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