Thursday, December 23, 2010

Until We're Too Tired to Map

What are we to each other,
But a finger snap?
Drawing attention on a sketch pad
Careful cropping of a curve and shade
Memories reserved so to torture with later
And if not that later than a pleasant surprise
To which a fall brings it all back
To the breeze that screams "you can't stop the world a spinning"
And if by then we're too tired to map
New trails we've dreamt about
Then hand in hand until life is done
Hand in hand 'til life is done

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Falling of Gods

Fallen, have the Gods
From the wideness of our eyes
Our necks now relaxed
Trying on their armor for size

Because they're high in the sky
And don't know how it feels
To dig their feet in the soil
To get lost in the fields

Yet they tell us it's fine
That our shoes will soon call
And the rocks and dirt
Will make strong of us all

Writing scriptures of memories
That they believe they had
But the filters of time
Has diluted the bad

So now they lay in the heavens
Making even of the odds
While we hide in the trenches
Watching the falling of Gods

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The Business of Life

I swivel ever so subtly in my work chair as I list the characteristics of the man sitting on the other side of my desk. “I couldn’t agree more Francis. You are assertive. You have strong social skills. You are a big picture thinker and you have that sense of urgency; all great characteristics of being a natural leader. The staff love working for you and you’ve gained trust from them that all managers wish they had.”

Francis nods. When he had started with the company there was nothing that he wanted more than to be the Practice Lead for his department. I’ve watched him grow as a professional; building the relationships needed for him to succeed; mentored by the best. His confidence complimented his humbleness in a strange way. He speaks. “The last thing that I want is someone to be hired off the streets with no connection to the company and the staff. They would have to start from the beginning; learning the business, building that relationship with clients. I mean, on paper they may seem great; 20 years of experience managing 150 plus staff, low turnover rates and all that. And I’ll admit that I don’t have that to brag about. I haven’t done all those things. But there are a lot of things that I do do. I love my work. I love my projects. I love my clients and my staff.”

The position that he speaks of is one that I recently posted. The former occupant of that spot is retiring and a successor is needed. I nod in the silence that takes over my office. I have no doubt that this man before me; in his late 30s has what it takes. His suit and tie shows that he is serious. His career development plan last year clearly states that he wants the role.

We sit here in silence, just two grown men with our suitcases and properly combed hair. I could smell the freshness in my white dress shirt, straight from the dry cleaners, thinking about all the years of schooling that has brought us to this conversation. We are educated men. Yes we are. Professionals respected by many. The one that will become the Practice Leader will dictate, not just the direction of the department, but of the direction of the city that we live in.

“You know that you just said do-do right?” I point out, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Yeah,” he giggles back.

To The Seriousness They Crave

In a series of nests
I find seriousness
Quiet at best
But proper no less

And I rummage through all
For a fault and a flaw
That would loosen a jaw
So this empire could fall

My dance would do
And my words could too
But this act is in lieu
For my acts are now few

I bring blades to their ties
Diluting their lies
Break the shades on their eyes
Just for hopes of a rise

But they sit in denial
Enclosed in document piles
As neat as bathroom tiles
With our names in their files

Critique us they must
Even cents are a bust
Common sense becomes dust
Until my signature I thrust

And the rewards I slave
Are now forcefully gave
To the seriousness they crave
That will put me in my grave

A Whole in Me

These imagines will make rich and old of my soul
Pressing on my chest and never letting go
Words of the unfortunate grab and take hold
These imagines will make rich and old of my soul

The smiles and lies will make strong of my bones
Tuck stories in scars that I now call my own
The fears in my tears sprout the roots, now grown
The smiles and lies will make strong of my bones

Life it seems will make a man of me yet
These journal entries in pen, begets
And those that didn't want me, look back with no regret
Oh life it seems will make a man of me yet

But it's the ones who stay that'll make a whole in me
Fuel my laughter and feed my levity
Hear the products of my inspiration, see
It's the ones who stay that'll make a whole in me

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Too Good to be True

The sliding glass doors are barely open as I sneak through, slowing my sprint slightly; the plastic bag in my right hand screams in reaction to the content frantically swinging from the momentum of me fleeing. I can hear them calling me, “Stop! Stop! Thief! Thief!” Yeah, you read correctly. It was highway robbery back there in the Futureshop store. I blame it all on the feeling I got in the DVD section; much like the feeling I got the other day in the bathroom of a pizza joint in the north side of town. Need I elaborate? Ok.

I push the public bathroom door open and revealed to myself urinals, toilet stalls, sinks and paper dispensers and made my way to the one that would clean my hands best. No, you idiots, I’m talking about the sink. As I was singing the happy birthday song (twice) I couldn’t help but feel that something in this washroom was off; not normal; and actually unexpectedly pleasant. This bathroom smelt nice. Yeah, you read correctly. It was like Fruits and Passions up in there! It was like the smell of a woman; of freshly baked cookies; of that burnt smell after you light a match; of that ex-girlfriend's perfume that was lingering on one of your t-shirts and you cry and hold it in bed but you’re so happy you didn’t wash it; of glue sticks if you’re into that; of masking tape; of, of, of…yeah, now I’m just smelling everything on my desk and listing them….My point is that it smelt good in that place! But despite the fact that I was inhaling this bathroom air harder than a smoker after climbing some stairs, it felt wrong and I anticipated the next inhale to be of disgusting crap, literally. But it never happened. I was confused, disturbed even and I forced myself to leave the bathroom. Well, actually, someone complained and an employee asked me to get out, but whatever.

Isn’t it sad though? No, not that fact that I was asked to stop sniffing the bathroom you damn blog hecklers, you’re fucken ruining my life right now! I was actually leaving anyways, FYI. It’s sad that as I was enjoying this nice bathroom smell, I was still expecting for the moment to go away, as if someone was just going to come in and shit all over my fun, literally. Is the idea of a great smelling bathroom too good to be true? And why oh why are things always too good to be true? I try and try to imagine something being too good and also being true but I couldn’t do it.

The feeling I got that day was something of insecurity, as if I was being set up, teased; like seeing a bag of money on the streets with a note saying “I’m too rich and want the first person who picks up this bag to keep all its contents.” First thing I would do is look around for a hidden camera. Then I’d kick the bag around a little to see if there was poo anywhere on the money. Then I’d run away out of paranoia leaving the bag as is. I mean, who in their right mind would pick up the bag of cash and walk away with a clean conscience??? Oh society! You’ve raised us to never get our hopes up!

I reach my truck after running in what seemed to be a never-ending parking lot slamming the door beside me. “Drive! Drive! Drive!” I command.

“What!?” Shouts my accomplice from the passenger seat. “You’re in the driver seat you idiot.”

“No time to explain!” I scream, starting the truck and putting the pedal to the metal, commanding my 4X4 to roar through the parked cars, weaving every which way.

We find a secluded residential area to hide my overworked truck and to catch our breaths. “What the hell was that all about??”

“I had to do it man,” I explain, still high off the adrenaline of such a clean getaway, “I had to. I had to.”

“Do what!?”

I grab the plastic bag that I threw into the back seat and dump the content into the puzzled soul’s lap.

“Knight and Day Holiday DVD/bluray combo deal?”

I nod with pride and a huge smile, “For $25!”


“They fucked up playah. Do the math! Bluray disc cost like $29.99 to begin with! But I got the Bluray AND the regular DVD for $25! That’s highway robbery son! Haha! Man, I was like running laps around them foo’s. They be all like ‘Stop! Stop! We’re calling our manager’ and I was like ‘errday I’m hustling baby!’ Know’wha’I’m’sayin?” I offer an invitation for the sweetest high five ever.

“First of, why are you talking like a gang banger? I’m your mother, have some respect. Secondly, there was no one chasing you. Thirdly, that’s the holiday combo deal. I saw it in the flyer. It’s supposed to be that cheap.”

“Nah man, nah. That’s WAY too good to be true. Holla!” I extend my hand; a second chance for the sweetest high five ever.

She leaves me hanging, “I’m disowning you.”

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Bonds Don't Break

Honestly this is honesty
The denial of attraction
Will break sincerity's integrity
So don't beg of me
To have the audacity
To spare sensitivity
With a catastrophe
To coat a truth for chivalry
In the name of nice
like the snow on ice
White lies on slippery

Think of me
As a man of good
Greater, so later
I'll be understood

Questions deserve answers
Not destructive cancer
Endless banter
Of promises on how
blindness is transferred
Emotions exclusive
Like religious chanters?

Well lets get it straight
Bait is bait
Hearts will wander
But bonds don't break

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Even Make Belief Has a Purpose

“You know that vinyl record that was stolen by those gang members a month ago?” I reminded my girlfriend of that night.

“You mean the 8 year old kids that you accused?”


About a month ago, my parents had company over and decided to let their friend’s children loose in the basement; a suite to which I have been renting for the last 3 years. They made their way into my room and managed to shuffle and rearrange every item they could, including my vinyl collection. I came home that night to an empty house, DVD disc without their cases and a missing vinyl record. I was furious! I mean, who would steal my Regina Spektor record?? That night I had a vivid dream to which I was choking the kid that was using my record as a Frisbee. He was playing by a pond and I had spotted him from afar. I crept up slowly, letting my foot land heavy only when the child raised his voice to sing the chorus of some innocent after school special song -- something about loving everyone and sharing -- yeah, me loving to kill him and him sharing a bed with the fishes haha right? right? I palm the back of his neck and force him into the pond; he struggles; I shush him with the grin of sweet revenge letting him up for air only to make him feel like he was getting a second chance at life then submerging him once again. Wait a minute…this isn’t my private diary…….

“Your friend’s children are thieves!” I proclaimed to my momma in her kitchen the next morning. “They need to be put into jail now while there’s still time to change! This record was very dear to me! It’s a classic! I love it! When I see that kid at the pond he’ll pay dearly, yes he will. Oh yes he--”

“What are you talking about?”

“--huh? Nothing.”

“Well,” I didn’t want to admit it to my sweet little girlfriend but I had to. “I don’t think I ever owned that record on vinyl to begin with.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yeah, but while searching for the darn thing, I cleaned up my room real good!”

The past is forever evolving. I read that in a book by David Carr once and ain’t that the truth. Symbolically and literally, events from the past can mean/look different to us at different stages of our life. There may be things that hindsight will notice or make up sub-consciously, like the existence of a Regina Spektor record. The purpose? Who knows. But my room is so damn clean now.

Eulogy for Leslie Neilson

Lest we forget
Leslie, more yet
You’re great films, to which
future comedy is in debt
When I found out you was gone,
Me, hard, it hit
But like your movie Dracula,
I hope you’re dead and loving it
And your humor was probably the tip of the iceberg
You’ll be missed by many including OJ aka Nordberg
It’s hard to let go and get rid of this pain
May your spirit take off smoothly-er than Airplane
You caught the pneumonia
I thought the story was bologna
So I called the news station
They said “well, believe what you wanna”
And I said “ok I will!” and hung up the phone
And I searched it on Wikipedia
It read “Leslie Neilson is dead.”…pwn’d
White hair and so old
Your jokes were so bold
Now the world is so cold
Close to my heart I will hold
The Naked Gun triple feature DVD…
You see,
I don’t know how to feel, son
Wish you would have healed, son
Oh look, there is an eel son
RIP Leslie Neilson

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Without the Bells and Whistles

The stock speakers in my truck hold the 808s from Gucci Mane’s new album on it’s back with difficulty as he tells me how he’s the bad guy; introducing me to his little friend. I take that as a Scar Face reference, which tells me that he is talking about the guns he owns. The rest of his lyrics, although very stylish and full of swag, lacks, for a lack of a better word, talent. (see what I did there?) Don’t get me wrong; I was very entertained; just more so watching the beat picking up Gucci’s slack than anything else. And I ain’t talking about his pants, if you know what I mean. Although, those probably needs some picking up as well. (get it?) I don’t blame Mr. Mane for this abundance of slacking – no no – I blame all the $1500 car-stereo-system-owners and making-it-rain-club-hoppers that need those heavy bass thumps to hide a weakly beating heart. Gucci just be's gettin’ paypah.

Two turn tables and a microphone.

My momma raised me to respect where respect is due.

I cut Gucci Mane off as I put my truck into park and maneuver my keys out of the ignition switch at the same time striping myself back to my lame self. I enter the local pub to see a gentleman play a solo acoustic set but it’s not that easy. Two acts go before him and judging by the dolled up group of girls at the table next to me with eye shadow fitting for an evening orgy somewhere fancy, I know exactly what to expect. The girls will scream and cheer as these boys hit the stage. They will enter the stage with an expensive electric guitar, shiny and new, accompanied by a top of the line amp which wears a color that matches the New York designer shoes on their feet, fashioned to look vintage and used. Their hair would be flat ironed like those in teen life magazines flowing gracefully as they set up two microphones; one to project their normal vocals whilst the other is programmed to have some reverb, so to make for epic echoing effects. The 8 pedals on the floor connect the whole set up to another amp that projects some pre-recorded sounds to accompany the songs that they will attempt to play. After the 15-20 minute sound check, they will usually deliver a mediocre performance at best with monotone vocals. But don’t worry, the baby blue eyes and hip shaking will erase our minds of the tragedy that will take place on that stage, and I ain’t talking about Shakespeare, if you know what I mean. (ohhhhh high five? high five?...whatever) I don’t blame Mr. Glamor and Mr. Hip though. – no no – I blame the cute, big boob’d bimbos that will suck their dicks later because guitars are hot. Glamor and Hip are just getting their bj’s on.

An acoustic guitar and one microphone.

My momma raised me to respect where respect is due.

They should call me Miss Cleo because my predictions were 100% correct. Seriously. I walk in on Mr. Glamor getting a bj in the bathroom. The gentleman I came to see takes the stage now, two shots and a beer in his hands. The stage now striped of all the bells and whistles of the circus that rolled in prior. He takes an acoustic guitar out of it’s case and strums it a couple of times, adjusting the tuning pegs in between. He checks the mic twice and proceeds to starting the first song off the set list that he failed to prepare. He sings the words knowing the meaning of every one and strums the chords that were born to accompany it. Oh how I wish he’d never stop pounding that curvy hollow bodied instrument. Wait, sorry. My mind is wandering back to that bathroom incident earlier.

Just strings and wood and a passionate voice.

My momma raised me to respect where respect is due.


Wednesday, November 24, 2010

She is...

...French, residing with her family on the southwest side of a building to which my tattoo artist is a denizen. She bakes and cooks and has the loveliest eye lashes you’d ever did see. A 70s-80s music connoisseur for the simple fact that it peaks her interest, to which no doubt is confirmed by the most natural curve of the lips. She can hold her own when it comes to alcohol consumption; no taller than 5’2”; makes her money as a distributor and collector of currency at a well known banking institution whilst feeding her mind of theories on business etiquette and succession.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Inspired by The Loss Of a Teardrop Diamond Screen Play

She said "no one will ever love me
But you can get use to me"
As the moon calls out the clouds
"now turn the lights out
So we can see the night better"
As the sound of denizens of grassy marshes stir about,
wet and cool
A blazer falls over her naive shoulders,
who'd hoped the suns warmth would carry through this night
And then and there, all became nothing
while the man in front of her
who had nothing but a broken father
became everything

Thursday, November 18, 2010

We Are! We Are!

We are! We are!
Boast our poetry
Structured now in full retreat
Pull quotes from fatal hearts
With roaring ignition
Thunderous start
What we thought was our time
Got cut short
We were wronged!
But the kisses in our diaries
Says it was our time all along
So dog dare me to chicken scratch
The minutes that brought me here
The ones that hurt a man more than he knows
Can come screaming back and save his soul
Reference key words to the feeling of now
And take not for granted the lift of a brow
Or the curving of lips
The swaying of hips
And don't let go
If you have a good grip
And we slip
At times
When we had it figured out
So when we're angry
Guaranteed we're going to shout
But when we're sad
We'll do more than just pout
We'll ink out the answers
On skin and on trees
Bottle it up and cast it out to sea
So don't ask if we're living yet
Under the dimness of stars
Cause our poetry say that
We are! We are!

No Matter How Things Change, They Always Stay The Same

As though in different light
A past image emerges
Signaling that it was always around
For it was a stranger's stare
That shook me so
Like the world was leaving me behind
But it wasn't a laugh
Or a look of the eyes
It was much more subtle to describe
Maybe a flick of the hair
Or just a sun light's glare
That brought me back to that person I use to know
And speechless I stood
And recognized, I felt
Maybe this anger was manifested
From a phase in time
When all was confused
Or awkwardly looking for escape
And we are not ourselves when we fight what we felt
Or else we'd have surrendered
But now, in the distances
That was built in the aftermath
I see what I ran from
I feel what I missed
Accept what transpired
And smile that it's still alive

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Blame It All On Being Older Now

A week ago, I was at the Registry renewing my driver’s license. Apparently, it expires after 5 years and an updated picture was required. She told me not to smile and the next minute a blinding flash painted the small room bright. My eyes re-focused on a monitor in front of me; on the left of which displayed my old picture and on the right, my recently taken one.

“You look exactly the same as you did 5 years ago!” She complimented.

“Just physically,” I corrected.

I’m a year older today and an article about my current thoughts seem fitting enough, so here goes. “If we’re not constantly growing, we’re dead,” said Lauryn Hill, as a response to those who claim that she’s changed since reaching superstar status. And ever since then, I’ve made a conscious effort to evolve, so to speak, as much and as often as I can. Indeed, that boy in the five year old driver license picture is not who you see in front of you now. And I can probably say the same about me, a year ago. Whether the changes are from tragedy or fortune, I find comfort in knowing that I’m slightly a different person because of them.

Could this comfort be a sense of maturity? Maybe. However, I have plenty of stories from this year alone that will reveal to you that I am far from it. But doesn’t maturity just creep up on you from time to time? I feel that my ability to accept the things that happen puts me on that stairwell to manhood. Perhaps, the greatest thing I’ve come to understand in life is how little control we have. Yeah, there are books out there that cheer us on to take control of our lives, and I’m not denying that we can, however, we can only control what we are able to control; which, like I said, is not much. And this statement is in no way meant to be negative. On the contrary, knowing that we don’t have much control allows us to choose our battles with the universe without regrets and to understand the motives of others.

In the pasting year of my life I’ve lived days on end out of a studio, written and record 9 songs alone in my room, chased an Edible Arrangement delivery van down a busy part of Jasper Avenue under a warm sunny afternoon, made out with a taken girl in the back seat of her car, been dumped thousands of kilometers from home, woke up in bed with blood all over my boxers, , went on a date with a girl that turned out to be a drug dealer, found a wound on my side that is still unexplained to this day and those are the things that I can remember. I’ve written countless articles and discovered many life changing songs, movies and books; been heartbroken too, but in the process, befriended many who were willing to lend some glue. So I guess I’ll conclude with the following.

People are naturally selfish and rightly so. The best we can ask for is that they have good intentions and respect for us. For example, she kissed me with the intent that the relationship would work out but she could not control the fact that she needed something different than what I was offering. Or, his intention was for us to grow up together and have beers on the patio we built but he couldn’t control the fact that he got cancer. Cause intentions are wishful thinking in a world where control is so scarce. People change; sometimes unintentionally and with those changes we find ourselves outcasts to their new lives. We hold so much against the people who let us down that we kill ourselves dwelling in it; the victims that we are. But are we? Had not for those changes, would this very article exist? In turn, would I, the man before you, exist? I won’t go as far as saying that things happen for a reason for the simple fact that I don’t want to get spiritual. So I’ll simply say that the world is alive and things will change. Let it.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

The Comfort of Chaos

"There's something seriously wrong here," I said, referring to a relationship that I am currently engaged in.

"What's the problem?" asked my audience, a person that I've confide in for as long as I can remember.

"Absolutely nothing." I reply. I mean, she's gorgeous, fun, and has been treating me great!

Reminds me of the time we camped out in a barn located at the edge of nowhere just south of no place. My band was playing a festival called Backwater Bash organized by a carpenter who had a lot of land and a love of music. There were 10 plus bands playing two sets over two nights. We camped where we could, ate what we packed, and drank anything and everything with alcohol content, including a jalapeño wine that a creepy old man was passing around. The last few bands were setting up right around the time I passed out in the tent, approximately at 4 in the morning.

Regardless of the deep sleep that I fell in to I found myself wide eyed and border line scared about 2 hours later. The morning was quiet and I could hear voices in the distances.

"Good set man!"

"How about one more song?"

The last band had finished. They must have ended their set with a loud bang or something to have wakened me up. I tried to find a comfortable position to drift back asleep to but nothing would allow it. I realized later that the thing that woke me was not a loud bang or a tough nudge; far from it. The thing that woke me up and left me uneasy was the silence of the undeveloped countryside.

Strange how the loud chaos that is rock and roll was what soothed me to sleep yet the comfort calmness of nature make me edgy, paranoid even. I laid in my bed after that trip and dosed off quick, surrounded by the sirens and traffic of the big city. There was even a point when I heard a gunshot and smiled a little.

"Things are quiet," I whispered to my audience across the table from me. "Way too quiet."

"Actually things are quiet loud." she replied. “We’re at Swiss Chalet during a lunch rush.”

Oh, right…

While People Sleep

God forbid that I have used my sleep
At times when people wake
Reacquaint with ceilings off shade
That a night stand lamp dictates

Unfamiliar hours projects from awkward clocks
While silences hums a tune
Curious closed eyes wonder most
Of slaveries under the moon

But soon necks will give, heavy heads fall
The determine yawn will cry
Motherly lungs will take control
While lids strangle the eyes

And without a doubt efforts will tucker out
Even the stubbornness of wake
Which will live tomorrow with such regret
And pray for time they should have breaked

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Backup Plans?

In the event that
In an attempt at

Love, I fail
Above safe rails

Lies a back up rope
So a sap could cope

If stored in mind
Were more in line

Rebound, if short
See 'round for sport

Is it justified?
Or lusted lies?

That hurts the now
And bursts and allows

For faults to surface
And vaults the purpose

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Chivalry Belongs to Technology Now

Chivalry belongs to technology now
Luxuries to impress is effortless
Damned are you that hold open doors
When the next can't afford any less

Oh hearts will melt at conveniences
Such as televisions in transportations
God forbid that mouths do work
Communication building relations

On occasion send voices to eager ears
Instead of pixels to the eyes
And here I will correct myself
Technology caused chivalry's demise

Monday, November 1, 2010

Relative Perception

These Ideas, I pitch
Whilst in that ditch
So full of naivety
And hopes of longevity

Though her eyes did spark
From the light in her dark
Relative perception
Is indeed full of deception

So I flip though charts
With works of art
Born of great mistakes
And roads I did not take

Same time, I showed no fear
Which drew her near
My words opened doors
Had her saying "forever more"

Or so I thought I heard
But words sometimes are words
And a smile showed
Realized that she was oh so cold

So she warmed up near me
While hearts grew weary
Cause it was I, so clear
Who fell for my own ideas

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

No, If You Think Twice

Pass on the passive
And rock it, so blast off
The aggression of depression
Is a lesson
To pull casts off

And if that’s soft
Cover it with loud coughs
And imitate the appropriate
That will create
Sudden stops

Listen, give and take
Wishing, live and break
Chuckle over white knuckles
And buckle
For goodness sake

Cause life is so funny
We miss darkness when it’s sunny
All slaves of the graves
Trying to save
All that money

So, words of advice
No, if you think twice
And older is not colder
If the molder
Is out of sight

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Now Supersedes

And my smile is refreshed
With unannounced lips on my cheek
Chilled from foreign atmosphere
Prepared by a timid tongue

An armless embrace
Wanted in the best way
So cheers to being interesting
Maybe never again but now

And we can be what time allows!
Mysterious, if only for a moment
Excited, if only from anticipation
Apprehensive, if only from mistakes

But as heart race, I'll risk another
Raise the stakes so to not regret
Raise a glass to potentials for security
For validations of pre-sleep wishes

For stories to tell
and to life as we know it
And in the rush of the good times
Let history be history

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Complexity Between Needle and The Record

As I am typing these words the understanding of how this computer works comes so naturally. My brain articulates the sentences and then simplifies it one word at a time. These words are then filtered down to letters that my finger tip identifies on the keyboard; simple circuits then make their way to the computer tower which processes the information and puts everything back together again; projecting it on the monitor. Justin Timberlake's Ayo Technology is playing through the speakers while I type and I explain this simply as the result of a laser that scans the digital information that was printed onto the plastic disc, sending that data to an application that translates it into sounds. Advanced, are we, the generation of the iPod.

I often laugh at my parents when they fail to understand the concept behind the above. I shake my head at them when I am asked to burn them a CD. And I sit back and think, this is a good thing. As an offspring of these two individuals who met when they were in their early twenties back in the dinosaur ages, I’m doing right by outgrowing them. I mean, my comprehension of the world as we know it far surpasses theirs. God help them when they are out there having to deal with email bank transfers and skyping! And I feel good about it; I feel superior, in a sense.

Earlier, in my "single's chair", I listen as my parents talk about how they met; my father trying to be attentive with his newspaper open and my momma reminiscing on the love seat with him. “Did you know that your father is my first boyfriend? And I’m his first girlfriend? And we’ve been in love ever since?” BARF.

I put Ray LaMontagne’s Trouble record into the record player and let the needle feel the grooves in the black disc, hoping to drown out this corny romance story of theirs; an explosion of guitars, violin, vocals, harmonicas and drums flow through the speakers into my ears. Now, if you ever listen to a vinyl record you’ll notice how organic and true it is. Honestly, it is the next best thing from listening to the artist live. Why is that? I guess it has to do with a little connection between the needle and the record. Apparently, as the record spins, microscopic bumps and grooves on the surface of the disc initiate a vibration that resonates into a symphony of sounds. As tangible as that may seem, I always have a hard time understanding how bass and synthesizers, electric guitars and a human voice can come from bumps and groves and one simple needle. So as the record plays I glance over at my parents, hand in hand laughing at some fossil memories that they dug up together and I shuffle in my "single's chair". I retract my earlier statement. I’m not superior at all.

Last night I was asked, “How many times in your life have you fallen in love?”

To which I replied, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I know how many times I think I’ve been in love," I think about what I just said, "It’s funny because you don’t really know that you’re in love until you’re there. Then you question on whether you were really there, when you’re not anymore. Truly, I don’t know. Maybe twice?”

Funny. Ask me about the inner workings of the latest modern hand held devices or theories of why time travel to the past is impossible and I can explain it to some degree but ask me about love and I can't give a straight answer.

My parents are still holding hands. I guess it has to do with a little connection between the needle and the record.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Balancing What We Call Life

The cold fall weather flows through my truck like a tornado in Kansas City robbing the tip of my nose of any heat that it may have had. I crank up the heater to its maximum level and open the vents that would deliver hot fire air, counter attacking this cold front. I reach for the wool tuque equipped with ear flaps and tie it tight to my head as if it were a motorcycle helmet and I was Evel Knievel sitting at the top of the grand canyon. The warm tea in my right hand delivers rations of blanket-like warmth down my throat, causing the chills to scatter, if only for a moment. I turn to my brother in the passenger seat to see how he’s making out.

“You are fucking retarded?” He screams. “Let’s just roll up the windows!”

“But I like the fresh air, stupid!”

Ah, life is complicated isn’t it?

Friday, October 15, 2010

Dear Sigh The Sign,

She texts me at 11:11, truly this is a sign.
So naturally I sigh when I see my mind at the picket line
holding up stop signs. And as my motto goes,
"barriers will bury you," and I step forth
with my left foot as a sign of good faith,
truthful or not, it's effort that will go rewarded.
For I can look back with regret but I will not forget
the feeling of control and accountability. And I construct a sign
reading "errors permitted." Surely, where I stand
years from now will be paved
from the mistakes and great choices I make now.
And I can wonder about the various stories
that I can never tell
but I'll realize that this is me, mistakes and all.


Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Repeated Offender of Mistakes

Today I grab one of many pens out of my stationary holder only to realize that it was out of ink. No, it wasn’t the manufacture’s fault. I actually remember using up all the ink and putting it back into the holder. My bad. Out of shear laziness I scribble blanks onto my paper pad hoping to unclog something that will release more ink, but I knew deep down inside that it was empty. I put the pen back into the holder and grab a fresh one.

How many times do we have to repeat our mistakes before we grow up?

To You, It Don't Concern, Stop

My heart beats like morse code
Desperate to send a message, stop
The way you smile like you use to
Is pulling my attention, stop
Tap tap tap on my chest it goes
Hoping for translation, stop
So obtuse to this truth
That I dare not say it, stop
And to be transparent is foolish
So let's put on this act, stop
Watch these stars in the night
Until my heart beat stops

Sincerely, etc etc. Stop

Monday, October 11, 2010

Be Thankful for the Bad Times...But Also for the Good Times

I feel like an anthropologist right now flicking away at the saved videos, pictures and screen shots of a beautiful moment in my life. Much like the dinosaurs, that world was buried deep by a tragic destiny. What lay beneath the dirt now are fossils of an idea that was never meant to last. So, as if I were equipped with a brush and scraper, I dust off the fossils that I buried for one last glance. You see, my own cell phone had become a bit counter productive for my post-her life. Through being somewhat of a hardcore documenter, I have shot myself in the foot. Clips of us together, along with beautiful text message conversations have truly feed to that tiny bit of hope that we would one day reunite. Yeah I admit it. Although 97.25% of me knows that I’m yesterday’s news to her, that remaining percentage still hopes that something can happen. I’m not full of myself nor am I failing to move on with my life but lets be honest, don’t we all have some hope in these cases? It’s like those people that dream of their favorite fairy tale coming true. Unlikely as they may be, it’s still fun to dream of once in a while you know?

So why the anthropology? Well, like I said, my cell phone has become a bit of a drag on my new life so I decided to savior the moments one last time before deleting them. In all honesty, I find it a real shame to be deleting them like this. I mean, that’s moments that can never be created again, not with anyone. But it’s time. The memories of how poorly she treated me in the dying days of our relationship also helped fuel my delete commanding finger. “She’s not coming back anyways. These moments you saved aren’t gonna do anything for you!” And why would they? “Plus, when you were with her, you had no creativity! You couldn’t write worth shit!” It was true. I was in a slump. I was too happy to be looking for words. And then I stumbled on this; a text conversation between us.

Her, “haha I want to go rent that game!!! What are you writing about?...or am I not allowed to ask that? Lol”

Me, “Lol you are allowed to ask me anything. I’m writing about going to the hardware store. I should be writing about your sexy butt.”

Her, “new blog? Or just for your journal?? …what would you write about my butt?? Haha”

Me, “A blog ☺ I would write “I inhale the fresh air of spring that is her skin’s scent, abandoned by her perfume, now expired; a surface as smooth as the earth eroded by years and years of flowing water. How else to tell her but with a kiss on those full soft lips, cold and refreshing from the glass of water she just drank that made me a little jealous. I reach around her lower back, a curve that fits my embrace like she was made for me. I reach lower and firmly grab what belongs on a baker’s pan…hot buns.”

Until this text I just recited, I use to think of these saved texts, video footage and pictures as poor attempts at keeping a piece of something that wasn’t mine to keep anymore. And by doing so, hurting my very being. I looked back and thought, “poor bastard. Thought that these pictures, videos and texts would be specimens that he could show his children one day and say, 'Kids, these are memories of your mother and I. See how cute we were? I hope you find your soul mate the way that I did.'”

But I read and I watch and I smile. I wasn’t stupid or naïve for documenting. Obviously they won’t be for my kids to look at, but right now, they serve a bigger purpose. They are here to remind me one last time that with her, I was happy and that I was still writing, even though they came in the form of poems, one with a racist theme (which isn’t as bad as it seems. Actually, I still think it was cute as hell) among many others. I know now that I love who I was when I was with her and have no regrets about any of it.

So this thanksgiving day, I’m thankful for everything that she was to me. And I hope that you find a way to make sense of everything in your life. Even the tragic times! Take care!


Wednesday, October 6, 2010

This Spine of Mine

The lingering of a hopeful heart
Tingles in my spine
As if the impossible has a fighting chance
All from a glance of past romance
So is it impossible at that?
Or was it the realist in me who shuts the door?
And thumbs circle one another in thought and the phrase "you'll never know until you try" hovers my head along with the rain clouds and sunshine
Where do we draw the line of not wanting to know anymore?
And who dares say that I didn't try?!
As clear as July skies, I jumped in with both feet and if effort were rewarded then I'd be rich with recognition
But dreams are dreams for that particular reason.
And the tingle jolts me another thought,
"is that which I want truly what I want?"
For it's been some time since real was real
and it's been some time since my imagination has rebuilt; made over and captured a moment when perfection ruled. But did it ever really?
Like a post card from paradise showing a beach all dolled up, infesting my memory like a coat of sugar.
"Never again!" I shout as I stand in that rainy beach;
the post card image I should have remembered.
And I nod and smile, bitterly and sweetly
Is the opportunity I seek more for closure?
Cause there are days when I know I'm better off.
Yet, the tingle in my spine whispers,
"you'll never know until you know."
But would I know if I knew?
Is this time 'round suppose to be new?
Through and through, the risks you make are equal to the risks you don't take
It's not about whether it's worth it or not.
It's whether I can deal with the consequences.
The very contemplation sways me to believe that deep down I'm reluctant to venture forth.
Yet still it tingles., this spine of mine.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

There's Always Going to be Construction

Do people not realize how ridiculous they look cussing at the top of their lungs in their vehicles at traffic as a result of construction? Granted, we haven’t moved more than a smart car length in the past 10 minutes but screaming? Really? There’s only a couple of things that occur because of those screams; one, it makes you look like an idiot and two, it makes your girlfriend in the passenger seat duck and hide of embarrassment. What it doesn’t do is make the road pave itself. I recognize that what I just wrote is quite obvious to anyone in their right mind and yet here and now, I witness a fellow in an SUV determined to make a path through all the rush hour with the power of his voice and the ridiculous expressions in his face.

Here in my truck, I’m doing a different kind of screaming. With my windows down I’m blasting Gaslight Anthem’s American Slang album and singing at the top of my lungs. This traffic is no surprise to me anymore for a couple of reasons. The first is the fact that I have been commuting through this construction zone for the majority of the summer. I wave at the girl that holds the “slow” sign almost every morning and I solute the guy that holds it in the evening. In fact, I’m so glad that they are finally working on this pothole-infested surface. Last year I almost wiped out on my motorcycle because of these little gate ways to hell! I remember that day clearly because while I was riding I was thinking about something terrible that I did earlier. My momma was trying to start a conversation with me, asking me a few questions that really started to annoy me. They were not annoying questions but I guess I wasn’t in the mood. After a few short replies she got the hint and left me alone. I felt bad as I thought about it, cruising through the streets on that motorcycle and suddenly swerving around a pothole that snuck up on me. I realized that I really had to work on talking nicer to my momma. And I’ve been working on it ever since.

The second? A week ago while engulfed in a cloud of bad mood, I illegally U-turned out of the cluster of automobiles in search of a more easy flowing route. I wanted to feel the wind in my hair and the freedom through my fingers as my hand reaches out through the windows into forever. And I found it! For two blocks. I once again found myself surrounded by vehicles, all eager for another way. And it wasn’t until I was half way through cursing the damn traffic that I noticed a child in the red mini van beside me, laughing.

“What the fuck are you laughing at kid?” I thought, “What do you know about being late for a meeting?” But that laughing kid will get through this construction zone as quickly as I will. The difference is, he would have had a more pleasant journey through.

There’s always going to be construction no matter where you go. Screaming won’t help any. I know that now. And I’m working on it, screaming at the top of my lungs to some good music.

Neglecting the Wound

I pull the bandage off the right side of my torso, right above my hip hoping for the best. The attachment it has to my skin is strong. Looking back on it now I realize that I had much to learn about nurturing a wound. A mysterious wound at that, now a permanent scar to remind me of the times I guess. It has been said that every scar as a story. Well this one may lack one, which in turn be, in itself, a story.

To this moment, I can’t really tell you the cause of this wound which can be described as 4 punctures aligned to form a circle. I can’t tell you how I got it because I discovered it one hazy morning, following a 2 day drinking binge. However, I have pin pointed it down to the persist time that the injury may have occured; between 6pm Friday, after I left a friend’s dinner, and 8 am Sunday as I found myself safely in my bed. With great embarrassment and shame, I must admit that the moments in between these times are a little blurry but you have to give me credit for the great detective work. The point in this article does not lie in the things that I can’t recall; it lies in the things that I have learned.

There we are, the mysterious wound and I, like strangers sharing a booth on a passenger train, not knowing what to make of one another. I apply the anti-bacterial cloth to it like I’ve been doing it for weeks (because I have), q-tipped some polysporin to the punctures and neatly sealing a fresh bandage over to hold everything that should be there, in place. I wasn’t always this committed though. About a month ago, when the wounds first appeared, I declared them mosquito bites and left them open naively thinking that nature will run its course. A couple of days, tops, and these bites will be out of my life, I thought. Well, days turned to weeks before my friends and family really started to worry (on the account that pus and other shit was coming out of it) and here we are a month later with Dr. Me performing intricate surgery to it.

I have a scar on my left hand pinky from a cheese grater that required no pampering to heal. A faded scrap on my right elbow from a bicycle accident I had as a child took 2 weeks before it manned up and recovered with only the help of time. Come to think of it, all my little wounds have, for the most part, only needed time and a small bandage to heal. So for as long as I could remember, I’ve believed that although the aid of modern medicine will speed up the recovery of wounds, it is not needed. Your body should know how to handle these matters, no? But I guess that there is more to it than that. Time will do its thing, true, but some wounds require much more. Ignorance may numb the pain but it sure as hell will not help close a gash. Know what I’m saying? The right choices that you make regarding the wound may not help it heal but it will definitely keep it from getting worst. I let mine get worst.

So, hey. Take care of yourself. All wounds will heal, but you have more control over that than you think.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Young World Stay True

And we crash like cars
We crow like bars
Smash like hammers
As bright as stars

We love like first
Urgent like thirst
Strong like Arm
Binding as curse

We scream like ice
We're skilled like nice
Buzzed like bees
Unpredictable as dice

And we hurt like gigs
Snap like twigs
Rebound like balls
And serious as cigs

So laugh like sits
Blow like hits
Grow like western trees
But stay true as shit

My Offical End of Summer Blog

The yellow leaves crunching on the paved sidewalk give me that monster-like quality as I destroy them as if they were buildings to a densely populated city. I catch the sun light through the branches and realized without a doubt that fall had arrived. I inhale the smell of new through my nose; the air a little more chill; my heart a little more whole and I knew this day would come. There are many inevitable moments in this unpredictable life and here I stand in one. Indeed the leaves will fall; as surely as it is not a good idea to play leap frog with a unicorn; as surely as it is for the mucho-est of men to look like nothing more than retarded when rollerblading; and as surely as the fact that nothing is forever. Although for most of that list, it is a matter of opinion, the final holds true every time. As pessimistic as it sounds, one can also look to it as indifferent or even uplifting. Here are some examples.

A few months ago, I thought it was hilarious to imitate the tune that plays on the Price is Right when the contestant fails on their guess. You know, the one that sounds like a sad little tuba that ends up falling down the stairs. If you don’t know, I attached a youtube video of that very sound. Oh did I have fun. Possibly the time of my life. Picture me walking down the office hallway at work when sweet little Gillian comes over with her hot coffee, happy to be starting off the day with the sun shining. Suddenly, her 3 inch heels slips from under her causing her knees to give way resulting in Gillian, flat on her face with hot coffee everywhere, including her new white blouse. Holly Golightly would have shouted “timber!” but not me. I kneeled down to Gillian and look into her embarrassed and shaken eyes and I say * press play on the youtube video *. Classic right? I know! Or how about when I was walking home and a single mother of 3 found a parking ticket on her car windshield? * press play on the youtube video *. I would have even said it when Misty, my friend’s girlfriend came over crying and screaming, “Oh my god, Rich Cronin from Lyte Funky Ones died today of Lukemia!” but nothing last forever. And for those of you who pressed play on the youtube video after reading that, shame on you. Just joking. * High five *

Recently, I’ve been finding it very satisfying to call people assholes through my teeth; under my breath as they are walking away from me, almost loud enough for them to hear. Sure, it would be equally, if not more, satisfying to say it in front of their face. But for this moment, I’ma go with the under my breath technique. Like Carl, the guy that took my coffee order at Second Cup yesterday morning.


“Good morning Carl, can I get a black coffee please. Oh and the bagel in the middle.”

“Sigh. Which bagel? They are all in the middle, relatively.”

“Oh. This one,” I pointed.

“God! Can you just describe it? Your finger is all crooked!”

“uh, sure, the one that looks like a donut.” And then, I turn my head about 82…no no, 84 degrees to my right and 75 degrees downward and let it out, “ASSHOLE!”

“Hey, I heard that! You’ve been doing that to me all week buddy. When are you going to give it a rest and get a life??”

“Oh, don’t worry. Nothing is forever Carl.” And then, I turn my head about 82…no, 84 degrees to my right and 75 degrees downward and let it out, “ASSHOLE!”

So you see, nothing is forever. Some things will linger longer than others. But rest assure things will change. Yeah, maybe great relationships will end and maybe that successful up and coming intern will make one mistake and plummet down the hierarchy but maybe not. Cause maybe things get better. The leaves fall differently in the eyes of many who walk this sidewalk with me. One lady can’t seem to stop the leaves from falling right into her mouth, gagging and spitting as frequent as a crack head scratches. Another lady can’t seem to keep from shivering at the climate change, wrapping herself in scarves and leg warmers. Me? All I see is a gorgeous field of yellow beyond recreation. Summer is gone, yes. But let’s take this as an opportunity for new perspectives. Nothing is forever. Good times will get better and then it might go away, but you know what? Pain isn’t forever either. Take care.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Faces of Another Time

Residue of dreams linger
Hand in hand with my wandering mind
Although new topics have surfaced now
Indeed there was a time
But their meaning here, I do not know
Faces that have faded
Revisits in the dead of night
And leave unfinished by the dawn
With hints of my pillow,
I awake sound yet perplex
The day brings me nothing
To build on or connect
So I wait for the shift, the moon’s watch
Falling deep into blanket plains
And there I wait for a form of progress
As the faces appear once again

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

For Lack of Better Motivation

For lack of better, I recall that sweater
That complimented an eager heart
While seasons changed, reasons range
Now calmly vented, received through art

So with eyes closed, and lies exposed
Come feel this life overflow
An expression dares repression there
To try and close down low

A product, oddest , is a product regardless
Hold back no more than fear
Of a common truth, of the ominous youth
Which surely falls on the deftness of ears

But more than ears, these words are for tears
Like a gust to a falling feather
And the aspiration to ask for motivation
I inhale as I recall that sweater

Friday, September 10, 2010

Let Song Save Us

By chance, in our trance
We define our core
Through the songs that belongs
With us forever more

But despite our fight
And victorious walk
Them all that fall
We shall not mock

And that too with tattoos
Will mark this time
When height and sight
Is achieved through rhyme

The heartache we partake
Is just a means
And this sorrow is borrowed
No more than a scene

For sooner than lunar
Will the sun light come
Grip neck, and reflect
Give the guitar a strum

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Bitter vs. Sweet

*Note, this is a demo of a song I wrote. There's relations to the blog below. Enjoy.

I take a sip from my tin travel mug as my truck comes to a halt at red lit intersection, fighting the bitterness that attacks my mouth. I’ve always had a thing for drinking hot water (no, I’m not 65 years old.) and for as long as I’ve had this mug it’s been a coffee virgin; all until a couple of months ago when possessed with the demons of a failed relationship and a desperation to keep from sleeping (to prevent dreaming of her – The Starting Line reference. You’re welcome) I impulsively poured some 7eleven coffee into the pure, clean container. Ever since then, regardless of the thorough cleaning jobs, my hot water has been coming out contaminated with that corroded, dark drug that is caffeine.

Now I cringe as I carry on the task of cleaning out my truck, which had began to resemble a bottle depot with all the empty water bottles and what not scattered anywhere and everywhere. I also found a glass bottle of jalapeno wine to which I’m declining to speak about at this moment. The rain pitter patters on my truck’s cracked windshield and reminds me of how crappy the weather has been. It seems like it hasn’t stopped raining since she left. I reach into the darkness of the passenger seat, pulling out the odd hair clip – fossils of that brief affair, horrible in its final stretch. Maybe it was her only option to provoke the dialogue that would end it all, but for the last few weeks of our relationship, she did not treat me very well. A hug from me could cause her great irritation. I remember taking a picture with a tree by myself on our holiday because she did not want to be in it. But whatever. I looked good. Sad though. I would lay there on our hotel bed silently as she watched the television, refusing to have a conversation with me. She took my photo off her cell phone wall paper. And it worked. I ended up confronting her 1000 km away from home and she ended it right then and there. In the days that followed, I could immediately tell that she was happier than she ever was in my arms. I can’t help but think about those times with such bitterness.

In the last stretch of my cleaning I discovered a zip lock bag filled with cookies; a book mark from that trip 2 months ago. She had packed it for the drive and they were damn good cookies. It brought me back to that night on the hotel bed, while those heavy words dropped out of her mouth I was screaming inside, “Don’t do this! Why can’t you remember all the great times we’ve had? You’ll change your mind if you would just remember! Like that time on your momma’s porch. The sun was shining and we lingered there before I had to go home. I told you that you were stuck with me and you smiled and said you had no problem with it! Why don’t you just remember??” Literally though, that was one of the best moments of my life (not the break up, the summer on her momma’s porch). Just like the lyrics in Bryan Adam’s Summer of 69. Sigh. Point is, I had forgotten that moment up until these cookies, which is ironic because there I was screaming for her to remember it, and now here I am just remembering it myself.

Does bitterness consume us to a point where good memories are lost? Were these cookies that I found a sign that I need to let go of the things that have upset me for the sake of preserving the great moments that I deserve to remember? Is it bad to eat 2 month old cookies? I think about these important questions as I bite into the hard dry dessert which still has the same sweetness that I remembered. And with that, all the laughter and great times flooded back to me. The touch of her hand in mine at the art gallery; the conversations over hot chocolate; the LRT rides; the John Mayer concert; my strange kisses that made her giggle; introducing her to my friends at a wedding; the walks. We had great times together regardless of the break up. It’ll be a shame to forget them, no? And another thing ab-- *choke*

I reach for the mug to wash down the sweet dry cookie, apparently a little harder to swallow than anticipated (see what I’m doing here?) but I stop. Maybe this cookie discovery is trying to teach me something. Maybe it's the last chance for me to leave the past on a sweet note or in this case a sweet tooth. I don’t need that bitterness in my mouth again. Have you swallowed your cookies yet?

Monday, August 30, 2010

My Fedora Hat

Oh my fedora hat was crushed in my luggage
All bent out of shape and looking sluggish
Discovered it when I came home and unpacked
I even tried to bend it back

But it was no use for it still fit wrong
Like it lost it's memory of where it belonged
So I set it down on my big black dresser
And there it stayed, of it, I thought lesser

Until this very day when I glanced at it
Realized it had slowly taken shape, and now it fits!
So it was time that fixed it as it sat
Maybe all of us are just like my fedora hat

I Have The World

The thing I’ll miss most about being heartbroken is the front row seat I got to watching amazing people trying to pick me back up. I remember zoning out at one of these viewings to reflect on how blessed I was; then again, the zoning out could have been due to the endless pints that I had consumed mixed with 3 hits of the strongest sticky-ickies I’ve ever inhaled. The echoes of the conversation that went on around me floated in and out of my head.

“No, no, no! The time it takes to get over someone is half the time of the relationship! So if you have been going out for a year, it’ll take you six months to move on.”

“Well that’s stupid. All he needs to do is have 10 loud cries, and he’ll be cured. Just let it out buddy.”

“haha, you’re all wrong! This is what needs to be done. One Hundred Shots. Doesn’t matter how days or months it may take you to drink it, once you swallow that 100th shot, you’ll forget all about the ex.”

The conversation goes on and on, theory after theory but I dwelled on that bit that I registered. “Forget all about the ex.” Is getting over someone really a matter of forgetting though? The intentions of my friends warm my heart but I did not mark dates on my calendar when I got home of when I’d forget this girl that once made me so happy, nor did I start count the number of shots I’d taken.

The morning after was horrid. The eating and puking was counterproductive and the headache was killing precious brain cells that I could not afford to lose. I laid lifeless on my bed, which hasn’t been comfortable since she left it, as memories tortured my dying soul. My phone rang.

“You need fresh air dude. Let’s go to a movie.”

I gave into my friends’ attempts to keep me from thinking of her after many aggressive phone calls later and found myself seated in a movie theatre. It was a comedy that was playing and within minute, I was laughing like a toddler that didn’t know any better. I came out of that theatre headache free, feeling a lot better than that morning.

Looking back on that day now, I realized that getting over someone does not lie in a request for amnesia; it’s in the distractions of life. Think about it. When she was around, she was all that I really looked forward to; her texts in the morning, her laughter in the evenings, her body at night. Nothing else really mattered as much. And then she was gone and everything else seemed so saturated in comparison. I don’t think I’ll ever truly forget about a girl like that and I don’t think I would ever want to. But the future has so much to offer that it’s silly to stay so stationary.

So I sit now, in front of the same group of friends, all of which see something different in me.

“Oh my god, has it been half the time of your relationship already?”

“No no, he cried his 10th cry!”

“Please! You had the 100th shot did you??”

“No,” I replied. “I have something better; the curiosity for tomorrow and the distractions of life.

“I have the anticipation of that next critically acclaimed novel that’s coming out. I have eagerness in witnessing the progression of modern medicine that will one day save millions from critical illnesses. I have faith in the next great invention that will propel mankind into the next stage of evolution. I have the hope for the mind that will produce the next great album that will spark something in myself. And I have my friends. For is it not the distractions of everyday life that keep us from that which pains us? New things to look forward to; better things to be excited for. There’s so much of that going around that you don’t have time to dwell on a relationship that was probably not meant to be anyways. I have a future to look forward to. I have the world.”

“…yeah, I’m pretty sure it was that 100th shot buddy.”

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Drink Me In, I am a Muse

You're in no condition
Tilting over, urinals so listen

Although you won't recall
For so you don't free fall

I reckon that I take a stand
Wrecking that which makes a man

And these crack mirrors between
Matter of fact, curing acts that lean

Hoping to forget a time
When coping with regret, a crime

Was more or less refined
And sores of mess align

So I’ll pick up the pieces
Before you lick up diseases

You just close your eyes
Don’t choose to blow your mind

In the morning we’ll debrief
Now let snoring kill beliefs

So that song will come to light
For the wrong still sums a right

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

I Call It, "The Hot Chocolate Effect"!

The hot chocolate that touches my lips is still steaming hot so I don’t even invite it into my mouth. I should have known better than to even try to sip it moments after meeting it. You always got to let the hot chocolate sit for a while; to let it cool down a bit and let all the flavors mix a little; wipe cream and cocoa pounder, before you can really enjoy it. I give it a blow hoping it would help and place it on the table as if it were a child who just threw a temper tantrum. “Stay there until you cool off, missy!” I instructed and then gave myself a minute to laugh at my awesome word play. Without a doubt, I know you’re doing the same right now. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

The coffee shop is filling up quick; a cute couple takes a seat at the vacant table beside me and it looks as if they are still getting to know one another. I can tell because they are both so polite; cute, none-the-less. My attention is pulled away by a frustrated voice coming from what looks like to be the manager of the shop.
She’s shouting, in the calmest voice possible, “Jerry, why haven’t you cleaned the front doors yet?” A valid question considering that the front doors, made of all glass, had more hand prints on it than a hardcore porn stars ass (come on, don’t shake your head, that simile was awesome). “It’s so dirty!”

“Well,” Jerry started, “If it’s too clean, I’m afraid people will just walk into it thinking there was nothing there. I just wanted people to know what they’re walking into.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit and clean it right now!” The manager shots those words right through her grinning teeth!

Jerry has a point though. Sure, glass doors look great and all, but this isn’t one of those fun houses at the carnival designed to trick you into bumping your head! Maybe Jerry’s got it figured out. I mean, why give the illusion that there is an open path to walk through only to be denied by super clean glass? You know?? We’re all programmed by society to give that crystal clear look and the result is all these people on the ground holding their foreheads; deceiving really.

So I proceed to watch Jerry as he scrubbed the glass doors when I hear a loud burp coming from the cute couple next to me.

“Susan!” Said the boy, “You’re dirty!”

She giggles, “Well, I just wanted you to know what you’re getting yourself into!”

I smile. The boy smiles. Not at one another though cause that would be weird.

Moments later, there’s a crash at the front doors. We all look to find an old man lying on the street, holding his forehead.

Jerry smiles. Not at the old man though, cause that would be mean.

Then I feel it! I grab my hot chocolate and chug it. Ah, just the way I like it.

Work Out More Than Your Body

The sweat crawls down his forehead, pass focused eyes, tracing a face that does not reflect the intensity of the workout that his body is going through right now. His breathing holds steady and rhythmic, each foot forward is strong and controlled. Knees cushion his torso like they were born to do so; the dense cement trails in this valley does not bother him. In perfect form he passes beginners as they surrender to their body; broken down to a mere walk. And he snickers to himself and thinks, “been there. Did that.” But out loud he encourages, “you’re doing great! Don’t give up now ma’am!” And on he jogs with his ipod in hand.

Yeah, that’s kind of what I am. So god-like in those jogging shorts, you know? And I know what you are thinking, especially the ladies. You’re thinking, “He’s so determined and focus, he probably doesn’t even notice me when he runs by,” and then you sigh and eat a chocolate bar. Not true. For your entertainment, I’ll let you into the telepathic social community of guys in the workout environment.

The other day I was doing my 10k jog (no big deal) and a female in her work out gear was power walking towards me on the two lane trail. A bicyclist was gaining way behind her and he wanted to pass her but I was in the other lane. So he slowed down. He looked me in the eye and telepathically asked me, “hey bro, is this chick in front of me cute?”

“Let’s just say that I want some fries with dat shake, know what I mean?” I replied. “I think she’s a 30-26-33.” We laughed in our minds while he passes her and we imagined ourselves high fiving each other.

About 3 km later I approached a guy jogging at a slow pace behind a cutie pie. I go to pass him and I said, telepathically of course, “Dude, I know you can push harder than that! Come on man.”

He looked at me, “My brother, I got a good view from here. 36-24-38! You feel me, playah?” Which was kind of strange because he was the whitest guy I ever saw.

“Yeah, ok. I gotcha! brother.” And he was right. It was a great view.

With 2kms left on my run, I caught up with two gentlemen who looked to have just started. I heard them telepathically eyeing a sweet piece of ass as I approached.

“Look at the ass on that one, Gary.” The one guy thought, “I would tear that up!”

“Rod, you are soo right. Probably works that out vigorously,” the other guy agreed.

“Who we looking at guys? What time, what time? Oh, the 35-28-37 at 2 o’clock? No, no, it’s the 28-24-30 at 12 o’clock right? Am I right? High five?!” Yeah, I’m a man’s man, you know?

“Actually, we were talking about you, Asian Persuasion.” They both looked over at me, undressing me with their eyes; raping me with their lips, impregnating me with their…dick?

…..I’m gonna stop with that now.

“…….” Speechless. “Yeah I work it out!” I ran off feeling like a piece of meat, but at the same time a little flattered.

I reached my truck and did my post stretches, eyeing the new water bottle I got the other day. Damn, I was thirsty. You should see this bottle. It got curves for days! 10-8-13! Bam! Booty booty booty! I tilt it to my mouth and chug.


*SPIT* Old old warm water mixed with what tasted like coffee…. Gross.

So work out more than your body ok?

*Note, my over confident tone is contrived to make a point. 60% of the time I'm 100% not like that.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Bam! I Looked, She Punched.

Ever play the hand-loop-punching game? The loop is made with your thumb and index finger, much like the “okay” hand gesture. The aim of the game is to get your opponent to make eye contact with the loop. If successful you get to punch them. But the loop has to be located below the waist. Why below the waist? This is so that you can't just wave the loop in front of someone's face and claim a punch. Now this game can last as long as it wants; the longer, the more interesting because you can sit and wait until your opponent’s memory fails and they let down their guard. This, my friends, is the time to strike. The game requires a high degree of creativity as well. “Hey, look down!” can only work so many times. You have to be tricky. For example, “Does this look infected?” Bam! They look, you punch. “Hey I got something for you. It’s in my pocket.” You dig in your pocket and the suspense builds. Their eyes glued to the area below your waist and then you pull out the loop. Bam! They look, you punch. Get the point?

I think I’m in the middle of this game right now, with a few differences of course. My opponent is my own mind, the loop is my thoughts of my ex, and the punching is still in many respects the punching. You follow? No? Here are some examples. I’m at my office doing office stuff, diligently concentrating on the task at hand when, suddenly, my mind trails. I reminisce the time when I phoned her while on the road and told her to pull over, lying about how I forgot something in her car. I met her at a parking lot, opened the passenger door and planted the biggest kiss on her. That was the day that I decided that I was going for it. Bam! I looked, she punched. Right in the gut too.

More? I was in a meeting with some of the operation managers, staring at a power point accompanied by a monotone voiced presenter when I looked down and saw her and I making love in the back seat of her car in a dark dusty parking lot, windows steamy and all. Bam! I looked, she punched. Right in the heart too.

Again? I’m sitting in a movie theatre and her smile crosses my mind. Bam! A shot to my kidneys.

I was skipping down the street on a hot summer day singing a song I made up on the spot that goes something like this, “I love my life, I love my life, I love my l—” when suddenly her laughter echoes through my ears. Bam! Right in the balls.

I’m so bruised right now. Great game huh?

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

My Affair With a Parking Stall

The route I took that morning was as deserted as a rappers child. Even the wind felt awkward, blowing ever so lightly, tippy toeing through the leaves of sleepy trees, as if to say that I shouldn't be here. I drive up to my work building that Saturday morning only to pick up my dress shoes but got something much more. My swipe card granted me access to the underground parking, an area that I’ve only been in a hand full of times. As the gears on the wide parking lot doors grinded I swore I heard the choir of angels welcome me. This is where the big boys play. I pull my truck in slowly. The lot was empty.

Like a shopping cart, my big, black truck pushed through the aisles, until I spotted the perfect parking stall. It situated right next to the elevators that would take me to my floor and was also adjacent to the exit ramp. Beautiful. Perfect. It must belong to one of the high level managers of the company, or the king of awesome town. Definitely not for a writer/musician like myself. I can picture him now; blackberry, blue tooth, sharp suit, strong voice, rich, and probably a gold crown and maybe even a septor and grillz. But today the stall sits, useless in a sense. Timidly, I pull into the spot.

It’s just a parking spot; just cement and paint but it also made me feel like someone special. I got out of my truck and turned on the alarm from my beat up controller that dangled from my keys. I stepped back a little, just to enjoy the view. There it was, my truck with its broken tail light, its big dent on the side that mysteriously came to be over the course of one night, its countless stretches and deformed rear bumper, parked in the best spot in the lot. Maybe I should have washed it before parking there. Then again, maybe it was just the way it should be.

I don’t know if it was just not worth thinking about or if my happiness was keeping me from it, but it only dawned on me when I was back in the parkade, moments later, that it was over. Monday morning would come and this very spot would be occupied by a shiny Escalade or Mercedes. The little oil leak that my truck left behind would be dry by then and nobody would ever know that it had parked there to begin with.

My affair with the parking stall was brief to say the least and I guess life is full of moments like that. It may seem trivial to you and you’re probably questioning why I would even waste so many paragraphs on something like a dirty, old parking spot but I’ll tell you this, if anything in life makes you feel something, whether it be happiness or heart break, it’s worth speaking of.

I drove through the crowd parkade that Monday morning just for old time sake, glancing ever so slightly at the stall that made my heart skip, and saw a polished mint conditioned, summer driven only, Mustang comfortable claiming its territory. My truck shook like it was going to stall so I had to give it some gas. I’ll admit, there were day dreams that involved me winning some parking lot lotto and getting that parking stall for life but seeing as how I’m behind the wheel of a moving truck, there were no time for dreaming now.

The gears grinded together to pull the doors open for me to leave the parkade, sun light hitting my eyes and highlighting the flaws of my big black truck. I put my sunglasses on and turned the music up. Tupac’s I Ain’t Mad at Cha fills the atmosphere.

Cause I ain't mad at cha. Do yo thang girl.


Sunday, August 8, 2010

"Oh Get Over it!" She Use to Say

It was once said that the more a reader knows about the author, the easier it is for them to connect to the article. Maybe that’s why there’s a “about the author” section. So to begin this piece, I’d like to tell you a little about myself. I’m a Scorpio. I'm not a jealous guy though I tend to hold grudges against non–living things like turtle necks because I look so bad in them and in junior high a girl made fun of me in front of the entire homeroom and I had no come back! Oh the horror! And Acura RSX’s, because a drug dealer who stole my girlfriend 4 years ago drove one. Now, number 5 on my list of things to extinct is the Acura RSX. I won’t stop until they are all destroyed. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *Thunder! Lightning! Wolves Howling! * MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

*clears throat *

What else? I really enjoyed the movie District 9, and once when I was young I was told, as if it were some sort of interesting fact, about some sick, twisted people who mailed envelopes to random addresses throughout the U.S. The content of the envelopes are not important but what was hidden under the envelope flap was. According to this elementary school teacher, who basically scarred me for life, these people coated small sharp razors with a deadly virus and hid them in the flap so that when the receivers of the envelopes curled their vulnerable, innocent fingers under the flap, in an attempt to open it, they were cut and infected! Tens or twenties of people died! Ever since that day, I cringe at the thought and sight of anyone opening an envelope with their fingers. So much so that I have to leave the room if I sense this act was to ensue. Lets just say that letter openers became a close friend of mine.

I would tell you more but right this instant I’m having a bittersweet déjà vu from the driver side of my truck. Today is the last commitment that her and I have with one another; a mutual friend’s wedding to be exact, and I watch as she walks away from me like she did a month ago; gorgeous as always but less mine now than ever. She wears the yellow dress that we shopped for together; the one that I had hoped she’d wear before our time was up. And here it was, claiming her. Pretty much gloating that it’s more close to her than I’ll ever be again. Another thought that crosses my mine is that out of sheer luck, maybe I would one day meet that dress again. Maybe she’d be doing laundry at the same laundry mat that I was at and I’d see the yellow piece of shit circling in the machine. And maybe just maybe, she would be distracted by a good novel long enough for the dress to be shredded by a Swiss army knife that I so happen to have been carrying with me. Then I’d vanish into the night with my bag of clean clothes. But I digress.

As much as it was similar to that fateful night one month ago, something was different; something felt right. 2 hours ago, still hung over from the night before, I rushed out of my house, carrying an envelope containing a reimbursement cheque that I had been patiently waiting for. Without a second thought I slid my finger under the flap and with one graceful movement, I freed that cheque from the confines of its paper prison. My body went limp when I realized what I had just done.

“God, I’m infected!” I panicked.

I fell to my knees and stared at the hands that now look like those of a war hero’s. Countless times, in an attempt to face this fear, I would force myself to rip closed envelopes, which only resulted in endless crying and embarrassing numbers of voluntary self booked check ups with my doctor in search of that deadly virus. But my doctor said I was fine every time. And because I'm here writing this, I can testify that I'm not infected.

There was no hope, or disappointments for that matter, in my heart as the figure I spent months trying to memorize shrinks into the horizon with that fucking dress that, I swear, is giving me the middle finger in it’s own little non-living way. It’s funny how time can be so harsh to us but when we least expect it, it changes our lives. One minute you’re dying for something or dying because of the absence of something and the next you’re indifferent. There’s no method or guideline to it; there’s just a moment when you move on.

She told me she hated District 9 early on in our relationship. And even after I listed the genius behind the film she, still holding her initial opinion, replied, "Oh get over it!"

I'm over it.

P.S. Yellow dress, I’m still coming for you regardless you mother fucker! You’re number 3 asshole! Number 3!

Friday, August 6, 2010

The Shadow Puppets That Invades My Room

I lay in bed making shadow puppets
High up on my walls
Not the animals that you use to see
But monsters, ten feet tall

And somewhere along I forgot the game
The monsters became so real
Their whispers made it so I could not sleep
I feel them creeping at my heels

So that in my mind, ideas they morphed
Into ridiculous proportions
That your soft lips and beautiful eyes
Picked up some strange distortion

I toss and turn, turn and toss
To shake me of my thoughts
Because you, my dear, deserve better than that
Or is it that you never got caught?

Cause these shadowed creatures have opened my eyes
Towards a new perception
And they roam about with excellent evidence
Of betrayal and deception

Dear oh dear! There I go again
Making a mess of things so simple
Under these sheets, I’ll gather my thoughts
For a dimple is no more than a dimple

But judge me not, for you must see
These shadows are not just my hands
It’s the projection of some insecurity
Of a broken lonely man!

So I lay in bed making shadow puppets
But they all are not the same
Because you’re no longer asleep beside me
Somehow I forgot the game

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Christmas in July. No Promises Please.

Even the rush of wind entering my truck’s fully opened windows was not enough to shake this summer heat off of me as I commuted north bound to the confines of my home. The evening sun left its mark on the greater part of my left arm and face, drying me out completely. Indeed, these are the times when a thick blanket of snow would be much appreciated. I ponder the chances of snow on the hottest day of summer as I hop through the sizzling frying pan that is my driveway but brushed that thought off as I reached my front door. The weather channel calls for clear skies and plus 30 Degree (Celsius) days for the next 2 weeks. So, clearly, Christmas in July was not happening any time soon. Or would it?

I made my way passed my curious dogs into the kitchen and plunged into the pile of freshly received mail, set there by whoever came home before me. The envelopes emitted the residue of the summer heat, warm like fresh baked cookies, only they weren’t sweet and delicious; they were most likely bills. I shuffle through, feeling like the subject of a game of Russian roulette, each envelope a potential shot to my brain and wallet. First piece of mail; for my papa. I give a sigh of relief. Second piece of mail; for my papa again! Third piece of mail; for my momma! Fourth piece of mail, I squeeze the trigger slowly because chances are that this one is mine. I feel a weight change in the rotation of the chamber (I know, I lead a dangerous life). Click!

I’m not dead, obviously, nor is my bank account depleted so I don’t even have to tell you that the envelope addressed to me was not a bullet, sent to collect monies. Far from it actually; it was a Christmas card from an amazing girl, provinces away. Of course, the contents were outdated (7 months outdated to be exact) but none the less, it melted my heart like it was that damn summer heat I locked outside earlier. The fact of the matter is that the author of this beautiful card left my fine city before we were able to exchange them. Even though she departed in the early part of summer, we never really found time to meet up. You see, we had that special bound that was beyond commitment and promises. She got on that plane leaving me with a feeling that she would forget me in a few months time and I was okay with that. How do you expect someone to leave a part of them behind for your sake? You don’t. So without a promise to mail the Christmas card or to keep in touch, she was gone. And I was greatful for that.

What’s in a promise anyways? All it adds is a greater chance of being disappointed. I’m not saying this as a bitter man; I’m saying this as a firm believer that we as humans have very little control of a lot of things and yet we make promises. “I promise you that I will have both of my legs for the rest of my life.” Really? So you’re saying that you’ve made an agreement with all cars, saws, hungry bears, etc to never harm you? “I promise that I will never look at another woman’s ass ever.” What if you accidentally clicked on a link that leads you to a porn site full of women’s asses? “I promise you that nothing will take me away from you, my lover.” Hmmm. You know how those usually end.

All these promises are made in good faith and don’t get me wrong, it’s sweet and we all want to believe in them but I’m old enough to know that promises are worth nothing. And like I said earlier, if those promises were never made, I’m sure that the friend of the guy that lost both legs, the girlfriend of the guy that stares at ladies’ asses, and the heartbroken fool crying on the floor writing blogs all day, well, they all would have been a little bit less disappointed. No? Yes.

We all try to be weather people, predicting and promising for sunshine or rain, but why? All we do is risk the chance of an angry mob showing up at our door step with their bathing suit on, freezing in the unexpected overnight snow blizzard. It’s not our fault because all signs pointed to sunny skies so a promise seemed fitting. However, weather is unpredictable. Life is unpredictable. A few years back it snowed in June in my city and this year I received a Christmas in July, despite the forecast. Because she had not made any promises, I would have been fine had that card never come. So please no promises. Let me hope for the best without you adding a false sense of security.

To end on a good note, I know that there are countless examples of times when things work out just the way we’d hoped. But don’t count on me to make any promises about that.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Dwell if You Must

The roar of laughter and cheer echoed through the darkness of the night, into the trees and fields that surrounded this barn yarn. The fire cracked in the distance, throwing hints to us of where we were in respects to the tents, the vehicles and the barn itself, dressing them with a warm glow. It was as if that fire and our instruments, loud and intentional, were our only tools to show our significance to this impossibly endless universe. The alcohol masked our worries as a group of us strayed to a darker space.

I spun endlessly away from the comforts of my fellow musicians and crashed on the bed of grass. Suddenly all the noise around me ceased, overpowered by the silences of thought. The stars brighten in my honor and my sparrow tattoo itched on my right forearm. I trace the ink with my left hand, every line embedded in me. The banner on it reads “A Good Year” which represented my band, but most importantly, her. She’ll never know this, but the ink used on the sparrow was mixed with my memory of her face as she sat next to me at that tattoo shop. I missed her. In that moment, through the intoxication of substance and laughter, I wondered where she was and tried not to wonder who she would be with. The combination of the night and the clear sky were supposed to be ours. I’d promised her a life time ago that we would gaze the stars together one night and she had replied, “I’d never done that with any guy before.” It tore me up inside to realize that I would not be that guy.

“I love you man,” said a shirtless drunkard from another band, who was lying next to me for god knows how long. “You better get off the ground before the world steps on you! Hahaha.” He pulls me up and hands me another beer. “Are you having a good year buddy?”

I thought about it for a minute and wonder if he’d actually asked what I thought he’d asked. With the amount of weed and alcohol I had that night, this whole event I just documented may never have happened to begin with, so I replied, out loud or just to myself, I’m not sure, “yeah. It’s still a great fucken year.”

We go through our lives weighing out our happiness and our sorrows and I don’t think that there will ever be a time when happiness tips the scale, nor would I want it to. I think there will always be a bit of sorrow to balance us; enough to humble us but not enough to dictate. One day ruined my whole year? No, it’s making me appreciate all the days to come. So dwell if you must, but dont let the world step on you.

Have a good year everyone.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Were and Will Never Again

So the stars are out tonight
And I was thinking you should be here
But I know there's no need
For my thoughts in your heart
I surround myself with this darkness
And settle for a stranger's kiss
Cause it turns out you aren't
What I've been searching for
Or better yet
I'm not what this world asks of you
And though the same stars glow on our skin
Now estranged
Our paths are as similar as not
And therefore, we were and will never again

Friday, July 30, 2010

Polishing Your Junk

I had collapsed onto the pavement, without a change in my dull expression, squinting from the aggressive sun that invaded my eyes. Faded footsteps grew louder until the silhouette of a young lady rescued my burning eyes. She draws a wet cloth to my face and makes it sensitive to the breeze once more. Oh that cool relieving breeze.

“There,” she was satisfied. “So handsome!”

Years back there was a lady who had found a painting in a pile of trash and hung it up on her wall. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that the painting was an original of a famous Mexican painter, valued at $1 million. It was stolen from its original owner and by many exchanges, lost its reputation as a gem and was diluted in the minds of many into trash. Today I was reminded of that story as I wandered through my existing feeling like junk.

Sometimes what you are worth is forgot through the wear and tears of life. If you ever find yourself down on your luck in a pile of garbage remember, whoever threw you there doesn’t have a Goddamn clue what you are worth to begin with. And they will regret it when someone else cleans you up and pays you your dues. Or you can polish your own junk off…hmmm.

I would like to think that in 10 years time, when I’m laying in bed with my lovely wife, I would tell her about how I was thrown away once.

“Ayo, Shaniqua,” I would holla. “come here gurl, I wanna tell you somethin’. Can you believe that 10 years ago, Shanaynay up and kicked me to the curb?”

“Shanaynay?” she would be surprised of course. “you mean Latoya’s sister, that bald headed , stank breath hoochie with the gimpy leg from around the corner on 14th??”

“What?? Nah, not the bald headed, stank breath hoochie with the gimpy leg from around the corner on 14th! Damn!” I corrected, “I mean Shanaynay, the one who married Dr. Roberts, living in that good part of town.”

“Oh her. She doing pretty good now huh?”


“Stop sitting there like you gonna cry and go fetch me some water!” she screamed, “you lazy ass mothafucker!”

“awe. That’s my baby” I smile.

…….That did not prove my point at all huh? Just ignore that whole half of the blog….

I, Miss The Right

With a swagger I stagger
Further and further from you
Clear and true as her eyes are blue
Who knew that these winds blew
Answers, answers
Catch them by twos
T'was the epiphany that murders
My good ridden hope
Strangles it gently with an 18 karot rope
Then let me down with an unexpecting grope
And as she spoke
She soaked
In the guilt
"I often wonder how Rome was built"
Bites her bottom lip and slips into my arms
The tide will cover us for now until the dawn
And you, so unaware
Or better yet without a care
Indeed all I need
Is a soft secret stare
And there
In the moment of this night
I rest, a proud man
'till she whispers "you missed the right"

Monday, July 26, 2010

Time Murders for Youth

I fear the bitter sweetness of time
Choking her down
Yes, it’s for the best
But still I often frown

Her smile will not exist
Faded with each breath
For a moment I’ll be silent
Out of respect
For this gradual death

And soon, it seems
So will the curiosity of driving fast
That same Goddamn model of vehicles
I desperately need to pass

I’d throw some hopeful glances
Throw them quick!
For God knows why
Always definitely not her
So not worth a try

Her laughter
For all I know
Will sound more like kazoos
For only then
Just then
Will I be able to
Carry through

So time, do it quick
Don’t drag your feet so
Cause the longer you take
The more my sanity goes

Then I’ll close my eyes
While you dump her down stream
Away from my sight
Away from my dreams

And I’ll hear your chuckle
Similar to calendar pages flipping
I’ll pay you with my youth
Through this alcohol I’m sipping

Friday, July 23, 2010

Desperado...Why Don't You Come to Your Senses

*Note, this blog is best read during the playing of Desperado, the song by The Eagles and after watching Desperado, the movie by Robert Rodriguez.

The piano in this dark saloon plays a melancholy tune before it preaches to me what I’ve been ignoring for as long as I can. I sit at the bar getting more drunk and not getting any younger, riding these fences for far too long. The laughter that surrounds me don’t concern me much cause I’m busy staring at the queen of diamonds, freshly drawn from the deck of card in front of me and now slowly falling out of my hands onto the floor.

Earlier today I watched the movie Desperado, directed, written and produced by Robert Rodriguez for the second time. It originally came out back in 1995 and I can remember, as a child being extremely shocked, among other things, at how intense the sex scene was between Antonio and Salma. There they were on the bed in a dark room, surrounded by candles that illuminated an orange glow, both all sweaty. I gave that scene the title of “best sex scene I’ve ever seen” right then and there. That titled eventually got passed on to every porno I ever watched since. Now, sadly, I discovered that epic scene is barely considered soft porn! I think I even yawned during it. What’s messed up is I realized that I got more excited during the moments leading up to the two doing the horizontal dance, details that I never remembered before. For those of you who forgot what happened, let me describe it for you.

Antonio and Salma are in her bed talking, after she had just bandaged up his wounds that he got from a fight on the streets. They had just met the other days in very similar circumstances (him being injured, her nursing him) and already they were falling for one another. He notices an acoustic guitar wrapped in paper leaning against the nightstand and asked about it. She explains that she had just bought that for him. You see, Antonio use to be a musician until gangsters shot a hole in his hand and figuratively, shot a hole in his heart by killing his lover (hush now, I know I’m the master of corniness). Since then, he’s never played much. Instead he lives his life looking for the man in charge of those gangsters and if successful, he will kill him, thus avenging his lover’s death. Anyway, I thought it was very cute that Salma bought him that guitar. For some reason he’s hesitant about using his left hand (the hand that was shot), so all he did with it was finger pick with his right hand. (Let me reminded you that for the first time in all my blogs, I’m not metaphorically describing naughty acts. This is all literally speaking). So as you should know, hopefully, you need two hands to play the guitar, so Salma crawls over besides Antonio and lends him her left hand, pressing the notes while Antonio strums the strings. Sigh. That’s fucken teamwork…Romantic. He teaches her some chords and is caught by surprised when Salma goes in for a kiss. I know, I know. How did I not appreciate this scene before? Had I did, would I have drawn the queen of hearts instead? Maybe.

I stumble out the swinging doors of this saloon, my leftover change jingling like the spurs on the renegade boots of a desperado as he walks in the dry sun down the side of a never ending highway. Oh, I’m a hard one and I did have my reasons but it seems that now I’ve got my tired arms stretched out, thumb to the sky hoping for Salma to come in her jeep to pick me up and ride me into the sunset…I mean drive me into the sunset. Well, maybe I mean both. She’s hot. But what about my freedom you ask? Well my prison, so I’m told, is walking through this world alone. So I’m slowly starting to figure that I should start letting somebody love me before it’s too late. Any takers? I got a great personality!