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northerly [21 Jul 2012|03:45pm] and in the afterbirth on the quiet earth, let the stains remind you. you thought you made a man, you better think again before my role defines you. 312 / cmmt

red stripe [21 Oct 2009|12:28pm] there are things that make me feel incredibly tired. like aging for everyone i have come into contact with. tired for them, for what they have agonized over, for what they have willingly catapulted themselves through. a girl at work is getting married, the girl that talks too much, too loudly. she shares too much information and everyone knows a little bit of her past they wish they could just rub away into eraser dust. i am tired already for him, for all of the effort it takes to quiet her. i am an old man for everyone's bullshit. i left, i went south. another trip my boss hardly took any notice over. i no longer unsettle people, i am not complaining because i am always welcome to return with no sudden celebrations. i've never been a fan, but i speak differently of surprises. were her parents surprised, how did her father take it? i will never see the one i heard of so often, but i shook another's simply for being there, for being a friend. he was big, soft-spoken and at times almost vacant - familiar? his eyes would brighten suddenly, his words could harden to ice no matter the heat of the conversation. i saw myself quickly, but how he managed to raise the twenty-two year old child without leaving her at a curb is a total mystery to me. no, the ring on his finger and his stories going from war to god in his twenties are answers i could never really pencil. driving, i expected empty things. rooms, stomachs. instead came the same groove of rookie questions that keep scoring her big. i eat and sleep with a girl i don't have to touch. i have become someone without sensuality but instead strained affection, i am pathologically shy in the presence of certain women, the one i haven't beaten to embarrassment firstly. heated showers and even hotter breakfasts keep my worries warmed away while the wind knocks prescriptions and glasses and paper off tables. all sweat, all cartoons, all day. sand and grease and dirt has become just another layer, along with the multiplying undersized shirts and aging jeans. scum beneath my nails, finding ways to attach but forgetting to infect. i have seen physical beauty in copious amounts. brown eyes to blue, blonde hair beneath red. lots of leg, lots of sun. it is so much color, there is just so much of it. on the opposite coast, i was not surprised. the beach girls are not at all different. they are small despite how big they make themselves out to be, how loudly they talk, how vibrant their leggings get. it doesn't matter, though some are not made up of such transparency. i woke up with a headache and a bowl of green beans. last night a girl made me spaghetti. i have been eating so much, after every meal i swear i will never eat again. i swear i will go hungry like others do, swear i will starve like others deserve to. again and again big plates of meat, of noodles, of vegetables and eventually fruit are placed in front of me, fork tapping my knuckles. i remember this. to be so full but to be able to feel that hollow heat that seems... endless. juice and juice and more juice. i want to be wrong. cmmt

born dead [21 May 2009|12:27pm] sitting, sulking, skeletal. she's blushing again, in response to something that fell from my mouth. i am listening from the other end of the cup, from underneath a swollen wave. fear dilluted by the water. laying in bed, the words play over and over but i only breathe quietly. i love you, i love you, i love you. beyond blushing and smiling, morning laughter before the kitchen shift kiss, and the heat from your legs entrapping mine when the other heads are tucked at paws... there is nothing. moments of time and space, void of any black or white. warmth is found at my palms when i find your belly. when you slept, i lay in wonder of our skin. a substance irreplicable with which most hand off sicknesses - but beneath the stretch and strength of yours, is health and something happier. all curiousity and simple pleasures... boy or girl, i always picture you with your fingers hiding your lips, that smile i can still see in the uplifting of your cheeks and lightening of your eyes. laughing in that secret manner, the soft hum i have always heard and will soon share with one other that will know you, maybe one day, better than i do. no sadness or dread once all i need is the smallest amount, just a reminder... a phone call between heaping servings of sauce and spice, returning home even after too much to drink. no importance in anything if it doesn't involve my girl's health. they say these women glow, growing, and of course you are never lacking in color. softening my thoughts are your hands prodding your stomach, wondering how this fabric looks here but after any fussing there is a smile i am looking for. it can always be found when i replace the press of your palm with my own, pout to be sweetened with a barely-there kiss before i wait for my reward. i hate the name ryan, heather. ashleys were always the most obnoxious, kevins are punks. my back starts to ache, impossible to escape slouching and leaning. i find nothing to offer others but complaints of all the faulty handling. home is where my patience is found, a spot in our bed where the excess of the outside world is not at all allowed. out in the sun, mike's taking a look under the hood of the c10 and i'm dead weight on the curb outside of the shop. nobody but kevin and his friends are inside. no girls, no goons - just us. it's funny to find myself here, have i always been this sentimental? capturing moments, making sure to remember the object in my hand, the marks on my jeans and the shirt that lasted for ten minutes tops on my back before ditched on the sidewalk. it's hot so we complain, but i check my phone, realize it's only 70 and somehow the breeze just couldn't be any more graceful. we caught free candy at walgreens, something to do with the way mike and i went back and forth in front of mindy, our little lucky cashier of the afternoon. boogers and bickering get a guy pretty far. she laughs, we continue and by the time we've left, there are voids on our receipt. we found a tabby in the bed of my truck, frozen once in sight but sweet to the touch. she prefers mike, the grinding of my teeth is probably unnerving. we talk philadelphia, we talk brooklyn, we talk richmond. i think of all the kids who called me a friend, the ones who still call in july or whenever the weather's good or after outrunning cop number nineteen. i have always been cautious, even in the company of my own kind, at times especially. some of us ache for a purpose, seeking faith in something higher, holy. someone: easily shredded by things we cannot touch but still want to believe exists. there is fear, there is family. are you calculating this love, weighing out your options? some of us live like vultures, picking apart the meat of others until we have had our fill, until we have ripped at each glitch and set it out to dry for some selfish kind of inspection. my feet are grounded, my arms as anchors but my attention always forward rather than up. quietly, i am happy here. i slow my smile to keep from anyone watching. the boy in the wolf suit -- we don't all hang it up when we find our dinners waiting for us after we crawl from under our beds. worn until the size tears, tufts of wool and fur embedded over time, leaving us as circus folk. at home, my gypsy waits. cmmt

earth [21 Feb 2009|12:26pm] it was one of those songs that unfolds real slow. the beat fell over like a gymnast knocked off the knot of muscle in her heel. it rolls in a simple manner, there's that bit of control you know they've basically beaten into themselves. does the training last? or is it all about worthless joints and twisted masses. she'll win gold this year, but next year she'll get a mouthful of mat, she won't even smell the bronze. my dreams bring skies that slant, reflected light that's balancing off of a falling dish. across the water there are flies but they hit as if reaching a screen. they are small, and i wonder of my very own size. looking up, i'm waiting for rain but instead hooves slam into the hood of our truck. the legs have crippled long before the neck was snapped. there are teeth and everything expands. there is no definite significance in repetition, in an animal's stare or whatever anatomical function you go through in the following moments. most of the bullshit you go back and forth on is a bad sitcom spinoff from whatever was handed down. in hope, in experimentation. make of it what you will, that was what you weren't taught but you were led into the feeling you were capable of accomplishing. the universe is envisioned in fabric. beings of all occupancies at some point want nothing but to pull on the strings. if you look longer, so will they. if you give it one more day, the outcome will be in your favor. predestined somehow but i can't seem to really see the direction. physics is scientific while this is simply a problem. i can educate you on common sense but causation and cognition.. ultimately my intention is to lose you, to let you sleep in peace. this you should already be familiar with. in another, i'm back in that bed with my arms over my eyes. fast forward and i'm a few months shy of twenty-four, an arm stretched up and over. the smell in your hair is my reminder. there is always more than enough room in a mother's bed, but there is never enough light here. you wear a watch you never check. the tick of time is something we don't live in fear of, just another situation we are unapologetic for. my loyalty has been overlooked, but with compliments only come my own denial. i'm being called a lot of things but at least i'm staying out of trouble. what is it that's been sneaking beneath the surface? suddenly, i am in a moment of paranoia. i've spent years with all worry cast to the side. i've lived honestly in lies, i have found the truth in thieving. some of us find (or maybe it's create) love in chaos but we still stand dumbfounded in situations we in all logistics could've been prepared for. blame genes, blame nature. some go through great lengths to protect what they come from and somehow manage to stake out their own. to wonder is not a crime, but to be so foolish.. it's good to get out of philly, out of jersey, it's so damn good. i'm watching the same sun set on the same body of water, albeit a later time each night the closer summer gets, the deeper we sprawl into spring.. my perspective(s) remain(s) gaurdian of my sanity. i miss the sentiment i'm sure i could stir up in the old apartment, there's more to a corner than, well, what the eye can clearly see but if that isn't beating a nearly dead point, i'm afraid i've lost more than just momentary circulation to my elbows. what is it you found in georgia? i know the music's soft, the fruit is good and the company is kind. do they play country at gas stations? i like the folk's noise but once i catch the tune, i'm looking down the neck of something much less appealing. in truth, i miss everything that's you. shared shirts, rows of sunrises, sunday's philosophy, aaron letting us live ourselves out. i wonder now even if all along he wanted to say he saw it coming but just didn't have the heart or maybe just the words. i saw once somewhere a man collecting last looks for some sort of hobby. i couldn't help myself that day, and even now he just lives as though a photograph in.. my head.. my faith is wavering, i could point the blame all over but i haven't got the joints. instead, i've the softest noise.. this tickle.. oh, i wish you could know this too. if it's true what they say about our lives appearing before us when we die, i hope she knows this is where her film is caught in my reel. cmmt

swear my back's just a drum [28 Nov 2008|05:33pm] eli was always empty in his shirts. they were big and red and black and probably a little gray. always a little gray, always leave a little space. save a little room, yeah? we hated eli so bad, we cracked the cd cases right in front of him and told the girls outside that he liked kid rock for real underneath all that vinyl bullshit. i hate kids like that, yeah, i still fucking do. seven inches, twelve inches, suck my eight and hit up a toy store. your discs are made up of hormones, i've got music taped up my arm. could dish out the science, the art and how much you suck but i'd rather just give afroman a ring and ask him if he can take a timeout from his busy schedule of doing high school parties to come over and scream, "fuck the corporate world!" it'd make youtube, props. i remember when you hit the kid out front of starbucks, the perfect place, oh the fucking irony. afterward we went in and drank the best cinnamon soy steamer a guy could ask for (they're called cinnamon dolce lates now ooOoO) i saw him a week and a half ago and wanted to laugh so hard but instead i hit up whole foods with my girl and stole her an endless supply of organic chapstick (alba chizzeck it) and arizona black and white, u n i t y. it's crazy what we've got going on here, i bet you started it all you big trend-setter you. he wears a lot of black now and i bet he hasn't seen the inside of a girl's thigh since the new millennium. word up you fucking square. we're still best friends, we're still the guys who stand outside of the place you occupy with your pathetic existence and fuck. shit. up. bummer we can't quite figure out who's jay and who's silent bob cause we both can't be the one who'd fuck themselves, fuck themselves hard. i don't think i ever really understand something until i destroy it completely, first(ly). everything you can't get me to shut the fuck up about i've taken a huge shit on (oh the imagery whats with the parenthesis) save for a few things that just happened a little naturally. cross your fingers kids and thank mom and pops for all the veggies! i probably take that back, i don't know, it'd take some thought and i'm sort of in the middle of something, some things, some beings. i tore up my skin before i realized it's worth. i'm not completely covered in ink but what i've bled i don't expect any of you to understand, i don't even expect the questions to come around. my guts and glory speech goes here. i found my center for the crown, suppose it's just a little strange what organs its nearest and how things have gone lately for those few. i don't know how this connects but a blood cell makes a total circuit in sixty seconds without getting pulled over so even sir creation asks, what the fuck does it matter? i hated you before i loved you but i still look for you in that little spot in her hip. not hard, but there are still those little seconds made up of waiting. it doesn't make you better, it doesn't make her less beautiful. don't ever grant yourself any such thoughts, ever. this is only half, we are all only so lucky. from the diary of a man trapped inside a woman trapped inside a beaver's body. is mating season over yet? these wood chips are really starting to fuckin bite. The cotton swab was invented by Leo Gerstenzang in the 1920s[1], who invented the product after attaching wads of cotton to toothpicks [2]. His product, which he named "Baby Gays", went on to become the most widely-sold brand name, "Q-tip". what the fuck. 7 / cmmt

the helium balloon over elkin avenue [08 Nov 2008|07:40pm] when the tree shook, i had my eyes closed. to keep the leaves, the dirt, the bugs, the pollen from her limbs, to keep it all from falling in. letting the tree go from her arms, the other kids all went home red-eyed, the others went to their little beds, their little lessons learned. keep under your nails clean, wipe that shit from your nose, shoes off. at some point they add up and you look before you cross, or you've got another fucking chicken joke to add to the collection, or something. i was eight, everything was already dirt and still i knew better than to let go and look up. by the time the nest hit and the egg broke, the cells had connected as soon as they were split. i couldn't read the mind of everyone there, i don't remember if i even bothered to try. we didn't have the patience to wait, all it would take was a couple more weeks for that nest to shrivel small enough to slip from the tree, still plush from all the cotton stuffed, thickened by heat. it's always that simple, we could've waited. we could've wanted something else. anything other than a baby bird only half of what he was supposed to be, a cracked egg, a dirty, scattered nest. it was as ugly as it should've been. this is as heavy as it was. there's always more to be had, and we are constantly feeling completely teased by everything around us. the family across the hall thanks god, for being blessed, for more. it's a joke to think i could give that easily. leaves of each tree are turning to cabernet, the sky sinks into some other shape before everyone is awake. i know, but my stomach's been empty all week. a yawn or a stretch, a twist in my seat to trick the muscles into thinking there's something to digest, butter and pernod to fill me in when some flounder isn't much of an answer. 7 / cmmt

this one's for reverend green [13 Oct 2008|08:09am] second year, sitting through art class, the colors blended and the fan had been left on high. goosebumps up my arm, i had my eyes over her shoulder. i watched colored box upon box upon box after 'think outside of the box.' her corners never met, and you could suppose the image ended once the paper did. you would have had to ask, 'cause i can't say i remember doing so. i don't remember her name either, but it had to have been small like her. outside of the box, she drew more boxes until you couldn't tell which wall came to a close and which had just began. what was once four sides became an endless supply. blots of purple, stemmed pinks, gold and black drip-dropped all over the surface. there was silver creeping from the bottom edge, creaky along the mess of lines. she was done before almost all of us, points taken off just because of that. she managed an 80/100 because that skeevin' bitch couldn't hold the fact that she had started before her against her, because boxes wasn't really what she had in mind. i think of that fucking sucker staring down at a blank piece of paper for ten fucking minutes, thinking of anything but boxes before she starts whenever i pass the everyday college kid. as if she needed those few extra minutes to work through her options, when all she does is repeat her life every semester, every report card, after every summer. a fake diploma in her school email might spice up her life a bit. what outside of those boxes, pen-pressed lines, outside of that page of purple and black and gold and silver and white, what of it is all real? we carried sand home inbetween our toes, we did it like an old bad habit that we haven't seen looking back at us in the morning mirror. with our permagrins on, sleep under, we lost it all in the sheets. suppose now you can't say we don't think about you when you're not here, make sure you clean those crusted jokes out from behind your ears. her and i, we used to bring all kinds of things back here. she's got a soft spot for mice and headless birds. mine, they've all got their limbs and it's usually the pair i hold responsible. would it hurt if i told you on a monday morning you were completely pointless? a voice to tell me to know better, how could i have known anything at all with a ghost whispering away my dreams? i left her hanging when the lie would actually consider working both ways. that was a first, but you weren't paying attention when i told you that you came in second. nothing better than a crack in the x-ray to promise the unforgettable. should i tell you that i woke up one morning, thoughts set up for the day, piled up in a shadow in the corner of a room, waiting for me to put on with my jeans? sitting, sneering, ready to set it all ablaze. closing my eyes, i held onto you so tight until the hour had passed, the gray smeared like smoke up the wall and your hands woke up in mine. you in wine, i wonder what outside of this box, what of it is real anyway. 9 / cmmt

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