Friday, October 31, 2014

K. Flay

Sorry I missed the show Kristine - I thought about a song that might describe the circumstances. This is the one.  Hahaha, ohhhhhhh shit!.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

it started with french for ten.

Some people will never face this dilemma. These people will say that it’s all part of God’s design and that’s fine.
But the rest of us, we’re left to decide on which side of the faded line we’re standing, if fate and circumstance have already collided.
We’re left stacking our decisions on a makeshift house of cards, atop a foundation of flimsy and capricious words like chance and destiny;
Reminded of the hopeless, cheap, ephemeral nature of life burning under a star amidst a sea of other stars just like the one we count on to show its face day to day. 
Am I to be reminded of some vast, interconnected array of unknowable beings and providence that thrust this situation upon me?
Or am I once again awarded with the unavoidable intersection of coincidence and serendipity that would have us face-to-face again?

      I don't know what to say to you.
      For me, the smoke break is an afterthought. I don't know if this process is reversed for you.

What was I thinking when I saw you framed in that doorway the first time? 
Maybe the circumstances surrounding this meeting aren't important.

What am I thinking when I see you framed in that doorway from day to day?
You and I both know something the other doesn't, that's for sure. 

I'm foolish with words like fate. 

Maybe we checked out a long time ago - maybe that's what's so important about this thing. 

Maybe this unusual and preternatural dance we're performing under a swarming sea of bees and daylight is all we're meant for. 

Maybe as fate or chance or circumstance or providence or some other clever destiny phenomena (you pick) would have it, we're meant for more. 
All I really know now is that I don't want this dance. 
I want it all.
And maybe that's another instance of selfishness, but I've become acutely aware that I can't second guess my heart anymore without consequence.
And what's wrong with being selfish in this case? Philosophy is a singles game.

Maybe for a few more days. Maybe while we spin and careen through this small space, haunted by the distance between the outer rings, and us in the very center.

Well, where do we start, when we're already in the middle of things?


          You'd hoped, by now, that the hallways you'd always imagined constitute the inner workings of your mind wouldn’t look like a Warsaw Ghetto. You'd hoped the bags under your eyes were from sleeplessness and the wrinkles in your forehead were from the sheets. They aren’t.

You understand that from childhood into puberty, there are changes. You stretch out, split your skin and grow.
After that, you might expect to gain some weight in college. At least, the years you should be in college. You're changing.
Then, you wake up in your twenties and you don't see where your hairline has gone or when the creases started to form in your forehead or the corners of your mouth.  You don't know when the twinkle of childhood fantasy left your face. You're changing.

But there you are in the mirror, and that's you and that's your face. 

Some changes are insidious.

Some are not these vain observations you think you're watching every morning when you're brushing your teeth.
Some are nested deep down inside you. Some changes will take you by surprise.

Some changes happen in others. 

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

But you wake up and you shine over that thousand dollar smile. Hundred.  That smile. You adjust a collar, a tie, a button in the mirror, but every day it's like painting the door on an empty house. 

You reflect outside for some time, in the swirling tendrils and motes and smoke. There's a feeling that's forged only from the residue of sleep and dreams, and it's a bittersweet elixir, but it's peaceful. The problem is that it's not enduring, it fades, and you have to leave again.

You stand inside the closed door of your house, waiting to go out. Waiting to catch your breath, waiting for your heart to hint that it's still beating, alive in you somewhere.
 You're standing on the tile in your tied shoes, and you can't muster the energy to move, but a guilty conscience will move you over the roads.
Your travels are guided only by your ability to avoid the hazards in your periphery.

You'll strain a smile over the kitschy keychains around the register when you buy your coffee, and you'll drive. The distant magnetism of responsibility will guide you safely to the next space.

The fiery orange genesis of sunrise will squint your eyes against the horizon, and you'll arrive.
You always do.

You'll tell yourself how much you've seen with your head down.
You'll tell yourself you're not out of roads.
You'll tell yourself you'll do better tomorrow.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

nights like these.

Nights like this, we do everything we do to forget all of our little tedious annoyances.
We waive our right to acknowledge them any further with stern resolve, and the radio plays.
It's so fortunate that all subjects were dropped behind some speaker pulsing, beating away in the night.
I can't be expected (on nights like this) to uphold any of your expectations.
On nights like this, we do everything we can to avoid one moment or the next.
Hiding out from friends, having sex with strangers. On nights like this, I'm in service of another.
Your face, your cold white stare, it's meaningless. What'd you expect on a night like this?
I waited for you, here, on any one of many nights like these, but time and time again,
Time waits for no man. So I'll retreat back to this bed of razors and thorns I've made.
I'll repeat your name to myself, on any night like this, over her shoulder, through the valley of her clavicle.
Her wrists are warm against my throat, what's in her head when she says "until next time?"
You can ask about the marks upon my skin on any other night, but not tonight,
A night like this. We're strangely entwined, the cost of these trysts will toll later, but my life,
Your lies, they'll unfold before us, and consequently, on nights like these,
You'll just have to wait your turn. You'll just have to get left, in turn.
Nights like this, what's this? Don't bother expressing your penitence.
I'm afraid of what we might miss in the shutter speed. You knew, you knew, you knew,
From the beginning.
That it was over.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Emmett's Magnum Opus.

[Yeah, well fuck you too. ]

So, we sew our mouths, we sew our heads up, we won't speak until another of
December's tragic starlight drives.
So you hate the way we face each other?
We already staged a time to miss our fears,
We missed it, we missed our shot, our chance to hear the secret voice of god.
And I've scratched my eyes.
You've had a taste of my blood, a taste of winter.
You tasted winter.
You tasted me, the salt of tears in our parfait, yeah.

There's no reason to believe that the next time will be different than any other,
There's no reason to believe that I mean it this time.

So, we change our address, we address our change,
And we don't speak of one another down
Any road we might take that diverges from expectation.
We faced each other to talk this winter,
We staged a separation under air that just froze and broke,
We missed it, we missed our shot, our chance to hear the song of our hearts.
We had a taste of one another, under the moonlight,
Under the sky.
We tasted this,
We tasted love.
We tasted the iron of blood near our hearts, yeah.

There's no reason to believe it was meant to be,
There's no reason to believe it was meant to be anything different, yeah.
We didn't mean it this time,

We didn't mean it.

I never mean it.

Your Weekend Recommendations : Dispatches and Signals from Unknown Sender

Unknown sender in this context, of course, is Lyla (Lila?) - She’s the palmistry professional I see sometimes when I’m drunk and I have questions, and I guess I’ve been there enough times that if she sees a little gloss or sheen on my eyes, she makes the findings a little more personal.
That’s fine, Lyla (it’s what I’m going with.), I don’t see what you see in the glass or the cards or the smoke from that vanilla-jasmine incense (or is that your perfume?)
I don’t wear enough silks or hide out in enough buildings that people ignore or take for granted every day, I guess. It’s easy to pass, this place.
I don’t see what you see when you say it’ll be my first time to really see the jungle.
I don’t know how to respond when you say that maybe all those mid-90’s songs really are correspondence directly to me.
I don’t see a pinched and distorted smaller me in the clear sphere, dissolving into some distant pocket in the depths of this makeshift desk.

But I don’t guess I have a problem spying what you call the horizon. Easy reads like letting bygones be bygones, and releasing the general state of dissolution that found me wandering in here with a pocket-bottle of French vodka, anyways. Damnit, Lyla.

                When the rumbling started, I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear your voice, though I’m certain they were your words.
                I don’t know, the trappings of some vague and distant prediction, some eerie nightingale song about the way this weekend is supposed to work.
                Maybe it’s just the aftershock, or maybe the rumble I hear is the just the distant roar of thousands, some dialogue with thunder.

Well, you said it would be my day and my week, if I’d just take it.
I guess you’re always right.
Thanks again, Lyla.
Thanks anyways.

Friday, October 10, 2014

cattle town.

another glaring day under the sun,
another restless breath from an otherwise empty chest,
but there you go again.
you're across on the other sidewalk,
or shoulder,
but there you go again.

you're up, you're going through the motions,
because that's what we do.
the streets are overflowing with better promises than you, but i can't stop
following the safety and comfort of familiar company.

i try to hide my face under hats and shades and brims,
 it's better to blend in behind lenses, i find
and in time i've crafted this visage more to finish the sentences i began than anything.
i just want to know where you've been, then again i can't care,
and i can't afford to be so generous.
but i'll wear this silence like a badge before i take you out

we're up, fixing our plates,
because that's what we do.
there's nothing here to eat except our own,
there are no real stars in what amounts, in the end, to a cattle town.
they're feeding on us here,
they're feeding us to us.
we'll be full, but it's a fool of a girl to think
we'll be happy here.

that's a dozen shots in empty parking lots,
another empty bottle reflecting the lights of
another glaring night under the light of the arc sodiums,
but here we go again.
one more swallow, and then we'll be happy here.

i try to hide my face in the shade of night, but i find
it's better to just be forthright, and in the end
we'll find out we've faked it all along.
there's messages on our cell phones everyday.
but we'll go through the motions.
because it's what we do.
we'll go through.
one more swallow
and we'll be happy here
one more
and we'll be happy here.
one more
we'll be happy.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

deeply flawed.

It's like we're constantly waiting for the collapse of some distant bridge.
Some say that  design is one of the concepts that makes our species especially distinct.
This ability to gaze forward, this deliberate foresight,
it allows us to span gaps of air and rock with a core of steel wrapped in concrete.
It allows us to mobilize over these spans into other territories.
 But us, as a species, maybe we are the mostly deeply flawed.
But hiccups in our designs,
Oversights, rust and material deterioration.
 Maybe a failure to account for catastrophic natural events.
Floods and mudslides and strong winds swept up and across our oceans and waterways from the coast of some far off nation.
Maybe a rogue crop-duster collides with major structural elements in a cable stay bridge.
Maybe a barge is pushed into the beam of a causeway.
But we can't waste our time in the design and the planning phases,
we have to build and span and move and
lurch our bodies forward over these spaces we see before us.

It's like all we can really do is wait for all the water we're made of to evaporate.
We're just waiting for the moment when we split,
when there's enough pressure on our surface,
When there are enough flames in the fire for us to dissolve like this,
For a strong enough wind on an unfrozen day to separate us
Into our smallest immutable parts,
And we'll resonate in this empty space
We will all just disperse some day,
Or wait for the next someone to come by
just to breathe us in.

It's like, It's not what it looks it like.
I don't try really hard to complicate everything, but it's hard for me to be guileless,
Some say maybe I'm just made to span the gap from one someone to the next,
But I don't mind.
We'll chase the waves that crash against these rusty beams, and forget
How swiftly we developed all these irresponsible feelings.
We'll exploit all the deeply flawed claw marks in our design.
We'll sleep on the waves near the base where's there's no one around,
Remind us how we've crossed over our demise again and again,
Across battered concrete blocks and oxidation, in this strange place,
Beneath radio and sun and cloud and the fractured light of the sky,
Lie down in this design with me, let's wear out these flaws.
Just come this way.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

the sounds.

here i sit, looking forward - contrary to what is habitual to me.
still, i wonder -
did we squander the hours that were worthwhile to us?
did we watch ourselves pass through time?
is this me, this flesh, or do i watch from somewhere else, controlling it?
this strange abstraction, distant philosophy.
sometimes the things and the people i face seem so unreal.
sometimes, i know i'll pass through them untouched.
sometimes not.
i worry that others will suffer more at my hands than i do.
inwardly, i know this to be true, like you.

wasting your life waiting for me
waiting your life wasting for me
is it true?

all fingers, all paths seem to point to the same place,
and i watch as the faces grow old waiting for me to come around.
i just have to move there, overcome this inertia that holds my heart.
i'm sick of pursuing this tired avenue.
some say i should just stick to myself and try to stay mundane,
but i can't even stop the shakes i get when i sleep.
i can't stop the grotesque persistence of the sweeping second hand,
and it's still up to me to decide if that's a bad thing.
my life's in the background, burning.

i am nero.
ave caesar.
who cares if it burns? the band will play on.
or, maybe just me.
but doesn't it sound so sweet?