writer's block is starting to set in for the first time in almost 6 months and panic lead to a cigarette break which lead to me realizing that when i can't write anything, it's because i'm not being honest with myself about my state of mind, of being.
i'm ignoring responsibility. i'm ignoring heartbreak. i'm ignoring possibility. i'm ignoring disappointment. i'm ignoring failure. i'm ignoring success (towards progress and vice versa).
ignorance has left me in limbo and i think that's all writer's block is; self defeat before a concrete thought is formed.
does that make sense? hmm... shut it down.
but maybe i deserve that for a little bit. well, at least it's a good excuse to smoke a few more and drink a few more before blindly passing out on the deck.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
the city is loud
part one
The city is loud.
They are just brake pedals and engines.
Folks.
Stopping, to speak, somewhere, in between, all things, considered, unconsidered, bulleted, numbered, hyphenated, checked off, scratched off, crossed out.
And if only the day would end, when you lay
yourself down
to sleep,
but No.
Loneliness is a terrifying thing to breed.
---
part two
i was sitting outside of this little restaurant that offers chique-ness,
when chique-ness is so temporal; "it's so 'in' right now," "try this place, it's sooo kewwwwl."
christ, they charge you fifteen bucks for an entree, ten for a dessert or appetizer,
and no wonder you come out feeling stuffed, they just f'ed you in the A, mate.
and while i'm sitting there trivializing how uncool this cool place is i catch my reflection in the mirror and realize how much older and unhip i look than the last time i really examined myself in a mirror in natural light and maybe this whole narcing on the commercially fashionable universe is the manifestation of my own insecurities and social and physical inadequacies or obesity and all of a sudden i understand why i would pay fifteen dollars for that entree that comes with bottomless delicious multigrain bread rolls and honey butter; not to fit in.
to escape.
-----
part three
i will buy anything if it's fool proof and/or forty proof.
-----
part four
The city is loud.
They are just brake pedals and engines.
Folks.
Stopping, to speak, somewhere, in between, all things, considered, unconsidered, bulleted, numbered, hyphenated, checked off, scratched off, crossed out.
And if only the day would end, when you lay
yourself down
to sleep,
but No.
Loneliness is a terrifying thing to breed.
---
part two
i was sitting outside of this little restaurant that offers chique-ness,
when chique-ness is so temporal; "it's so 'in' right now," "try this place, it's sooo kewwwwl."
christ, they charge you fifteen bucks for an entree, ten for a dessert or appetizer,
and no wonder you come out feeling stuffed, they just f'ed you in the A, mate.
and while i'm sitting there trivializing how uncool this cool place is i catch my reflection in the mirror and realize how much older and unhip i look than the last time i really examined myself in a mirror in natural light and maybe this whole narcing on the commercially fashionable universe is the manifestation of my own insecurities and social and physical inadequacies or obesity and all of a sudden i understand why i would pay fifteen dollars for that entree that comes with bottomless delicious multigrain bread rolls and honey butter; not to fit in.
to escape.
-----
part three
i will buy anything if it's fool proof and/or forty proof.
-----
part four
Monday, March 30, 2009
My Personal Marxist Philosophy
"These are my principles; if you don't like them, I have others."
~ Groucho Marx
~ Groucho Marx
Friday, March 20, 2009
Napkin Notions
So I had this romantic notion sitting in Cup-a-Joe off Hillsborough yesterday (in the midst of 2 Grandes, a Tall, and a half a pack of Cowboy Killers/thnx Clay) . It was the most perfect weathered day after a chain of numerous rainy days.
Tangent Alert!
Tell me, is inspiration really the moment of genesis or is it boredom/restlessness that chips away intermittently towards that tootsie roll pop ore of inspiration?
Man, tootsie roll pops = gross. Let's not find out. No thank you, Mr. Owl.
But I digress, my romantic notion was temporary poetry, like temporary art. Fudge poetry, just write down something you think and leave it. Anywhere. Everywhere. Maybe no one will ever read it. Maybe it will just get thrown away. Or maybe just one person will read it and have this quiet moment of reflection with something you left behind. How often do two strangers connect? And like the whole tree falling in the forest adage, can two people connect if there is no physical assurance?
Yes. Think about literature. Think about art. Think about music. blah blah blah. It happens!
So the thought remained romantic until my ego arrived and I signed the first napkin penned poem with a moniker of mine. And then I knew I was being pretentious, but fuck it!
Subtract the personal accreditation, and wouldn't it be like finding petals on a path, like someone handing you a flower, a birthday card, or a freshly baked FREE cookie, when you happen upon these little gifts of personal contemplation?
So draw a doodle, pen some prose, write a rhyme, and then let it go, and let it find its way into someone else's day.
It wouldn't cost you anything but a few minutes of your time. Napkins are free (please don't start charging me Cup-a-Joe... )
---
The irony of all this predetermined humility is, of course, I've been thinking about how people can use our words and ideas and make money off of it.
Nevermind. Don't do it.
----
this is the true spirit of brevity; immediate hypocrisy.
Tangent Alert!
Tell me, is inspiration really the moment of genesis or is it boredom/restlessness that chips away intermittently towards that tootsie roll pop ore of inspiration?
Man, tootsie roll pops = gross. Let's not find out. No thank you, Mr. Owl.
But I digress, my romantic notion was temporary poetry, like temporary art. Fudge poetry, just write down something you think and leave it. Anywhere. Everywhere. Maybe no one will ever read it. Maybe it will just get thrown away. Or maybe just one person will read it and have this quiet moment of reflection with something you left behind. How often do two strangers connect? And like the whole tree falling in the forest adage, can two people connect if there is no physical assurance?
Yes. Think about literature. Think about art. Think about music. blah blah blah. It happens!
So the thought remained romantic until my ego arrived and I signed the first napkin penned poem with a moniker of mine. And then I knew I was being pretentious, but fuck it!
Subtract the personal accreditation, and wouldn't it be like finding petals on a path, like someone handing you a flower, a birthday card, or a freshly baked FREE cookie, when you happen upon these little gifts of personal contemplation?
So draw a doodle, pen some prose, write a rhyme, and then let it go, and let it find its way into someone else's day.
It wouldn't cost you anything but a few minutes of your time. Napkins are free (please don't start charging me Cup-a-Joe... )
---
The irony of all this predetermined humility is, of course, I've been thinking about how people can use our words and ideas and make money off of it.
Nevermind. Don't do it.
----
this is the true spirit of brevity; immediate hypocrisy.
Friday, February 6, 2009
revision
"I hope you feel nicer"
Baby boy, blue eyes; and
beauty stopped by on the doorstep.
Came by, "au revoir, good night, good
times... "
Age is heavy, sometimes, like a coat, and for what we know
we hide in our deepest pockets
a shattered watch with a disabled, swinging latch
from that moment, those moments, time, chance,
and redemption
flew away from us
defeated by the sound of Earth.
We are the harrow upon such foundations, of which we still seek some origin.
Arid, some parts, drenched, some others, and full of fruit,
only beyond the horizon of our weighted shoulders,
but we do not look back. Never look back.
Destiny is soiled when these sodden hands
reach for seeds from tortured wallets, but dear, oh dear,
all great things,
however finite or eternal, infinitesimal or cosmic
have grown from the dirt, and from
good, lukewarm time.
Fear is for the present, it does not exist in the past or in the morning.
And for the six feet we have dug ourselves,
the only thing we can find on the other side
is sunshine.
Funny, what you say,
once the door is closed.
Baby boy, blue eyes; and
beauty stopped by on the doorstep.
Came by, "au revoir, good night, good
times... "
Age is heavy, sometimes, like a coat, and for what we know
we hide in our deepest pockets
a shattered watch with a disabled, swinging latch
from that moment, those moments, time, chance,
and redemption
flew away from us
defeated by the sound of Earth.
We are the harrow upon such foundations, of which we still seek some origin.
Arid, some parts, drenched, some others, and full of fruit,
only beyond the horizon of our weighted shoulders,
but we do not look back. Never look back.
Destiny is soiled when these sodden hands
reach for seeds from tortured wallets, but dear, oh dear,
all great things,
however finite or eternal, infinitesimal or cosmic
have grown from the dirt, and from
good, lukewarm time.
Fear is for the present, it does not exist in the past or in the morning.
And for the six feet we have dug ourselves,
the only thing we can find on the other side
is sunshine.
Funny, what you say,
once the door is closed.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
more like a downdate (old things refreshed)
Riding bikes together; or a walk into the sighing sea
At your feet, soft serve
foundations.
An easy summer.
Sitting still.
Idle wafting
with your iced tea ice cubes
melting in the sun;
beached and bleached
like the under belly of whales.
The plastic two step escape ladder,
blue and white
to match the imaginary froth
painted in the wake of crashing waves
and porpoises and beach balls,
children playing under a canvas sun
flat against the canvas fence of your
Petri dish walls.
But against the pendulum of your rocking,
pedaling; the sting of exposed grass blade
defenses, muffled neighborhood noises, white fences,
and more white fences, and more; and the ringing
in your ears that you wonder, sometimes, if any one else
can hear, or if your future self is transmitting
some good sense your way.
“Don’t try jumping that ditch
as much as they dare you to,”
you hear your mother and your father's voices
resonate in the ether between your cheek and earlobe.
Oh all the clicks, the beeps, and the whistles,
the way the sediment and sentiment all
wash away from around you before you can lift your toes.
And you frown, at the empty cup, the ice cubes.
Where does it all go?
-----
the truth is
i wouldn't know where to begin,
or end.
a quarter-life crisis is like twenty
five pennies slotted in a gypsy's fortune telling
machine, and after the twenty fifth penny goes in,
a little red light comes on that tells you, "incorrect change,"
and everything you've put in
comes sliding
back
out.
or maybe you were just after
a drink
?
what captures the mind most, i have recessed
to believe,
isn't the shade of a flower, or a dollar, or in the manner of
surmising the currency of such things, but in the pursuit;
the pursuit
of passion.
a genuine vision. perhaps, not so much genuine, as
authenticated
through vigor of
vision.
we would follow a blind man, a
dumb man, a deaf man, a mute man
with passion
in his satchel, or ready
in his hands, in his palms, like a farmer and his grains; oh earth,
do grow us some trees, some roots, some thorn-ed vines, even some
weeds, something to hold
on to, when the world flips
upside
down.
and even if we cannot see, cannot stand, cannot hear, cannot
agree, no tip of the hat, we shall cross any sacred path, any beating heart,
any
hissing, silent pit, if we could feel what you feel,
[anything, but this.]
these windows, the glass here, reverend, are stained like jade, and oh,
the people they move in all of many a direction, a different head in a
different window, and which would you choose, which would you
follow
but that is selfish, i should know, but i do not, and
that, oh sire,
is all i seek.
[anything, but this.]
and the truth is, i know the wheel only turns,
but spinning around makes me want to
hurl.
At your feet, soft serve
foundations.
An easy summer.
Sitting still.
Idle wafting
with your iced tea ice cubes
melting in the sun;
beached and bleached
like the under belly of whales.
The plastic two step escape ladder,
blue and white
to match the imaginary froth
painted in the wake of crashing waves
and porpoises and beach balls,
children playing under a canvas sun
flat against the canvas fence of your
Petri dish walls.
But against the pendulum of your rocking,
pedaling; the sting of exposed grass blade
defenses, muffled neighborhood noises, white fences,
and more white fences, and more; and the ringing
in your ears that you wonder, sometimes, if any one else
can hear, or if your future self is transmitting
some good sense your way.
“Don’t try jumping that ditch
as much as they dare you to,”
you hear your mother and your father's voices
resonate in the ether between your cheek and earlobe.
Oh all the clicks, the beeps, and the whistles,
the way the sediment and sentiment all
wash away from around you before you can lift your toes.
And you frown, at the empty cup, the ice cubes.
Where does it all go?
-----
the truth is
i wouldn't know where to begin,
or end.
a quarter-life crisis is like twenty
five pennies slotted in a gypsy's fortune telling
machine, and after the twenty fifth penny goes in,
a little red light comes on that tells you, "incorrect change,"
and everything you've put in
comes sliding
back
out.
or maybe you were just after
a drink
?
what captures the mind most, i have recessed
to believe,
isn't the shade of a flower, or a dollar, or in the manner of
surmising the currency of such things, but in the pursuit;
the pursuit
of passion.
a genuine vision. perhaps, not so much genuine, as
authenticated
through vigor of
vision.
we would follow a blind man, a
dumb man, a deaf man, a mute man
with passion
in his satchel, or ready
in his hands, in his palms, like a farmer and his grains; oh earth,
do grow us some trees, some roots, some thorn-ed vines, even some
weeds, something to hold
on to, when the world flips
upside
down.
and even if we cannot see, cannot stand, cannot hear, cannot
agree, no tip of the hat, we shall cross any sacred path, any beating heart,
any
hissing, silent pit, if we could feel what you feel,
[anything, but this.]
these windows, the glass here, reverend, are stained like jade, and oh,
the people they move in all of many a direction, a different head in a
different window, and which would you choose, which would you
follow
but that is selfish, i should know, but i do not, and
that, oh sire,
is all i seek.
[anything, but this.]
and the truth is, i know the wheel only turns,
but spinning around makes me want to
hurl.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
top five reasons to have a list
1.) it gives you boundaries, so you can wrangle in your existence
2.) self-importance
3.) everybody should know how you feel and why you feel the way you feel because you're good enough, you're smart enough, and doggonit, people should like you
4.) easier to decipher than a graph or pie chart
5.) truth needs an outlet
2.) self-importance
3.) everybody should know how you feel and why you feel the way you feel because you're good enough, you're smart enough, and doggonit, people should like you
4.) easier to decipher than a graph or pie chart
5.) truth needs an outlet
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