In The Course...

Soft skin on sheets
Often on beat
With hearts with heat
Coffins obsolete

Cause air is plenty
In hair that's scenty
I stare relentlessly
Oh dear helpless me

Fires flare flame-less
Love dares aimless
Parts introduced, nameless
Evil calls, tame it

And curves shift, tangent
Spirits lift, and then
Losing grip but manage
Til the moment, advent

Me With Rome

Like Michael Learns to Rock standing in front of that church, except I’m 9 days too late, I present to you my birthday entry. I have to admit this entry is being written with a lack of confidence that I’ve never felt before, mainly because of the 2010 edition. If you haven’t had a chance to read “Blame it all on Being Older Now” article written on November 6, 2010, now is not the time to do so. In fact, if you wish for this article to be amazing, I advise that you never read earlier said article ever.

Has my career as a self proclaimed writer washed up like Danish pop-soft rock-late 80’s early 90’s band, MLTR? Are my brilliant pieces of word play behind me? And why couldn’t I reference a cooler band than Michael Learns to Rock??? Do I need to change my metaphoric strategy? If my articles were music, and my creativity was Bradley Nowell, would my maturity be the heroine that ended it all? Would that make me just a bass player and drummer, struggling to move on with their careers, looking for that new singer to lead me? I ask myself these very questions as I stroll through the newly snow blanketed ground, choked that I use to write almost every single day and now I’m 9 days late on my birthday entry. And I don’t remember it being this cold last year!

My iPod plays the new Sublime with Rome album, a project that I was reluctant to listen to since its release in July of this year, as I tread towards my truck. I mean, really, how can you recreate the passion that Bradley brought through those lyrics? And why the hell did I park so far from my work?? That voice was so raw and truthful. It angers me to hear when a band carries on, sans any original key members, and Sublime with Rome is was no different…because now they are with Rome. It also angers me that I declined the underground parking offered to me this summer. I slept on both opportunities. In fact, I don’t even think I was aware of the Yours Truly album’s release date . My ears stayed loyal to Santeria and What I Got and I let a great artist from Long Beach rest soundly in his grave. Until today.

Many people use the phrase, “when in Rome,” but when you are talking about a man with the same name, some will think twice. In this case, I thought twice and decided to go a different direction. Rome Ramirez is a brave soul, standing in the spot of a artist that was loved by so many. His voice hauntingly resembles Bradley’s as I youtube some live performances, which are tagged with harsh comments about the change in line up. “You’ll never replace Bradley!” commented one viewer; “Rome is delusional if he thinks he has more talent than Bradley’s pinky finger!” said others; “If you want a larger penis GUARANTEED, go to this site!” fibbed some more. And then I started to think, “hey that last comment just took me to a website that sells pills that will cost me $199.00. I don’t think this is safe.” And I also thought, “Can loyalty to great things cause bias judgment on DIFFERENT things?”

I mean, with Rome, it’s different. And I don’t think the band intended it to be anything but. Things are always changing. I even stated this in my 2010 entry. So why are we comparing now to a time long gone? Because Yours Truly is a really good album and Rome really is a talented artist. Had he been in a different band, I think that the comments on the youtube video would have been much different, except maybe for the penis enlargement spam.

So in closing, for those of you who are saying that this article is crap and that you don’t even know who I am anymore, I got one thing to say to you. I’m still that same person, just with a little bit of Rome in me. Wait, let’s do that again. What I’m saying is things don’t have to be better to be good. So take Bradley’s voice out of your head and enjoy the new album. Because remembering the past is one thing, but being stuck in it is unfortunately, another.

Damn you Scully

I make the last left turn before the spot, turning my headlights off as we slowly pull up. She sits in the passenger seat, eyes searching for the scene that would go along with my claim of corruption and injustice. It feels like we’re in an X-file episode, which if you don’t know of, please educate yourself. But here is the Coles note. You got this believer by the name of Mulder, running around searching for the truth while this annoying doctor, Scully, tags along, set out to disprove all his discoveries. “Look! See, I found an alien,” Mulder would say and Scully would reply, “no, that’s a deformed old lady that escaped the nursing home.” Doctor? More like your average party pooper to me. But as the show progresses you realize that Mulder needs that skepticism. I mean, you can’t go through life too far on one side or else everything will look like aliens to you, you know what I mean? You got to face each situation with an understanding of both side before making judgment.

“Ok, keep your eyes peeled for a police cruiser just casually parked in front of this abandoned building.” I direct. She sees it. “See! Why the hell would 5.0 be parked outside a “for lease” building? Am I right? Am I right? Every day for the last 3 months, I’ve been driving by this place and the police are either entering or exiting this building. But why? I’ll tell you why. They got something illegal going on in there. The “for lease” thing is without a doubt a front. They probably got prostitutes in there or millions and millions of dollars worth of drugs that they have been “confiscating” from the “bad guys”.”

I’m sure to use only one hand when making the quotations signs to emphasize my sarcasm, seeing as driving safe requires at least one hand on the wheel. “Oh it’s on now. I’m going to blow this thing wide open, send a letter to the mayor and everything! I’m going Serpico on their asses! This corruption has gone too far! Too far I tell you. Just thinking about all the tax dollars that go towards their salary makes me sick. Literally. I just puked in my mouth a little. Actually, can you pass me that water bottle? I need to wash --”

“Edmonton Police Services”

“I know honey, now can I have that water bottle. I ate some spaghetti and it isn’t tasting that good coming up --”

“No you idiot. It says, “Edmonton Police Services” right there above the door. I’m pretty sure the “For lease” sign is for the space beside this one.”

“Impossible. I’ve driven pass this place a hundred times and I’ve never seen – oh there it is…”

Damn you Scully. Damn you.

Days of Different Shades

It takes a shade of lipstick
To acknowledge me
That we are unknowing now
Unknowingly
It gets stranger
We're stranger, once a danger
To my identity
I'm counting inventory
Just to maintain 
Some sensory
Once natural, elementary
Once a wonder from your company
Now more cumbersome to a degree
Searching for the sound of your voice
By choice
That was fully equipped
Fully enriched
Words that lay
Behind that new shade of lips

Just, If I

This is me, in the heart of fall
Coldness lurks, death’s frantic call
And this stillness shakes me
Reflecting on things that break me
Crushing the spirit, but in the end
It makes me
And I don’t even know it
Like a true spoken poet
Stumbling since I was born
Clothes worn get so worn
Torn
By the sacrifices for greater good
Sometimes unaccepting yet always understood
And if I could
I’d choose a path well justified
If not at the time, then at the end
Besides,
It’s just, if I
Could be aware, well then
I’d feel spared
Broken,
Or rather, temporarily impaired
But is it not so?
Amidst all my woes,
I’m here, with less fear
And all my fingers and toes
And in turn, all my paths Undeniable
Justifiable
Through and through
Sweet tragedies, renewed
And regret is but a debt
That is way over due
Respectively
I’m repressed free
Earning my yearnings
War wounds of stories
And as I’ve written before
Nothing less, nothing more
To the core
Extensively
Expense free
This is me. This is me.

The Best When Depressed

Although this sentence is being read seamlessly by your eyes right now, the time it took for me to put it together was frustratingly long. No, I’m not a slow typer but I’m at a place in my life where I can’t seem to write; more accurately, I can’t seem to finish any piece that I start. Call it writer’s block if you will but I think there’s more to it. So after countless unfinished sentences I’ve decided to force myself to write about something. Anything. Take it back to elementary school, you know? Book report style.

I read an article recently about a theory surrounding depression and how it may not be an illness. In fact, the author, who’s name I can’t recall anymore, stated that he actually would categorize depression as a skill for survival; a tool for evolution. He goes on to say that when someone is depressed, they dwell on their problems. They analyze it. The focus alone will eventually lead to ways of resolving the problem. Which makes sense. I can definitely see a homeless man inventing something beneficial to society, like a cardboard waterproof vest as oppose to some rich spoiled Hollywood kid. Which would also explain how cave men invited fire and such. I can picture it now.

“Hey Larry, wanna go hunting?”

“No…”

“What is up with you man? Seems like you never want to do anything in the winter!”

“What is up with me? What is up with me!? I’ll tell you what the fuck is up with me, Travis! Unfortunately, I wasn’t born with chest hair like you! Which means that I get bad coughs every fucking time I go out hunting in the snow! And my teeth! Look at them! They aren’t as sharp as yours either so I don’t need to hunt! I can’t even chew that raw meat! I just pick these damn berries all day long! Which doesn’t do much for my ego and I just cry myself to sleep at night, which actually works out because thanks to the exhaustion from crying, the freezing nights can’t wake me!”

“What are those words you’re using. foock-ing? What is that?”

“Fucking? I don’t know man. I’m so angry lately and that sound seems to help. Nothing else does.”

“Wow, that’s depressing.”

“Yeah…I’ve been thinking about it a lot. We need to invent fire, sweaters and cough syrup.”

“Ok man….Hey, on another note, can you help me write a poem about how I’m feeling. Lately, I haven’t been able to write anything. And you’ve got like a whole novel over there on your wall. Love the stick figure that’s stabbing himself, by the way.”

“Thanks. It’s because you’re happy Travis. She was a good catch.”

“Who? That bear I killed the other day?”

“No, your new girlfriend.”

“Yeah, we are definitely not fucking.”

“….doesn’t sound as good in that context for some reason.”

“Yeah, true. We’ll work on that one.”

Oh Life, Tell Me a Story

Oh Life,
Tell me a story
But please don’t bore me
And spare me
The carries
Of noble allegories
They do nothing for me
At the moment
Most potent
Are the damaged
And the broken
For I’m older
Colder
And for the most part, outspoken
Yet, accepting
exceptions
To even sounds so deafening
For these stains
Are still gains
No matter where we step in
Cause intentions justify
The inventions of white lies
And grey paints rapid
Whether in t-shirts or business ties
And love
Oh love
Will drive our souls
But intention is
The weapon,
Has a stronger hold
So this story
These tears
Need understanding
Real near
So hand written
Or typed
Tell me a story
Oh life.

Death Makes a Leap

My morning eye lids shuts by death
It breathes right next to me
And support, it seems, has up and left
Based on the absence words received

I inhale strong, drowsy with an overdose
Of urgency to build myself
Scratch my mark so to be tangible
And not as a cry for help

Push secret deep in pockets, steep
So that those I love won’t mourn
And trivial things that use to win
Brush aside as I am reborn

Mother please, amongst the disease
Think me not anything more than a son
For this bed may swallow all I am
But it can’t erase all that I’ve done

Another Chance for Better

Mother,
The silhouette
Of a moment in time
A joyous embrace
Of unconditional proportion
Flashes in the image of you
As it once did for us

Mother,
Within your arms lies a new beginning
In little hands and feet
A second chance for me
To appreciate your nature
That was forgotten in older things

Father,
I yearn to be that guidance
More than I once denied it
And in its little cries
I'll deliver understanding
And acceptance

Father,
It'll be better than all of us
See things we'll never know
Carry us in its eyes, it's lips
In blood and name
Mistakes and blames

Mother,
Father,
It will be me
As I am you

Answering Without Question

The cold doctor's office feels like a jail cell; a single-bed-like apparatus locates to the left of where I sit; a sink to my right. Turn the chair I'm on into a toilet and I'll be gripping my soap a little tighter if you pick up what I'm putting down. I'll give you a hint, it's not the soap. Did I mention that this room is cold as hell?

The doctor's footstep approaches the shut door to my cell. He pauses to look at my file before letting himself in.

"Ok buddy," he starts, "I got some good news. Item number one; your back is fine. Here's a letter for you to get an MRI on a bone scan for your leg instead. My prediction is it's your sciatic nerve, which can be treated much easier than a back injury. Item number two; the blood that was found on your little friend there is nothing sexually transmitted. It's just a tear; like if you got a paper cut on your finger. Now let me have a quick look and you're all done."

I undo my jeans in front of my audience of a doctor and the cold unforgiving furniture and expose the wound south of the border. "It's really cold in here huh?"

"um not really pal." he replies as he inspects.

Asshole. "Well I'm going to go to the gym after to pump some iron. Then I'm going hunting just for sport and if I have some time later I'm going to--, do you want to go to a warmer room while we do this? It’s just that--"

"Hey," he says softly taking my hand and looking me in the eye, which is quite uncomfortable when my pants are down. "I'm your doctor. You don't have to prove anything to be, ok? Now zip it up. We're done. Just no activities for a few weeks ok?"

"Thanks, doc." I said, and gangsta limped myself outta there.

Do you find yourself wasting your breathe trying to prove something to people who you never really had to answer to in the first place? Like an ex-girlfriend that could care less about you now or some gang members who never will? Or maybe it's a doctor that never really questioned you to begin with? Let's save this energy for something positive. Yeah?

Fear of Possibilities

I'm scared to death at such possibilities
Which are likely never to be
But, none the less, may

And in this fear comes a manifestation
Of routes and dialogue
Rehearsed and sorted
In the event of the catastrophe

But let it be wasteful times
For no evidence sways me
But a past of faded foot steps
And the weight of inaudible moments

Let it be no more than insurance
A hover of a foot
Ready to move
Ready to bare it all again

But alas my leg grows weary
Yearns to exhale
To stray an eye at the beauty of her
For it's the fortress that pushes
At my own free will
And yet I still fear the possibilities

Rescue Me

Rescue me
Words woven in strings
That long
And ease
My eyes lids closed

Settle now
In the void that haunts me
Pat it down
Dense and full
Am I satisfied?

Exhale right through me
Shuffle now
So still
It sways
Until I have no more to give
Shall it never come?
Or unrecognized right here?

A spark
To break the chains
To abandonment
Free?
Of the lips that turned away?
Reaching
Reaching
You're here now
Not within sight
Rescue me

Retract my arm
Divert my eyes
Let me smell the open fields
Hold me tight
Steady
Blow words
I dream to hear

Let laughter echo
My savior
My truth
Into words of my own
As a page
As in ink
Rescue me
Rescue me

Subtle, The Great Rebuttal

The disposition on this position
Is contradicting, if not true
For the nature of the acted, distracted
Contracts how we naturally do

So to engage is to enrage
On a stage, we’ve always known
And going against pretense
Is, hence, the greatest tone

Wherein, best interest is barren
Daring for a greater purpose
And if silences can get compliance
Then reliant is this harden surface

And an exhale will entail
A trail far from the scene we speak
For only then on wholly bends
We fend off what makes us weak

Rising of a Spot Light

The spot light is upon us
Natural like we never dreamed
Corners that were once mysterious
Flow truth like a raging stream

And behind us is the night we left
Before us, a hazy mist
Beside us are familiar eyes
And above us a determined fist

Instinctively our hearts will race
Origin of which unknown
Clarity is in the air my friends
Exhale now, we’re fully grown

So the chills of frost is mellow
Down to a sweetly sung breeze
The things that made us who we are
Are what brought us to our knees

Now the dying winter hardness
Melts in the glorious of plights
And all that is left is us
Upon this spot light

Disposure in Closure

These films hold answers
For these cancerous sighs
Of things that could have been
With intangible surprise
And literature lies
Of themes once upon a time
Of love and triumph
And nursery rhymes

Well this silence will kill though
As we whisper to pillows
Entrust in them tears
Are we there yet?
Still no
Reaching hopelessly
To those who loved
Push and shove, ill toll
Had better shoes to fill, so
Peering out, chin on a window sill, low
They go

Never looking back
And we laugh deliberately
Hoping that they lapse
Considerately
Perhaps?
Giving the door a tap
A subconscious trap
For a facial slap
For as sweet as the sound is
We can now adapt

And just the notion
Of regret potion
Coating the throats of the host
Will satisfy the devotion
That lingered on coax
Like a restless ghost

Cause as new films are made
Their faces can fade
New ones pay more
Than just minimum wage
So know that those who left
Wonder of the thing they end
They live with the choices
While we live to rise again

Remembering Kitchener

“You don’t have to come all the way to my office,” I compromise with one of my manager located two towers down from where my office is. “I’ll just meet you half way in the lobby area, okay?”

“Oh I see what you’re trying to do,” I can visualize his grin over the telephone.

“What?” I honestly didn’t know what he was thinking.

“You just want an excuse to go visit with what’s-her-name from front desk.”

“First of all, no I don’t. Secondly, that chapter is closed. We’ve moved on.”

“But do you ever think about her?”

His grin is still present on his face as he hands me the new agreements for an employee, trying to get a rise out of me. But is it that hard to believe? Two individuals who once shared strong feelings for each other moving on with their lives?

I glance at the agreement as my manager’s voice trails off into the distance and a word catches my eye. Kitchener. The employee’s address before moving to Edmonton was Kitchener, Ontario, a place that I have a spot for in my heart; a word that always makes me wonder what if.

A year ago, I was approached by my boss with the opportunity to move to our Kitchener office for a one year term doing the same job I do here. My rent would be covered; my plane ticket home would be expensed for holidays and breaks and it was an opportunity that I felt would change my life.

I was all for it; willing to leave what I had here to see what life had planned for me. For the next few weeks I would day dream about what my apartment would look like and what there would be to do in my new neighborhood. My heart raced with excitement and fear. My band would have to take a one year hiatus; maybe I’d grow a beard and work on my music in the evenings; have some conversation with strangers at the local coffee shop; maybe even get a tattoo out there. But it never happened. Instead they decided to hire a temporary employee to cover the year stretch.

I’m not sitting here in Edmonton saying that I yearn for that event to go a different way because I absolutely love where I’m living now. In fact, it’s because of that event that allowed me to discover and develop many of the things I hold dear to me now.

You can say to many extents that I’m over Kitchener but there’s always going to be a part of me that wonders, once in a blue moon, how my life would have been had things not ended between us. Sometimes the things that never are, are the things that change you the most.

I look at my manger and smile, “Sure I do, once in a blue moon.”

Dance Like Ghost Lady is Not Waiting Somewhere With a Crowbar!

A slight smile comes over me as I glue my attention to the computer monitor as it displays a heartfelt video of a man purposing to his girlfriend in a public park on a sunny day. It was grand! Somehow, he manages to get her to the park, where he was said to be shooting a documentary – I’m guessing he’s a film maker of some sort. This allowed for video cameras to cover the event without the girlfriend catching on. There were a lot of people at the park, many of which were in cahoots with groom-to-be –OOPS! I’ve said too much!

Oh well, he sits his clueless fiancé – I mean, girlfriend – in a chair and starts singing her a song! Eventually, “random people” within range, join in with an elaborate dance number ending with the main man getting down on one knee and purposing. Awe, how romantic, right? And yet, I can’t help but guard myself, not so much because I’m scared she was going to say no but more so because I’m scared it was the start of a different kind of video. No, not porn, you sickos. Although if it were porn, I wouldn’t have my guard up at all. You can say that if it were porn, you’d catch me with my pants down. See what I did there?

Anyways, the videos that I’m referring to are those that start off as a nice soothing shot of beautiful scenic routes on the country side, with calm music and then SUDDENLY A PICTURE OF A GHOST LADY APPEARS ACCOMPANIED WITH CRAZY SHREIKING! That’s enough to make a grown my pee his pants, not saying I did though…

Many a times have I been victim to such cruel surprises leaving my heart weak and weary to all videos thereafter. So as I watch this man attempt the can-can and robot routines, I can’t help but take a step back behind my couch, in a position that would allow me to jump for cover if ghost lady were to appear.

Well, once the video was done, I go back and watch it with my full attention the whole way through and realize that I missed many beautiful parts, like this one guy who pretended to sweep the walk way of this park and ends up doing some back flips! Or a great scene when the groom-to-be holds up giant cue cards that said something to the effect of “I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, let’s get some BBQ and get busy.” Ok, maybe it wasn’t AS romantic as what I just typed, but it was pretty good.

My point is, being guarded will definitely protect you from the things that will hurt you but it’s going to make you miss out some great things too. It’s natural to have thick skin after you’ve been hurt but you got to ask yourself, “Is cutting your chances of seeing ghost lady really worth missing out on hearing the girl say yes to the proposal?” I guess for me, the back of this couch is not any safer. I mean, if the ghost lady really wants to get me, she’ll find a way; she is a ghost after all.

Disconnects Between Trenches and Towers

Oh Captain, I shout from deep in the trench
Where commotion
Like oceans
Push me where hard work went

And you see me, you see me, as you strategize
On the riggings
And diggings
Of the place where I lie

Though your speeches on change were very well thought out
I couldnt help but
Felt such
Isolation and doubt

Cause this mud can’t climb to the attention of your ear
Of the struggle;
Rebuttals
That run ramped down here

And those changes that fall from your tower up high
It strips
And it whips
Now we don’t recognize

Until all we are, are means to something greater
When benches
In trenches
Could have been our savior

The Sales Pitch! Now With 10% More Chivalry!!

Her sigh translates to her saying, “Listen up fucker, I need your full attention.” So I guess I’ll humor her.

“I’m so sick of guys being so rude and selfish.” She starts. “I mean, what’s wrong with me? Am I not worth flowers or the biggest stuffed animal at the fair? Instead, I find myself an accessory on his arm during guy’s night, which is every fucking night! Where’s the romance, you know?

“The other day I caught myself having a daymare. That’s right. I pictured him sitting in front of the TV with a pizza pop in his hand. And just before he goes in to take a bite he looks over at me and casually asks, ‘wanna get married?’ The worst part is it’s not that far fetched.” She slams her face into my couch pillow, as if life itself was over.

It was 11 PM here in my little pad and I didn’t really have anything to do but I knew I didn’t want to sit here and lie through my teeth about how things will get better and how big old football quarter back, Ty Williams, will realize how awesome she is and change his ways and be the perfect boy toy! Thumbs up, big smile!

So I didn’t.

“He’s a genius.” Yeah, I said it!

“What??”

“What happens next?”

“Well, I say yes and spend the rest of my miserable life with him I guess, but that’s not the point. Now tell me why you think he’s a --”

“Latisha, listen,” I pause my porn and look her in her eyes like a real friend should. “Fuck John Cusack.”

“I guess he’s pretty cute but --”

“I mean, dude wears a coat and holds up a boom box and talks about the stars and now every girl believes that we men are either that or nothing at all.” Chuck Klosterman is right. I almost puked this morning as I watched on youtube, a girl, teary-eyed, shaking her head yes to a rich guy in a suit during a NBA game as the words “WILL YOU MARRY ME, DEBBIE?” scrolled across the Jumbotron during the halftime show. The crowd applauded while girlfriends hit their boyfriends as a warning that they better step up their game or else. And in that moment the collective thought of all boyfriends was, “fuck John Cusack and fuck that rich guy too!”

And I know you all are thinking that I’m bitter as hell but let me ask you this; how is that rich guy in a suit any different from a typical salesman? Think about it.

Hey there, have I got a bargain for you. See this? Pretty handsome right? No? Well what if I add these red roses? Better? I thought so. What does it do? Well, I’ll tell you. Not only does it look good on display, it will never forget your anniversary, text you good morning every single day, kiss you good night and when times get tough, it always has something uplifting to say! Watch. “Oh honey, of course you don’t look fat. Go ahead and drink that energy drink with the skeleton on the can, it’s good for your metabolism.” Still not impressed? Well, look behind you. That’s right, fireworks. Had to give a guy a blowjob for that but it was worth seeing your face all shocked and happy. Wait, there’s more. Bam! Hear that? A live marching band playing your favorite Black Eyed Peas song. So will you take it? It has a life time guarantee and if you are not satisfied, you can bring it back and we’ll give you back half of it’s money! Buy this miniature version of it just in case and also get alimony payments!

Then you end up with 10 Shamwows that you never use.

“So would you rather have a salesman that suckers you into this world of happiness, only to disappoint you further down the road or have a guy purposing to you with a pizza pocket in his hand sitting there as much himself today as he will be for the rest of your lives?”

“But John Cusack also made 2010.”

My sigh translates to me saying, “Latisha, I’m going to finish my porn now. You best leave now or things might get sticky."

Document! Document! Document!

About a year ago, I spotted a chicken dish on the front cover of an Olive Garden menu and decided to give it a try with a simple point from my finger. Little did I know that the dish I chose would become one of the best served chicken I ever experienced. I remember it being softer than a soft porn with a melt-in-your-mouth quality; so much so that I, at one point, honestly thought I was eating fish and questioned the waitress’ order accuracy. I went back to Olive Garden three more occasion after that, the third of which started off disastrous. To my surprise, the menu had changed and the chicken dish that I had grown to depend on for my happiness was gone.

By now you must be wondering of the details of this dish; hoping that my vast vocabulary would do as much justice as it possibly can for this entrée that I hold on a golden pedestal. Was it served with rice or in a marinara sauce? Was it accompanied by the very bones that it grew accustom to or separated prior to meeting the pan? Was it even a pan that it was prepared on?

Sadly, I must confess that despite the praise I cannot, for the life of me, remember a single detail besides the tenderness. Do not misunderstand, I never forgot the impact that the meal had on me for this is not the first time that I have mentioned it. However, it seems that through the course of a year, my words and perception of said meal may or may not have changed, in turn making it impossible to render it to any degree. To paraphrase, through describing the dish in glorifying nature, I have lost track of what is truth, thus confusing myself on the very identity of it.

“Preposterous!” you may shout. “How can the best thing you’ve ever eaten be forgotten so easily?” And my rebuttal is, “Shut up, this is my article and you will read on!”

In the introduction of David Carr’s The Night of the Gun he writes;,” there are three sides to every story, my side, your side and the truth.” And I don’t think that it’s about forgetting at all. Nor is it lying. Indeed, that chicken entrée that once shone on the Olive Garden menu was the best I ever had but its absence since then prompt my mental perception to enhance its features, enhanced it beyond recognition.

It’s funny how our memories work like that. In a desperate attempt to preserve something special we destroy the very details that made them that way. So don’t make the same mistake that I did. Document! Document! Document!

Bets Off Luck

I finger the list of sins
Whilst whistling
Thinking it’s time for discipline
Of what must have been

And I ain’t talking no more fun
Or world war one
Or planning to have four sons
Looking back like “what have I done??”

I’m talking minimum wage
On a synonym stage
Something like a coming of age
I’m over initial rage

And I’m perspective bound
Unlike objective hounds
Firmly on respective grounds
In other words, humbled down

In an attempt to search source
To eliminate cursed remorse
Stir a cleansing course
Rather than a grim abort

Call it letting go or giving up
Dealing with this living stuff
Getting old, if that’s enough
I’m just taking my bets off luck

Words so Light

These words are so light
Effortless, they take flight
To ears of those undeserving
Who accepted it with lips curving
But it stops then and there
Not even past the tiny hairs

That sprout atop the surface
Sliding off without a purpose
Forgotten even by the spitter
They lay around like common litter
Among other words as light
Not even worth a second sight

Then Anger starts to boil
They are sick of being spoiled
So they disguise themselves as truth
Sweet enough to kill a tooth
Sneaking into any heart
But didn't know how to play the part

Yet the soul does not speculate
It brightens and pro creates
Plans and dreams and self confidence
For once the mind not so dominant
So these words stands back
And aligns all the facts

Slips itself through the cracks
Couldn't handle the big task
Calls for harsh words to rescue
And for a lack of better words, kill
That spirit that it created
With their meaning, over inflated

And weep goes the heart
Thicker now than at the start
Vowing to never let words through
Even if they do hold true
So cautious be the lips
That let invalid words slip

Send truthful ones to smooth over
When all minds are on sober
For it's the heavy words that need projecting
Full of value, a heart reflecting
So vow to weigh if meaning's lack
That we shall hold strong, those words way back

A Push From Negative

In spite of
The height of
This catastrophe

It might of,
In light of
Elasticity,

Come off
That some of
It beneficiary

Minus tons of
The run off
Of contradictory

Stolen Reflection

And if the light should pass
Through shutters shuttering
I shall listen to it's tales
And project it's uttering

For the gate way to me
Is wide in it's aperture
Specific are the words
Of the imagine I capture

And what a sweet release
Warmth of life, now frozen
This is the current state
A frame in time, chosen

So blinded with a flash
I steal a pose away forever
Glorify me on walls and desks
I will not lie now nor ever

And of the many many words
I give to you a thousand
A story far beyond physical
Snap a finger to you loud then

Cherish me or rip me up
I'm an art, an inspiration, a laugh
Developing to remind you all
I'm much more than photographs

The Rush in The Name of Art

Rediscovered in a voice of old entries
My lungs shake itself of aging dust
And with that, brings renewed faith
In words, inspired by natures of rust

Fiercer then, than future thoughts
Empowered by mere confusion
A search for strength, or just its curtains
State my claims before the accusing

And the body I dwell served me well
Through my mouth, I made foundations
That was me, in all my glory
The rumbling, like train stations

Finger the bookmarks I laid away
Transfer it straight into my heart
Shake the basket of words that are left
Feel the rush in the name of art.

A Little Pain, A Literature Gain

We all bleed sometime
Let's get it over with
Caught red wristed
Searching for that word smith

This demanding page
With it's judgmental lines
Trace the healed scars
With a cheap bottle of wine

Breathe it all in
Until it runs our veins
We spread upon the paper
Like water down a drain

It all comes through hard
Smoked out by our desire
For truth and for beauty
So set my lungs on fire

Hush now please
For this piece is done
Twice we glance
What this room has spun

Lay dry in my hands
You are safe my friend
I'll call upon your services
When my heart beats again

Affairs With Summer

As it drops much below freezing,
I still find it most pleasing
To watch her smile in my mind’s eye

A view so embedded
To forget is to be beheaded
So I give my scarf a tighter tie

To feel her excited breath
Would make for a happy death
I fear no ice that causes my slip

My cold dry cheeks
Desperately seeks
The warmth of her soft wet lips

So the wind pushes rough
At this man, so tough
Attempts to put memories to slumber

Shake, I might
But smile, despite
I'll still remember my affairs with Summer

Way Before I Do

I dissect the bracelet around my right wrist, composed of red strings intertwined and braided into a strong stable design. I trace the weave, in and out, through and around, all the way to where the neat organized pattern ends and where few strings continue; 4 strings to be exact. You see, due to the erosion cause by the frictions of life, many strands dissolved with time and soon I’m sure the rest will follow.

She sits at the far edge of my bed with her bare back towards me; blending into all the items of my room as my focus holds heavy on this bracelet of mine. The silence plays tricks on me; no longer can I count the minutes gone by as I lose myself in these complicated thoughts; these intertwining red strings. I remember the day that I tied it on. A girl had just left me and I was feeling the void; I felt unwanted, unneeded and in essence; undeserving of anything.

I was told that the human mind understands more clearly the tangible elements of life so instead of looking in the mirror and telling myself that I was worth more than she’d ever know I made and wore this bracelet. I figured that every time I'd feel like I’m next to nothing these red strings around my wrist will remind me otherwise.

And now it dangles weakly like a man on the side of a bridge holding on for dear life with only a few fingers; begging for a little more connection. Soon he will fall and so will this bracelet and I will have to adjust to seeing nothing more than the bare skin of my right wrist; meaningless and simple.

A blurry figure crawls to me and my eyes detail her slowly until she’s recognized by my heart. Her hair soft, her eyes beautiful, “Come on babe. All your friends are waiting for you at the show.”

Maybe the bracelet isn’t dying at all. It just knows when it’s not needed anymore, way before I do.

Is This it?

Is this it?
That which I've never known?
Like advertisement of things
I've never owned?
And I speak in tones
Cause that's the difference, see
A form of deliverance
The true meaning in free

From the back seat of my truck
To the beginning of my luck
Drawing hearts on windows
That suddenly have fogged up
Until lips interrupt
As pleasant as it may be
There are times when speaking
And kissing will simultaneously
Occur

But which would I prefer?
I guess any and all
When it comes to the likes of her
And my heart concurs
Of intentions from this girl
Enough so to make me,
Four months ago, hurl
So hello world

Accept me again, I’m here
And oh dear, in fear
Of deception like veneers
Makes me grip on this wheel
Looking for exits to steer
But those eyes calm the soul
And if this ends then behold
Isn’t life but just these moments?
The rest is just dirt roads

Yeah, this is it!
It always was
The sweat and tears
And the occasional blood
And I owe the step forwards to all the duds
For all the bonds as thick as mud
So judge not and let grudges rot
Me, mistakes have taught
Higher than the things I’ve bought

And as it sits
The answer hits
Yeah this is it
Of course this is it

Strength Comes From Our Worst Enemy

Engage me in this engagement
As I once was
As a young man

Of hope and excitement
That nothing could harm us.
How could it possibly,
When we've barely begun?
As big plans are upon us
To be reckless as we can

And induce me before introducing
It all, pain and misery
For this bravado projected,
As they do with all youth,
Is often filtered with lens
To a size that precedes us
Superseding true fragility

Now indulge me with the bulge
Of potential under scrapes and scars
That catapults us further
Weak than self involved
Tell me that in darkest nights
We hear the beauty of the calm
That things still transpire
Without proof in visual degrees
And that my indictment by
My tainted self perception
Has been liberated
Lifted
Gone

Snap! Snap!

Snap! Snap!
A finger’s struggle
Laps! Laps!
Is the mind’s rebuttal
But…
Tempo is tempo
Helps rhythms get through
So hardships and sacrifice
Should get me to you
Puff! Puff!
Smoke comes quick from those lips
You see a dance,
But that’s surely a slip
A drift, an aftermath
A residue, a slide
An escape from scenes
Of a sinister size
And as I lie, I lie
And dry those eyes
Repercussions is far
From these devious times
So nickel, dime
And change the foot tap
To a finger’s struggle
Snap! Snap!
Snap! Snap!

On This Pillow

Alas, here I lay
On this pillow,
With a scent
Uneventful, per se
My heart will go
to nostrils; vents

Which allows me sight
With my eyes sealed
To the dawn
Hoping that I might
Consciously steal
Images gone

Be still now my mind
Follies of love
Trips; entire
As they intertwine
What I think of,
Perspires

I'll try to adapt
This spark; this snap
That I know
Until she comes back
For another nap
On this pillow

Didn't Expect That Did You?

“Expect the unexpected.” Many read this quote and reply, “yes, absolutely.” Because what better way to live than to always be prepared. In case there is a tornado or a nuclear bomb, we have bunkers filled with canned food. In case of dying and leaving our loved ones with no financial support, we have life insurance. And in case the blind date takes a turn for the worst, a friend is ready to call us with news of an “unexpected emergency” that requires our attention immediately. Wait. Did I contradict myself with that last example? Could it be that sometimes things happening unexpectedly could benefit us more than expecting it? And can I take it one step further and claim that sometimes the more we expect or want things to happen the chances of it occurring decreases? Expect the unexpected. Maybe not.

Two summers ago I woke up in the dead of night with a strange feeling I couldn’t shake; not because there was an unknown girl in a gargoyle costume sleeping next to me and not even because I was in a sailor moon costume myself. It was because I developed a strong craving for broccoli and cheese soup with four crackers to be eaten with a white plastic disposable spoon. The soup couldn’t be too hot so that I could take bite after bite without stopping from tongue burns. It would be perfect. I fell back asleep with plans to stop by a Quiznos at lunchtime to satisfy this strange need.

“I’m sorry sir,” said the employee, “but we ran out of soup for the week.”

“Well isn’t that convenient!” I was pissed. “And what are you staring at??”

“ummm, why are you in a sailor moon costume?”

I hightailed out of there, desperate like a crack head looking for his next fix. My next stop, Wendy’s.

“Hi,” there was no time to waste. I definitely started to feel an itch. “I need to know if you have the Broccoli and cheese –“

“Haha, yes sir, we definitely do!”

“Oh thank God! I’ll take one! Make that two!”

10 minutes later.

“There you are sir, two Broccoli and Cheese baked potates.”

“Thank you so mu--, wait, what!?

It wasn’t until 2 months later while ordering a buffalo chicken burger at Kelsey’s that this happened:

“And what would you like as one of your sides, sir? We have fries, garden salad, Caesar salad, broccoli cheese soup, mash potates”

“Excuse, what? Say that again.”

“Mash potatoes, sir.”

“No before that.”

“Caesar salad.”

“After that.”

“Soup?”

“Before that.”

“Fries.”

“After that.”

“Broccoli?”

“and after that?”

“Cheese.”

“and after that?”

“Soup.”

“I’ll take the soup!” One tear of happiness. Ok maybe two.

Let me tell you another true story. Once there was this guy named Murphy. He was in love with this girl who couldn’t even stand the sound of his name! She was a high-class hooker who only liked partying with the sheriffs and the bandits, separately of course. You see, she had a thing for people who associated with the law; upholding or breaking. Poor Murphy tried everything to get her attention; a dozen roses, poetry, and even a tattoo of her face on his chest. Still, she paid him no mind. Every night, Murphy sat in his home manifesting ways to steal her heart. Two years past with no success and Murphy had had enough.

“It’s time to change!” he announced to himself. “No longer shall I be this pathetic man that calls himself Murphy and no longer will I try to claim this sweet high-class hooker’s heart!”

So he literal changed his name and he became happy. He walked with a hop in his step and lived a very happy couple of month, forgetting what’s-her-name, until one night, things got even better. While walking down the street looking for a new hooker friend a lady approached him.

“Why aren’t you handsome!” She said, “I reckon I want to spend the rest of my life with you, stranger.”

It was her, his one and only love. The one he had totally forgot about.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

And he replied, “It use to be Murphy, long ago. Now it’s Murphy’s Law.”

“How is that even a name?”

He shows her his blockbuster card.

“So your full name is Murphy’s Law Thompson?”

“Don’t wear it out.”

“So you wanna party or what?”

“Ok”

The End.