
Duchess to a bath
fit for Radio.

I tried for loss;
each cried, "Sabotage!"
But I didn't lose you
in the fights
I fought.

In Corners Made of Space

2009-08-21T08:40:00.001-07:00

I am an instant of time,
Making an absence of space.
The void that is mine
I run from with haste.

I am a glass of alcohol
In the realm of dead and peace.
The proof is for protocol;
The intoxication comes with ease.

I am the blood in veins
Of the body of life.
I run through the passing days,
Until taken by murderous strife.

I am the lover of all loves
On this Valentine’s Day.
I scream sorrow at the sun
That takes my shadow away.

manic

2009-08-08T14:26:00.000-07:00

it's times like these
i should crawl under my bed
taste wet saline carpet
bury my face in its toxins
and absorbed tears.

but it's times like these
i end up dealing myself a blow
incidentally you as well
finding it hard to say words
and diagnoses.

cellular device, for lack of a better name

2009-07-20T10:01:00.001-07:00

your single tattoo is fading,
your thick black hair
still short like high school.
your heart, cold as death

my body's aching,
my mind restless even thru
the medication percolations.
my heart, warming up to her.

i'd have paid your bills,
i'd have given you friendships
you'd never dreamed possible.
our union, supported.

not right now is never,
not right now is with him
until you know i'm with her.
it's juvenile, your drama.

untitled poem

2009-07-20T09:56:00.000-07:00

it is not advisable
to go up and down
the same street
looking for new
shops
&
houses.
you will only encounter
bums asking for cigarettes,
dogs barking viciously,
neighbors watching
with concern
for their children.

nor is it advisable
to attempt to venture down
multiple streets simultaneously;
pieces of yourself will be lost
for the bums to rob
the dogs to eat
the neighbors to report
to the police.

whether or not
it is wise to
search each street
high, low
for whatever it is
you are searching
is not known to this
traveler.

ideally,
we should sit at
each corner
waiting to catch
a stranger's eye.
prostitute our
needs
&
gifts
whilst
danger lurks
in the night
&
the sun glares
upon our misconduct
for the duration of the day.

solace can only be found
with the rats
in the sewers,
with the drunks
in bar booths,
with pretty girls
in university tees.

C.G. Jung Parts I & II

2009-06-17T09:29:00.000-07:00

Part I

I theorize about the sequence
of our days together, and
the decreasing probability of
those days continuing consecutively.

Consequently,
each day's connectivity
to the next
is a mindfuck ubiquitous
in each aspect of my routine.

Speak your will
in regards
to the direction you wish to take.

Part II

One chance in a number
fifteen sobering digits in length.
One quarter of the world's
circumferance in distance apart.
One young man.
One scientist.

One feeling middle-class male
argues
the possibility
of synchronicity.
He argues for his sanity.
He argues for his stability.
In the name of all things comprehendable,
he argues.

Even when his
quasi-normal
existence defines discomfort,
he argues.

Twenty-five playing cards.
Five square shapes on five cards,
five circle shapes on another,
etc.

One quasi-normal middle class male.
One misunderstanding scientist.
Twenty-five soulless playing cards.

on cummings

2009-06-17T08:31:00.001-07:00

Cummings staggers on
for sixty-seven stanzas.
It gets to us.
His candor
pleasures us.

His intentions are clear,
but suggestively
indecisive.
Confusion abounds
where concise patterns
do not.

There's no pleasure;
I'm sure he is
a wonderful individual,
dismal living conditions,
pinatas and expression.

A revolutionary
whose cause
is represented as undesirable.

perception

2009-06-17T08:28:00.001-07:00

"History is generally written
by those who saw the Light
rather than the Dark."

I guess that could be true.
Perception
is
Important.

Nevertheless,
would it be unrealistic
to suggest that the
reason we have not
learned from our mistakes
is not be choice,
but
because these
blinded-by-the-proverbial-light
historians?

Perhaps it is unrealistic,
in which case,
I withdraw my question.

near death experience

2009-06-17T08:25:00.001-07:00

No one can explain something
that stretches the limit of language.
Fine and fucking dandy,
he says.
Marianne Faithfull
says otherwise.

It's funny;
when you change the channel,
all the other channels
continue broadcasting.
But you aren't watching them.
And for you,
it's as if they are there for
you and you alone.

Reality:
Earth is constantly turning
even when you venture
to another planet.
Reality:
It's my world.
It isn't yours.

Brother

2008-08-12T22:23:00.000-07:00

Wish you were next to me
as these stars embrace me
as one of their own.
Things are coming to a close,
and yet the painful unfamiliarity
is pointing my eyes
to the road
as my home.

Wrapped in blankets and cold truth,
this chill night brings warmth
to my spine.
I look ahead, down this line,
to the highway that
has blessed me time
and time
again.

Wish my brother was next to me
as the sound of cars on the interstate
takes my breath away;
and, consequently,
I am suffocating,
I am clutching,
for ground beneath my feet,
for reassurance to befriend me,
for the Wild's arms to surround me.

My child's mind is the face
of the convict in the chair,
and I don't care what's next.
My mind is elsewhere,
by a fireside,
with my brother
next to me.

Political Sonnet

2007-05-31T14:50:00.000-07:00

I Speak to God. God Speaks to Me. (put to music)

All is quiet on the Western front;
All gets quieter when I’ve come undone.
But nothing’s ever as still as still can be –
I wear the suit and the suit wears me.

And all is raging in the Middle East;
And it all rages more when the war will cease.
But nothing’s as checkered as checkered can be –
I speak to God and God speaks to me.

But what you are missing
Is your wretched dealings and ploys.
But once again,
The president will send
To the Middle East more wretched boys.

All is peaceful on Capitol Hill;
And it only gets more so with each vetoed bill.
But nothing’s as rabid as a wolf can be –
I’m a politician – politician’s come to me.
But what you are missing
Is your wretched dealings and ploys.
And once again
Our president will send
To their grave more wretched boys.

All is pretty in the memorial cemetery;
It all gets prettier when more soldiers are buried.
But nothing’s as dead as a dead soldier can be –I shot the infidel and he shoots at me.

Tribute Poem

2007-05-25T08:33:00.000-07:00

A tribute to Allen Ginsberg.

Tribute to a Writer on the Same Dreadful Typewriter

Bookshelves of
dictionaries
classics
visionaries.
Poets of probably tomorrow
now we will allow them
to bow in admiration
before those writers
in their underrated glory.

Cardboard boxes of
useless dictionaries
stolen library classics
ignorant visionaries.
Poets of everyday alcoholism
never will the schisms
of a lord risen
or a void forgiven
be in such overrated glory.

Let us police our blockbusters
and raid the
porno
blood
in-case-you-didn’t-know.
Screen-writers of any day but today
always will we find pleasure
in Hollywood’s treasured
minds of nowheres
all ground up in concrete.

Classrooms of
nobles
peasants
rebels.
Learners of maybe yesterday
but probably not
we will unite in the fury
determined to protect prayer and crucifixes
while curriculum consists of shit on a page.

Factories of
convicts
mutes
derelicts.
Geniuses fucked on a daily basis
our taxes are paying for
their trauma desolate and vague
nurses and doctors responsible
for the AIDS epidemic in America.

Families of
mis-loves
incompetents
lovers of fuck.
Children raised for eternity
now are irrelevant
because now is irrelevant;
now is what those capitalists
are praying for
not the future.

Socialism is not scene.

2007-05-24T09:48:00.000-07:00

Weapon Made of Paper

Roped up like a towed-away truck.
Fucked up like I’ve never believed in luck.
Even though I can’t breathe,
I can still see, and
I can still think.
The deed no longer merits finishing.

Passed out like I’d been at work all day.
Blacked out like eternity is finally here to stay.
Even though I’ve run out of life,
I still believe in the power of time, and
I still believe I will, one day, feel fine.
My life no longer is mine.

Liked it like I’d fallen in love.
Write it like no one has ever done.
Even though my pen has run dry,
I still feel that the rules of the unsaid still apply, and
maybe things will get better between suicide and I.There is still a very substantial divide.

Crying like I’d fallen from my mother’s arms.
Striving like I’ll eventually be out of harm.
Even though I’m always on the edge of a cliff,
I still know I’m throwing another fit, and
you, dear, reader, should by no means give a shit.
I often mistake a ridge for a cliff.

Rediscovered like I’ve found the same chest of treasure.
Recovered like this is some new kind of pleasure.
Even though I know the first names of all the ER nurses,
I still know I can defeat my curses, and
my weapon may be found somewhere within these verses.Each day, it seems my opinion reverses.

Delivered like Jesus really actually is my savior.
Triggered like I must correct some unhealthy behavior.
Even though I’m a victim of psychotherapy,
I still know they don’t have all of me, and
I still know suicide and I can create some kind of treaty.
After all, I am well-armed with soft words and good deeds.

Technically, Yes, It’s Legal

I know the undying dream
of slipping on one of the attic steps –
One .moment. categorized:
Accident.

The categories range from
intoxicated
to
suicide.

Most are boring.
Suicide, however, is interesting,
mostly because it’s intrinsically attractive.
It appears in numerous old folk narratives,
but hell, those people never really lived,
unlike Elliott Smith. Suicide he did commit. But that’s enough about him.
I have attempted this unpunishable sin.
I was preoccupied with it,
at least for .moments. that seemed infinite.
It took its time for the fuck of it
for a lack of other important business
like killing off the president.
That motherfucker needs it. But that’s more than enough about him.
I was obsessed with it.
I was more in love with it –
by me it was undividedly hated.
But it had hate for all that lived,
almost as much as I had for it.
Me, like the kid who lost his best friend…
He was confused with it. But no one talks about him.

Suicide almost took me from my best friends.Because of this,
I am more than determined
to keep it from happening again (the almost, that is)
I’ll fight it with my blue bloody hands.
It will not steal me from my best friends.
The thing about suicide is,
it only takes one fuck-up hit
and you’ve done yourself in.That’s it.That’s the end.
No more “’round the fuckin’ bend.”
Immediacy has become your sole friend.Yeah, this is the end.You’ve known this since you were ten,
since you were lost in a blood-bath bed.

End.

* Manifesto Nihilo *

Two poems

2007-05-22T14:49:00.000-07:00

Both of these were published in a literary journal based in ft. wayne, in. I read them both aloud at the journal's reading. It was quite the experience.

Twenty-Seven (A Collapse of the Knees)

Simply because we are both sad
like autumn trees,
we want no room to breath
just space to bleed.

Slit the wrists –
one hit, two hits.

Simply because we are both lying on the tile
like collapsed knees,
we want no air to chill us
just medication to fill us.

Shoot the shit –
three hits, four hits.

And with our end-all get-a-fix,
we’ll have dreams in our slumber,
put out the welcome mat for death;
step it up, take a number.

Simply because we are both sad
like summer breeze,we want no t-shirts untucked,
just some reason to fuck.

Rip the stitch –
five hits, six hits.

Simply because we are both sad
like skeleton keys,
we want no standard protocol
just whiskey, some vodka, lots of alcohol.

Taking shit –
this hit, last hit.

And with our end-all get-a-fix,
we’ll have fine dreams in our slumber,
put out the flowers, welcome mat for death;
step it up, they’ve called our number.

This Is Your Baby Speaking

Caught his pants on the door knob,
lost her dress due to heart throb.And the soldiers march again,
filed up, hundreds of them.

Remarkable.
That was the kiss up.
Phenomenal.
I do believe we just saw the hit up.

Caught his hand on the bed frame,
lost her innocence because of her shame.
And the parents march again,
secret police, too many of them.
Unmistakable.
That was the fuck up.
Holy shit!
I think we witnessed the touch up.

Caught his kid on the dollar,
he wouldn’t have tried to stop her.
And the CPS march again,
legal thieves, a pair of them.

A poem

2007-05-22T14:45:00.000-07:00

This is a poem written while at boarding school.

While Attending Church (Involuntarily)

The candles representing
the lives born twice
are burning unevenly.

This church building is
filled with blue light
and tears.
I sense justification.
And the cliché artificiality
we love to bitch about.

There are hands outstretched here,
arms crossed there.
But there are a lot of
mixed emotions everywhere.

There is a common thread here,
“I am incapable of change alone.”
“In Christ alone.”
The religiosity is strangely
ignorantly
disgustingly
appealing.

Who is this god to whom they pray?
Who is this Jesus to whom they give
their fears away?
What is this building that is filled
vacant
with pain misplaced.