slices of sky
piled with night
god give up
what for is my fight
gone going in nothing evermore
waste creates and I create
with this whole world every atom in its place
possesive, your pronouns arent coming out right
the river washes the cool sand from my eyes
gone going everyone is a maze
every pupil glazed every space braced
and spaced out longing for longing for longer
chains wrap dew drops soda goes flat
we do the twist and we put our legs in
one by little one two three
fall out and about take a different route now slow yourself down
little blisters build and still I pop crop circles of pain
razors edges and the eternal flame
broken seeds and army wives this this this
feeling alive the day, the night, day day day
wash away white
traces and faces and pure apple pie
the racing and pacing of trains going by
we'll lay on the track head down and whistles blowing
us away, away, away
this isn't happening, this isn't real
on the bottom the top the insides the sides themselves
she says she says she says
thanks for fucking me up
thanks for saying goodbye
now we're tied up like tree branches
we are the barkless trees in the way of everything
on our way on our own seeking
feeling breath on our necks holding arms in our arms
waking up to alars saying now way
I won't go to work today
I'll sit and write on paper with the blackest ink I can find
I'll make you a mix tape you won't have to rewind
front to back and back again
all over everything everyones in
the game is a golden wash in the war
the salt keeps on dripping out every pore
the gasses the tightrope we all come from one
the plastic in the ocean
still escapes the sun
inside of kalidescopes and desolate dreams
I'll live with this twisted reality
I'll live with this nothing that sweeps over me. I'll live like a monk and she still wouldn't care
everything is everything and I still dont matter
you've got comfort and food, and a nice comfy bed but you live alll alone because
you live in your head and these days these days these days you see
but you don't see me you don't pause for a second you don't even breathe
the kiss on the mirror the break in the plate the space between letters the letters in a name
the wisdom it won't pass in the shdows of your page
the letters will dust and never be read again
the shower is warm and my soul is so cold
the feeling I get is this feeling that just wont go
I need arms, I need words, I need lips and heavin is there we whistle with the train
we say goodbye we say...................
anything from me is anothing meant to be, anything from you is so damn true
the darker the color the deeper the blue
the whirling whirly world twisted and contorted to my words
then the pictures the dark that comes with them I"ll fall asleep never to really sleep again
the time the time the time I died
the time I died I gave up
the time I died I gave up the fight you said to you told me
we could never be never be never be linked to oour own heartbeats
sense is for sense and cents are for cents
the dirty red of an aeroplane jacket
backed by black, the fool is the coward and silence is key
I'm typing and dying,, and crying, and cooling , and fooling, and done with misery
empty black screen empty black screen, empty black screen

buy you will love, your coal will clean up
your heart will beat on you , done.


where's wallo

Self induced trauma and insufficient funds
the pill box is running low and so is the fun.
Daytimes are dreary and at night time I don't sleep.
instead I sit craving everything that is so bad for me.
envelopes are gone and in is the screen,
discontented soulache and miserable decisions are often seen.
My own actions my visions they're wearing me thin,
the hole that I won't fill is still caving in.
One day it won't matter these bones will be dust,
drag on drive through do as you will, not as you must.
The happy all polish idols of wood and stone,
when their breath settles I hope that they aren't alone.
this heart does change with the seasons, this body grows old,
when the black dot on the horizon reaches me I hope to have some color to hold. Those brilliant reds of love in a kiss,
the warm browns of the hills, and white mountain mists,
the greens of the trees,
the purple pink sunsets, maroon autumn leaves,
the kind in my dreams.
where I may wallow,
and rest burning feet.


they don't have that

there are few

there are few I admire
I do not resist
those wild minds
that give me bliss

those I love
sit on the edges
straining to remain
on the level

one in ten should be on top
of the pyramid that
we've fooled ourselves
into believing
it's the only true

with no footsteps to fall into
no shadow to outshine
we dust our little tunnel
and hope
for better times

with scars on our backs
and pains in our hearts
we hold each other
in the dark


feed me

It seems I have devoted very little time to my own thoughts lately. The world is so interesting, there is so much to take in. I'm reading listening watching almost nonstop. I think it may be dulling me down from a sharp point to a rugged nub.

the wind through the windows hits me and rolls over
I roll over
empty space full mind
images of me slipping through time
like home video on an 8mm camera
video of me now full of static
like a B movie

the spaces between these steps like..like last breaths
the space between me and the mirror
there is so much between
love and disgust
it doesn't have to be broken to break your heart
six days on one day gone
the black ghost at my bed
all those ghosts in my dreams
all those memories
hide with me in the bunker
I'll put up pictures and write songs and phrases
I'll try to put forgotten names with distant faces

the only standard is the standard of me
everything and everone ceases to be
the red orange flame engulfing
the ashes fall and burn the dirty heart on my sleeve

fun, fun, forgotten lost in something
put on the costume of someone who cares
try to be civil and silently stare
no reply no wild eye
nothing no one not here
not anywhere

the streak is done


why do shiny things have to hurt

It's what you wanted. Escape. False hope. Life.

In the air is a cool smell like filtered water and antiseptic spray. The olfactory is working hard and it gets harder to tell. The mud sticks to stilettos as they pass from car door to car door. Put some quick clot on that wound. There is a line on the paper asking for qualifications and a sketched answer barely legible, written by an awkward human hand. I am a man. I breathe, eat, shit, and sleep. I made it this far I think it's time for the prize. No more standing in line. No more lines. No more rustling of paper and wishing I was somewhere else. When I came here today I spit on every car window in the parking lot. I feel no remorse. I trudged in and drug the mud of a thousand lives with me, living in the cool artificial light of meaningless existence. I fell into a chair where you and everyone/god told me to sit. Now I breathe cheap vodka in your face and dream of the tomorrow we meet with different eyes. Please give me the job, if anyone needs it I do.

Speeding car crashes
dashboard splintered glass
neon shades and the painted green grass
moist bottle glistening
lines in the sidewalks
stones in the path
whether its looking in pictures
or watering the plant
vacuuming the carpet
or researching the facts
my olfactory produces us
in every little task


transplanting reorganizing life

If you enjoy my blog sometimes you should check out my friend Curtis's http://unclaimedcurtis.blogspot.com, he's a great artist and a very Bukowskiesque person.


greasy spoon and the undergroud space sealife

Beep Beep Beep Beep
A quick slip of fingers across buttons and the alarm is off. A quick hop up and into the bathroom. A brush, the kind people clean their teeth with slides in and out of the mouth. Into the shower where warm streams slide down the body. Out of the shower into the mirror, looking at that same face you have seen forever, but hardly remember. A comb or a brush and a slap of deodorant, the kind people put under their arms so they don't stink when bacteria starts eating their sweat.

A jump out the door into the sun doing it's morning stretches across the sky. Across the town in a train, the kind that take people on elevated rails above the city, but below the buildings. Onto the street passing by people asking for money, the kind that have no other choice or no other will to do, or be. Into the restaurant. Into the kitchen. On to the grill the burgers sizzle. The orders come, the fries cook in vats of grease. Into the mouth they go one by one, breaking down in the body building up fat cells, the kind that at one time in history kept people alive in very bad times. Into the arteries cholesterol builds. Into the heart, and out of the heart, blood travels slowly being constricted by blood flowing. People grow.

Out of the restaurant into the street. Across the town in a train staring out the windows. Into the store, the kind that sells bottles or cans in various sizes and shapes. Back to the home into the glass. Into the mouth. Absorbed into the blood. Altering the brain, the kind which human function resides, also speculated to contain the "soul". Outside the window on the porch. They talk and yell. A lone man stands grunting and smacking himself in the head. Crying and alone there in the dark.

Into the bed and off to sleep. The sky is dim and there is snow all around. The clouds drop ice in huge blocks. They smash into the ground shooting shards all around them in a poof of snow. They make no sound. The ground cracks. Through the crack into the water. Under ice but not cold. There are trees that grow with little lights all through them. Trees, the kind that are so old and massive the branches touch the ground. The bubbles sit in the water like they are stuck in jello, the kind that jiggles when touched. The ice above is a mirror, but no person can be seen. Mines drift by with large spikes and rusted metal. They explode in the distance creating mild flashes of red and white. The water warms as it rushes by in little shock waves.

Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep
A hand glides across the alarm. A slow roll and into the bathroom. Brush, shower, comb, train, restaurant. Grease, cholesterol. Street. The stairs to the train grow. The top seems so high. Sweat beads on the head and heart thumps in ears. Pain shoots down arm. Tightness grips chest. Black and white specks float around. Fall, the kind that makes a head bleed. Crowd. Silence.

These are the things I remember from my last life.


a kinder gentler anger

the pills don't help
breathing, sleeping, eating don't help
tapping your foot doesn't help
pacing and scratching your head don't help
grunting and grinding teeth don't help
yelling doesn't help
punching the walls doesn't help
kicking the table doesn't help
scratching an itch harder than you should doesn't help
television doesn't help
water doesn't help
drinking might help but your not in the mood
staring at the wall you just hit doesn't help
youtube videos don't help
writing doesn't help
thinking about it doesn't help
cigarettes don't help

you slide off the couch. Fill your cup, empty your cup. You pick up a magazine disinterested. You change the channels. You light your smoke. You inhale. You check your phone. You check your computer. You get up just to walk. You walk around the coffee table. You flop on the couch. You write. You drink. You change the channels. You drink. You light a cigarette. You drink. You check the computer. You check your phone. Rinse, lather repeat, repeat, repeat.

In the short grass in the middle of a tall field surrounded by trees, you wake up. The clouds are a light purple and you can see the moon in the daylight. The only sound is the wind and your heartbeat. You lay down. The clouds pass like slow traffic in the sky. The sun burns somewhere out of sight. You breathe and it tastes good. Closing your eyes, you can feel the shadows sweep all around you. You can feel the static taking over your body starting at the back of your eyes. This happens everyday. Everyday, every minute, forever. You eventually get up and wander. You get through the tall grass to the trees full and waving. You pass them to another field. You walk across through the tall grass, then through the short grass. You lay down, the static takes you. This happens again and again forever. You dig but all you get is a big hole. You tear plants down, but everytime you open your eyes they are back again. You want to say this cloud looks like "this", or that cloud looks like "that", but you can't. Your mind doesn't work that way anymore. It happens every day, every minute forever. You scream. No one, and nothing answers. You climb the tallest tree you can find, it's a struggle, but you make it. At the top you look around and see nothing but circles of trees, around tall grass with short grass in the middle forever. You shake the tree and yell. You fall. Forever. Every day, every minute, forever. Rinse, lather, repeat, repeat, repeat.


air to breathe

spinning wheels with repetitive white lines passing underneath
black asphalt holding onto lines in lighter shades of gray
smelling the fresh cut grass mix with stale cigarette smoke and the unnatural scent of a foot shaped air freshener
love rides in a steel chassis with roaring cylinders
the light beats down through glass stained with spent life of a million insects
the pop music on the radio doesn't bother me because I feel to good to let it
the shadows get longer and everything shifts and swirls
it always seems as if you will likely end up right where you began
love is a particle accelerator
smashing bits together just to see what flies out
hoping you can uncover whats beneath what you always thought was the bottom
creating everything you hoped existed and hoped wouldn't get out of control
the sweat beads
down my temple where the veins that pump from my heart to my brain bulge below the surface
the wild dogs have all been trained
there is nothing else to bite us but ourselves
so you clench your teeth, waiting for a lure to bite
you stumble, never looking down, your face is the face of a monster
leaves fall and the still of summer is replaces with the still of loss
love is a cool November morning
when the meals are hearty and you sing with your soul
the sweaters we wear are full of so many memories
like that tee shirt I wore when you threw me in the road
I still wear it, hard to believe that was seven years ago
worn out shoes reflect our worn out faces reflecting worn out life
I can't bitch anymore, I have no right
my stomach does it all for me anyway
as I pour the drinks, as I try and fade away a little more than I have already
love is a snowball in between rocket attacks
when we try to hold onto a little piece of ourselves we left behind
somewhere on the asphalt, in the malls, and with our friends
the mountains look so beautiful, your eyes caress them cautiously
looking not merely in admiration, but in self preservation
I can see my breath, what I would give to see yours again
love is a home
a home can be so much for some, and so little to others
it's not a space between walls and a roof
it's the warmth in your chest, the dance in your step
the smile you can't give up even though your trying not to be sentimental
it's the tear, when there is someone there who knows you, and is ready to wipe it
it's not a good job, or a nice car, it's not a mortgage, or a child
it's not wondering, it's knowing
it's all I have ever known
never more than on a hill in a dead car in the cold
with the stars as our light
our future in the path of snow


sol's story part 1

March 23, 2005 - Wednesday

sol woke up in a pool of his own blood. he peeled his face away from the sticky maroon mess. his matted hair dropped above his eye. he looked at his hand and liked the strange way that the lines in his hand could be seen through the blood. sol thought god never gave him anything except the ability to find comfort in small things. he looked around and appreciated the eerie calm of the dark empty diner. the small lights of the equipment shining and the whirr of the cooler. he picked up the bloody glass of milk off the table and took it to the sink in the back. he removed his bloody apron and put it on a hook outside the bathroom and went in to assess the damage, in the mirror he saw a yin yang of a human face half covered in blood a bit sacreligious looking and the other the plain middle aged white, growing older by the week he thought. the explosion of red on is face obviously came from his nose. sol had never done coke but imagined that this is what heavy users deal with after years of dissolving thier own cartilege. sol started to get angry. he thought of the rabbit. that ugly mangy fucking rabbit. why did the demon have to plague him. why must his mind and body be constantly tortured by this fucking infested hell beast. well there was nothing to do about it now. religion was out of the question, sol had tried it for all about a month, but when the rabbit started joining him at church he decided he didn't need to cause a scene in the middle of a baptism. the rabbit had been around for about eight months now. sol was sitting in the recliner in his small apartment upstairs from newel's reseraunt watching a documentary on scrabble addicts when he felt it come. it was like a bulldozer relocating part of his brain. the pain was immense and fleeted like the ring of cymbals. it was followed with an enormous headache. sol felt like he couldn't breathe. so he got up and went to the window, he looked down at the latch then straight into the jester like face of the rabbit. it smiled at him with grungy teeth, his hair was matted at one ear fell over his face like a mad man's hair. the rabbit lifted the window and crawled in the house. sol was shocked he thought he was dying and this was death. the rabbit stood almost a foot over sol, so it was atleast 6'5". sol started to gasp for air, and grab his throbbing head, the rabbit seemed a minor character compared to the pain he was feeling. the rabbit got in sol's squeezed red face and said "hiya sol, we gonna be gooooood friends" with a smile. sol caressed the blackness that started to seep into the picture, he cuddled with the numbness that ensued and he fell to the floor spurting blood from his nose as he went. the looney tunes theme played in slow motion in his head. he slept, gargling on blood.

March 23, 2005 - Wednesday

sol finished up in the bathroom. something bad had happened, sol knew it. it was almost morning and the diner had closed at nine the night before. the morning shift would be in soon. it wouldn't be the first time sol had still been there. sol wet a dirty rag hanging on the sink and wiped up the blood he had left on the table. he grabbed his apron and went out the back door into the cool air. around the side and up the stairs into a very short hallway with he and his neighbors door, he could hear the neighbors music, still up partying he supposed. key, lock, click he opened the door. there was a running sound the whole place was shaking. all sol saw was a flash of bright silver and a yellow smile, then he was on the ground, he had been smashed in the face with his toaster, the blood dripped off onto the linoleum. sol watched as a puddle gathered. the rabbit got on top of him and turned his face to his, sol caught a whiff of the stench from the rabbits rotten orafice and wanted to vomit. the rabbit licked sols forehead, sol cringed as he felt the rough animal tongue drag across his face like slimy sandpaper. the rabbit grabbed sol's feet and dragged him into the apartment. somehow this totally fucked up situation seemed somewhat normal to him. he was getting used to this hate/hate relationship that had formed over the months. sol hated the rabbit because it tortured him and stole his time from him. the rabbit hated sol for no reason except for his ability to resist the rabbits demands. although there had been lots of mental torture, and a little physical torture lately the rabbit had yet to leave sol in such a delapidated state. the rabbit heaved sol onto his shoulder and took him to the bedroom, and dropped him onto the floor. went out and pushed something against the door. as he lie there the room spun slightly. the light slipping throught he window from the neon newels sign. the room was dark empty and dirty, there was only an old matress on the floor with a well used blanket on top of it. a dresser by the window with an old wind up alarm clock. there was a small closet with a broken sliding door that was always open showing his overflowing boxes and thrift store clothing collection. sol coughed up blood and crawled toward the door.

March 26, 2005 - Saturday

as he inched forward on the stained hardwood floor the room was spinning. he could hear the telivision in the next room playing loudly, sounded like a western. how many demon bunnies are watching westerns at four in the morning he thought. pain was like a strobe light in his body eminating from his face. his left eye was swollen and he couldn't see. he made it to the door, twisted the handle but it wouldnt budge. the rabbit must have put something there to stop his escape. sol slid back onto the floor and rolled over onto his back. he closed his one good eye and thought for a moment about this fucked up situation. he needed to get strength back, so he could break the door down. first he needed a weapon. was there a baseball bat in the closet? he couldn't remember, but it was worth a try. after sol felt he was getting some energy he stood up slowly balancing himself on the wall and walked toward the black closet. he got to the door and looked inside. what a mess, he wished he was more organized. he reached down and moved a box. lifted a pile of clothes and tossed them out. at the bottom was an old iron. he picked it up to judge the weight. he wanted something a little heavier, but he supposed this would do. he turned around and saw something on the ground behind him. it looked like a dog with no head leaning back, he could even see gleaming white teeth. a low growl came out of it. sol gripped the iron tight in his hand. the thing leaped forward sol stepped to the side and brought the iron down on top of it. the thing collapsed completely and seemed to deflate. it was his old turtleneck sweater. sol gripped his head and said 'what is wrong with me'. he dropped down on his butt, and slid away from the sweater into the corner of the room. the sweater rose up on the arms and the neck hole looked toward sol. where the hole should be he saw teeth and just above them some eerie red eyes. the sweater seemed to be foaming. sol started to cry.

a page from the development of mental illness

March 28, 2005 - Monday

Current mood: lonely
lonesome cold east. frigid and empty to say the least. fight for fuel that runs the beast. twisted directions with too many dead ends. samplilng simplicity but it always extends. happiness is home and home is my friends. struggle for what you want to see, all that I want is satisfaction in me. sadness and madness indefinately. alter my state, but i can not seperate, my mind from the idea of wanting to wait. something will come, but what can i become, shadows are cast as i watch the rise and fall of the sun.

Afghan Files salernonsense

March 1, 2006 - Wednesday

so i sang in the bunker all day. nothing else to do in this place that is growing older with every minute. it's kind of sad how much my mind has grown in a place with nothing. maybe thats why god gave us brains, to combat boredom. but as i listen to new music read new books and write new songs, somehow i feel my view on life is changing with every breath i take. a slow awakening of a part of me i never knew i could use before. i am taking in everything instead of just taking it and not digesting it. i am feeling a brighter broader range of emotion i didn't remember i had. so i don't want to be an ant. ants walk through thier lives bumping antenae never stopping to take in the moment of the confrontation. and we have become just that, ants. so stop it everyone. bump into someone and ask them what they love. everyone wants a chance to tell a total stranger what makes them happy, maybe they don't realize it or are too hardcore. but do it, just experiment. stop being the zombie that the world is slowly turning us into through consumerism. i don't know if thats a word or not but if not i just made it up damnit. drones amused only by what can be bought or sold. no sense of or own culture. i am a victim of losing track of what culture my ancestors took part in and what will my kids have, the same holidays that usually tend to be fucked up anyways, no history no memory of where we came from, ants dont have a clue where they came from. just a big white pussing sack called momma. help the world and make a history for your family if you don't have one. suprise everyone with a new lineage that ensures that the zombie nation will not be achieved. of course there will be idiots in the senate, the majority of the people are idiots, i dont know who said that but they were more true than i thought.

from the Afghanistan Files

April 5, 2006 - Wednesday
i'm sure there are places in the world where there is a bond between people and the land and all of them are in agreement. Not here though, the people war the land is harsh and everything just feels wrong. Rocks dust goats donkeys, but what is there here that is everywhere. Greed. these people feel that emotion entirely, they are greedy. not all of them are bad but alot are. My patience with everything is dissapating. I am losing track of time. Makes the days go faster though. Next thing I know I will be sixty-four. No one told me when to run, I missed the starting gun.


Depart this wasted day,

creeping and crawling on these two legs,

flesh and bone where my mind lay,

this master at it's throne, it begs,

for visions sight my senses feel,

it's my own dreams that spin this wheel,

on and over burnt these feelings settle,

lay my heart on but one wilted petal,

away this haze that feels me out

karma's paid and stays without

frayed this maze won't let me out

crazed in space I forged fear and doubt

as this exit made in vain and strain and pain

as this terra rolls and rides in perfect manner

as this road fades it loses gravel once again

as this broken public hangs it's black banner

lie as truth and truth in lies they say

let us depart this wasted day


the lines on the road growing from the shadows, can you hear the rain pour, i followed the lines you showed me, lost inside of these aerodyamic doors, the pistol has been loaded, the trigger it sure feels cold, the way that we have faded, this dirty halogen offset is getting so damn old, my mind is screaming like a preacher pushing you out of my soul, ill wake again another day with trust thats on parole, at least I have these hands they bury my mind away, when these six strings are ringing they're patiently hanging the day

off the road

I'm on the back of a flat semi trailer going down the interstate into some desert. It's mid day but the sun is blurred and the light is a gloomy overcast. I'm sitting on a stool playing guitar while the everchanging clouds swirl over head. they bloom in and out of my subconciousness like white shaddows in the light. The gray destert sprawls around me and there is no one for miles. With slides and twangs shooting off from the guitar in bursts my voice matches the greatest of blues musicians.
With every inhalation and exhalation the sound slid away with the keys of the harmonica. The trailer slowed and stopped and time walked in different directions. The band woke up from the sands behind me and crawled with saxaphones and trumpets in tow. The trailer pulls forward and the parade begins. People were dancing and spitting fire into the air. The desert gave way to beach and I watched the ocean breathe. This is the usual dream.

dragging knuckles

How can we walk with the weight of the past on our shoulders? Why are we all not faded by nature? Somewhere in my mind I think there is an answer to all of the questions but I lack the motivation to seek them out. Somewhere in the world someone surely has done it. If I knew what I should do in life I would do it, but I don't know, what it is, or what I want. I know what I like and what I love, but no words can push me into the future. I live for today, and right now. I get stuck in the past sometimes like a fly in a glue trap. Everyday things are disguised visions of the past. I see a bird or an ant, a spider or a dog and I imagine we are unique amongst ourselves. Do apes laugh? Could you tell an ape a simple one liner,and would it laugh? We are strange and so is the world around us it makes me wonder. What level of evolution are we at?


good job Metallica
you harvested all the sorrow
good job Nirvana
thanks for disappearing and letting society trivialize our emotions
thanks a lot Michael Jackson
you gave us the best dance moves ever but where is your soul I don't see it in the lyrics for Bad
thanks so much Hollywood
good job destroying the American image
good job internet
now no one has to really work
great job presidents
you did nothing less than war and let down
m]\ I should have just said shut up
eat your damn corn dog and move on
you belive, I don't, we are, in alll in awe


the cup is certainly half full
drank up, now a cesspool
murky, not safe for the thirsty
spilled, soiled, incomplete
not fit to wash my feet
with this cup I drown
ship sinking
leaking from inside and out
pouring through holes in my philosophy
they're on to me
theories that create fury
always in a hurry
to get to where I don't want to be
see things I don't want to see
want things I can not attain so desperately
freedom is never receiving
no advantages for the weary
for the strong minds that think oh so clearly
the analysts will all end up pessimistic and dreary
dramatists fall into reality
no one sees at all like me
my reds and blues so strong
but my yellows are hazy
phasing, from green to brown
always coming down
from mediocre highs
holding open my eyes
in love
with all their disguises
my blood rises
show and tell, see hear and smell
I know that all too well
what about the touch
that spurs us on
what about the speech
that sometimes feels wrong
what about the half empty cup
not worthy of my spit or your shit
throwing it in the air in a rage or a fit
only to slowly go back to the real fact
that there is no advance
without risk
so I think I'll lean in
meet me half way on this