Headlights Burnt Out on this Long Ride.

Now is where the world seems to sit under the calendar's thumb where the passengers feels as though they are floating through space with no foot near the wheel. The drier sits cross-legged behind the steering wheel. Let's see where we land when September rears it's ugly head. The trees refuse to fall in line. Autumn comes early to one part of town as the leaves shrivel and crumble. The rakes and leaf blowers get called in during the off season and are buried under piles of forests. I watch the eternal struggle wishing I could draw this moment, when man loses to nature because no matter what I say the picture would do the job so much easier. Let us chop down those rebellious trees and use them for newspapers tomorrow telling the ironic tale of nature's dominance. 

Lunch Break Prison

In this prison of self on a steady diet of bread and water, it's all I want, or all I deserve. Self destruction is now the wave of the future. The stomach is silenced. If it had motivation it would be a hunger strike. Because it makes no sense there is no way to stop this idea. The guards don't beg, the guards don't care. I'm an old hand at this all. I'm used to the stares. I'm used to the shallow eyes staring back through the broken mirror. My shadow fades away despite the sunrises. So until I escape just keep the bread coming and the water flowing. it's the only reality I remember. 

Untitled July

Sweat drips down the seat in the sweltering summer sun. It's left front your bare back laying on the hot leather. I dare not wipe it. It's all that's left of the moments we shared together. When all that's left is the sweat, the remains mean little now. The sweat evaporates out and floats away like jigsawed memories. And I say bring on the sweet summer rain. Wash me. Make me whole again. 

#2
So if you think this all makes sense I would say you are crazier than I. Which makes sense I suppose. Sometimes words themselves seem to call out and other times I can search and search for a word that doesn't exist. So forever I'll hunt for what no longer (or never) exists. So as the minutes tick by I'll keep eyes and ears open, patient for it all make sense, patient for you to find me. The words, the answers.

Musical Daydream

Cymbal sings backward and the days fly by falling through a hole in the calendar marked with days gone by and forgotten hours collapsing through my brain. And this is the most sane dream I've had today. The space swirls through me and into you as the stars burst through eyelids and the cosmos melt your skin. And as the spaceships collide inside your large intestines ask yourself this: was it all worth it? Do these memories surprise you? Are these memories manifestations or the other way around? Can you un-curse yourself and float in a sea of glistening shimmering glimmering crystal clear?

I know what the words mean not in this order. Maybe that is the definition of freedom.

The world's best

Best feeling of all. Being weightless. Laying your head out the car window, the wind, and earth flowing through your nose, brain, skin, hair. Never am I as relaxed as when I can't open my eyes. When the wind forces me to shut my mouth and open my ears to the world surging around me. Can't explain the sunset seen from window sill at 40 miles per hour, being kissed by the final UV rays of a summer day.

It's a welcome change to my normal day of climate controlled insanity. The sun can't shine where there are no windows. The wind won't blow where we don't let it. Let me fight the ocean, let me taste it's salt, fill my lungs, hands, blood with this earth. It's more natural than tiled floors and kiosks filled with hand-soap and free samples.

What is it?

What is it that makes the day go by for you? Is it that money in your wallet or the smoke in your lungs? Is it the words on the page of the clouds in the sky? Is it the car that you drive or the music in your ears? Is it the skin that can't live in or the person you can't live without? It is the bed you climb into or out of? Is it the people you work with or the people at home? Is it buried int hat book or written in the sand? Is it on a computer screen or hidden beneath the ground? Is it the water in your eyes or the clothes on your back? Is the blood that flows through you or the things you can't understand? Is it this one or that one?

Can you explain any choice you have ever made? Can you make them make sense? Can you justify it all? Who are you justifying it to? Do you even understand the original thoughts you used to have? Can you feel the beat? Can you feel?

Do you? Can you? Will you? Who? You?

Me?

Yes.

A hero is a hero

This day of the year, these hol(mark)idays that seem so much to those who are honored. These days fall by the waste side, like Valentine's day for people you can't fuck. When I love someone, respect someone, appreciate someone, I do so everyday. In this world we have people who need a special day, a dot on the calendar to tell someone you love them. Breaks my fucking heart. Where are the "Cynical Lost Son's Day" cards Hallmark? You could make a fortune. Believe me.