wow (or drunk in a bar at 6:30 on a tuesday)

exited from my intoxicated moment i reflect back and see all the moments, and the exits. i gasped and grasped around to catch it before, to pretend my pretend situation was, in fact, pretended. but it has never really been that elementary since elementary school.

i lost it on my voyage from picking my nose to wondering if someone knows. and, now, i am back at picking my nose again. i think i like it, though, to exist apart and within. to carve out my solitary moment on the skin of a beautiful, bustling, rustling, hustling hootenanny full of sin. attempting to weave underneath your arms and place the nape of my neck on the crook of everyone’s shoulders; pleading,

“hold me, hold me, hold me, make me whole”.

i drift again, and forget for a second, and there i am within my imaginary moments looking for imaginary moments. somewhere in that fickle belly i find what sustains me, what wipes out the stains in me. the times where i morph into the muttering, mistaken madman on the street and love it. where my pen hits my pad with so much passion that my hand cramps from all of the love above it.

in an hour, though, i’ll sigh, thinking i lost myself because my soul got so high. i’ll leave my normal existence for my formal pricks and pens; thinking that i was crazy then, while all the while praying that i am crazy now. trying to lose myself and forget the presence of the present somehow.

weaving in and out of my knots of rope swings, while only hoping to multiply the moments where my mind goes blank, my body swells, and all i could think to mumble is “wow”.

the threads of my secret life (from daimian to saul)

you wax your poetic line with astrologies of the surreal world, i scribble desperate love poems of a boy and a girl, clapping in time and holding hands to mend their world.

follow the threads of my secret life to find where the loose ones are:

beyond loving like the lions.
beyond saccharine scars hiding from ghosts.
beyond the joy of being enveloped by my breadth.
but, all the while losing perspective of how far is far.

i look for teaching in every nook and cranny and thrift store losing myself in the pitter-patter of my own step. blurring the perception of the perceptions of what is in the world and what is only in my head. tolling the virtues of 2pac and all of his truths behind the blinds, by-passed product of the system or just a smooth talker who learned how to rhyme.

but i can’t judge when i have no right or wrong, i can’t weigh it against my virtues, when i have no virtues to put my weight on. though as i exist, the virtues persist, in spite of the attempts to claim them as my own. so, instead i wander lost in a sandhill of my miseries and the burnt-down temple which was once my home.

i can only gaze at it now, transfixed that i was another soul then, one who clenched his teeth and stifled his grin. but it wasn’t wrong, it was where i needed to be: to lose myself in myself so eventually i could separate the me from the me.

so, i go back to your words and how you focused on the simple truths, the sun which appears round and the shyness of the moon. break my words into the tiny pieces of which they were composed, the roots of the tree, the neglected sounds of which the seeds were sowed. the jumbled ethnicities of the words which elude my grasp, the humble beginnings and the meandering roads which only prove to emphasize the triviality of the path.

if i only could break my thoughts down to find the same; the measure of my parent’s influence, the significance of my name. explain it all away as the fisherman’s son, one who searches for the ultimate catch well after the day is done. the spiritual earth mother’s darling little boy still in disbelief that the world is a toy, and as a toy may not always be safe for a darling little boy who sticks everything in his mouth, who does all of the chewing, but not enough of the spitting out. but swallows it down, adds a few more thorns to the crown, then fears that they will all get stuck inside to the point till one day he does, in fact, become round.

the quest becomes daunting at times, till you delight in your prize, uncover your eyes, shout it all out and replace it with cries. each tear becoming a reminder of the life that came before, all slowly going back to join the one spirit of the world. flowing into the gutter and through the squirrels, meeting to form the troughs and the bays and the pools of which a little child will one day build his home, to replenish the reservoir with either his joy or his bones. to join his fellow man, unmask his truth, and realize how the whole time that he was silently searching, he was most definitely not silently searching alone.

miss macy

i have puked and puked and puked till my eyes felt like the stench of a damp bar at 2. i have flew headfirst like a bird in the wind, feathered frenzies 300 feet due south. my mind dreaming of antiquated hearsts, my stomache wrestling for control of my mouth. plummeting and fumbling amidst my fall with the only hope conceivably left, my feet knotted to a rope, and attached to a signature claiming no wrongful death. i have smuggled drugs across foreign borders, feeling like a spy who wears sandles for shoes, hiding the goods in a cheap bottle of swiss shampoo; fearing the black spectacled marauders saw the fear behind my eyes, the dogs only waiting for my exit to chase me.

but i have never, and i mean never ever, floated to the surface, and felt like i had no breath left, as i have when the evil volcano lords erupted your words, miss macy.

i have fought and yelled with loves before, hurling barreling and hollow insults like a tennis ball machine gun aimed piercingly at every inch of the room but the floor. i have spun around twice into a barrel of ice, the volvo station wagon not feeling like quite a tank anymore, but a ballerina. an overweight, out-of-shape ballerina, with two left point shoes. i have dove naked from a cliff in the mediterranean, dreams of silver, now only the glaring white of my butt cheeks, soon to be subterranean and suddenly swallowed with only calculatingly chilled waters to encase me.

but i have never, and i mean never ever, slurped 3 week old eggs just for fun, in utero potential now only resembling the lost life they have become, as i have when you laid it all on the line, miss macy.

i have hobbled on crutches for months, much more resembling the androids from star wars, then the soccer star now left with only memories to munch. i have stared in my mother’s eyes and noticed the similarities to the homeless drunks i have seen, the only bland blinders being webs of love now revealed as merely ruggedly ripped oedipal screens.

but i have never, and i mean never ever, tasted the stings of love, butterflies now covered in blood, as i have when our “love you so much”, became a “love you this much”. your eyes no longer making my head spacey, but blank, which i thought nothing could do, and you accomplished in spades, my misery, my miss macy.

dried flowers in my pocket

sutter home wines and pick of the litter sighs flutter like the breeze, always grazing my cheek but never entering my mouth; a careless whisper that i never hoped to grasp, a dirty joke never spoken as it is inherently too crass.

but it’s the space in between where i get caught: the shit i was given, verses the shit i bought. the one false move that takes you nowhere where you were going, but the only place of which you’ve forgotten that you have always and consistently thought.

the subtle decision of executives to executives to executives about the business plan, when the only plan ever was to have business. the imprecision of a messed-up kid to a messed-up kid to a messed-up kid about the highs of summer, when the only plan ever was to get high.

i get confused by my confusion over the musings of my illusions, the mere lootings alluding to my unexpected, but should be expected, potential brain contusion. i think of my thoughts and thought of my thinking, nearly as much as when thinking of my mother, i think of her as another’s mother drinking.

but i can’t frame my frame, i can’t say it looks the same when i already said it looked the same. i need some ingenuity, some mental acuity, some moods that don’t feel so damn moody. then i can describe to you and explain to me, that i’m the same as you, we are both the banes of our history. and we never had it figured out, and there are no figures, the least of which are out. and if there were then we would have to quit trying. something that i would say is extremely enticing and, perhaps, even believe, if i didn’t already know i was lying.

we like the mental challenge, the life out of balance, because without the struggle what do we have to live for. if we weren’t able to break our own frames we wouldn’t have that rare opportunity to live “more”.

i cling to the early times, the innocent brooding times, the times i was so unguarded, the i-wish-at-that-age-you-knew-me times. the ones where the world i was given was enough, where rampant lies didn’t morph into half-truths like the dali paintings where time becomes so irrelative that even the clocks no longer care. the times when i could watch the “television” and think of the bouncing blue bears i saw when i was 2, rather than be aware how it was helping to shape my ideals. when i could soak in the soulful stylings on the “radio” and not mock it. when my eyes were open and the world was my garden, and i didn’t have to settle for dried flowers in my pocket.

( il gato )