“Molding pillows to your shape in hopes of catching rest.”

Alone? I know alone.
People? I know fewer of those
As the days drag on into nights
Where the lights to the East
Coat the skyline like stars
That have yet to die

It’s lonely here, between these ears. From my patio, there is a car parked between two empty spots: numbers 9 and 11. These numerals are spray painted in stencil on the pavement so that every time I step out onto the patio, I’m one space away from being stuck in an emergency, so I stay between the lines and let the nicotine buzz.

There’s solitude in the songs that hit me like hammer hits nail. I don’t bend to its will but it makes me malleable in my introspectie space where, in the dark, there is no one but me and the background noise of my TV as I play the same song over and over again. I’m trying to make sense of this heavy burning in my chest; sometimes my emotional state escapes the rate of my cognitive abilities and so, sometimes I dwell in the miasma a moment to soak up the scent, to plug myself into that outlet. Or maybe an inlet. Depends on your perspective, I guess.

There are songs that make me miss people even though people aren’t exactly on my radar. When I’m running low on sleep, which I have been for days it seems, I think the doors open a little bit easier and I’m a little more susceptible to being set loose, but not set free. Emotions are sometimes an escape but, more often than not, a ball and chain and I’m chipping away at the stone around my brain to see what I actually think.

Tonight, I struggle to keep my eyes open and my heart steady.
These nighttime hours are the times when I miss people
When they’re the most inaccessible.
Maybe I miss them for the very reason that they are.
If that’s the case I would miss them all the time, though.
It’s the magic and solitude found only under the spell of night
Where I wander.
I wonder.

Now playing:

Artist: Sixo feat. Ceschi
Song: Christmas Past
Album: The Odds of Free Will
Fake Four Records


Grind my bones up,
snort ’em through your pretty, big nostrils
’till your stomach expands from cuts to your guts.
I wrote a lot of bad from the depths of your insides
To sing you sweetly to sleep as you cried at night.

I’ll be your ghost of Christmas past
On a pillow of feathers all soaked as rags.
In a thunderstorm over skid row we’ve danced in dreams.
But in reality, I don’t dance or dream.
In reality, all my laughs are screams, emotionless,
And half the man I’d ever hope to be.

So, promise me you’ll pawn my guitar on a Fair Haven Street
And buy yourself a diamond ring with the hundred bucks you recieve
Near the crack spot near the bail-bondsmen there’s a gas station hest.
I swear to fucking God I tried my best.
But my best will never be good enough for a perfect guy that’s mess.
But as long as I’m alive I will be drenched in my regrets.
Tonight I’ll sleep in sweat in another bed
Without the warmth of your flesh
Molding pillows to your shape in hopes of catching rest.

Let’s make it through the winter
Without peeling off each other’s skin.
Let’s grow our hair and learn to live again
‘Cause spring is right around the bend
It’ll melt away the bitterness
It’ll grow new trees and pollinate the land

The king and prince are both dead
Drift away quick as snowmen
With frosty powder still in noses
Nobody left to hold them
Through the blizzard that left them frozen
I’m hoping that I meet a better end.

They’ll be our ghost of Christmas past.


Parallels of Elmer’s Glue and Mortar


Look and you will find.
What a lie.
Look for what you want
and you will find
an orchestrated assembly
of pinball machine parts
and others’ broken hearts
held together by the spit and dirt
They were dug up from.

Why is it so difficult for me to breathe?
Like when people think they’ve found the answer
they’re, somehow speaking for me,
Shuddering shoulder shrugs is all I see
when I look ’em through crosshair-covered pupils
And ask ’em what I look like
As one individual brain among these
All looking the bullet in the face
And me with my shattered teeth grin
from the collision of life
the smile I left behind with the shards of my teeth.

Sometimes the pieces are easy to find
And maybe broken things can be put on the mend
Maybe they can.

It doesn’t take reaching out far and wide
to open spaces, new places, new faces
with indecipherable tongues, or maybe just
patterns spit out thick enough to mortar
the bricks they’ve kicked against their own existence.
It doesn’t take a building collapse
to rip the breath from my lungs
It doesn’t take a ton of bricks to crush my chest
and shatter me into bone-dust and confetti

So, when I say self discovery is not always
a long distance journey
I mean it.
All it takes is a laser-guided strike to a vulnerability
to render you to so many pieces and fragments
And being reassembled by the turning hands of time.
And when that time is up, when the alarm
richter scales the walls
I hold my breath to see if the glue and pieces still hold
Sometimes it shakes loose pieces I forgot existed,
Struggling to find that one spot in the expanse
of my existence where it fits,
or doesn’t,
and I look at burning it down and tossing it to the wind
Over my right shoulder
Like it’s bad luck to spill yourself all over the floor
by accident or by someone else’s agency

But I don’t believe in luck
I believe I rebuilt myself from the ground up
but I am still busted up
The ceramic laced with gold
to make my imperfections glow.

This is the Facebook post that triggered this piece. I seem to only be able to write in the moment if I can write at all.


Every Word Handwritten

PenandInkI have often wondered what it would be like to maintain a relationship through written correspondence. I had pen pals when I was younger and there was a certain magic to opening an envelope to a handwritten letter on college-ruled paper with black ink. You can see the mistakes and the scribbles where the wrong word was selected and in the permanence of of pen there are few things so unforgiving. In my case, it’s a call to slow down and concentrate, to form my words into one half of a conversation and tap into my creative side.

My writing voice is much more interesting than my speaking voice. It’s backed by the ability to carefully compose rather than spit it out on the fly.

Unfortunately, no one has the patience for this anymore because of e-mail and social media. “Connection” is just a click away now, rather than waiting days to receive a response. The anticipation is part of the magic; the wait is the great allure. But now it’s all about instant gratification, the dopamine rush of getting things now, now, now. That’s just our culture. Now.

I often long for someone who can take the time to write me a letter because she thinks I’m worth the effort but also has the capacity to compose her words artfully and spark my wild heart and imagination. It stands to reason if she can write well she can read well.

There is gratification in handwriting, even if it’s just for yourself. I don’t update here as much because I started using a notebook. It’s the might of the pen, the magic of the words filling up a page. There’s just something about every word hand written. There are websites out there for finding pen pals but it seems so impersonal. My previous pen pals were people I connected with and shared my joy in writing. Nobody I know feels this anymore.

I have been told I’m an old soul. Maybe I’m just old.

I am Not an Artist


If we are somehow connected on any social media website or, by chance, happen to actually know each other in real life you’ll notice, while I consider myself a creative person, I never refer to myself as an artist. This is not meant to be a cut at people who call themselves artists. In fact, I happen to know several people who have devoted their current existence to creating art or supporting art in the local community. However, you will never find me referring to myself as an artist. Perhaps it’s prejudicial or just one of the many random hang-ups I have about the most banal things in life, but I feel so pretentious when referring to anything I do as “art”.

Let’s be clear. I am a writer, an aspirating musician and I try to be a photographer when I can find my camera (it’s in a box somewhere and I don’t know where I put it). I carry a notebook with me at all times where I compile ideas for song lyrics and I’m constantly working on new songs and ideas in my head. But I don’t consider myself an artist. Others might. But I don’t.

My experience with art has been an interesting one. I have a good friend who spent a good portion of a year traveling, using her art and coming up with new ideas for art while traveling all over the place. I have another friend who gave me an awesome print of a painting she did of Henry Rollins for my birthday one year and I love it to death. I have yet another friend who was working on creating masks and made one based off imagery for some tattoos and things I had written. So, my life is not without creative people and it is not without aesthetic and artistic endeavors.

I just can’t call myself an artist.

My experience is based off attending an art show or two. While I adore the people I knew who were showing, it was really hard for me to feel like I fit in. I think, culturally, artists have been assigned their own subculture and are often rendered their own little area in the world where they are allowed to exist outside the realm of the people who don’t share their enthusiasm for creating new and beautiful ideas. I see this perception in myself and in other people that artists are an untouchable class in the sense that they can do something a lot of other people can’t. This may be partly true. I know someone who creates some of the most detailed work I have ever seen and it’s because of her deadly attention to how she composes the piece and, especially, what brushes she uses to create her pieces.

At the same time, I also think people are intimidated by creative people when they, themselves, are not creative in that fashion. I am not a painter, at least not like the people I know. My hands shake terribly all the time and I don’t possess the coordination or talent to draw or paint with any great precision or detail. That’s just not my gift. I don’t belong in that niche and I am somewhat intimidated but those who are. I don’t think they are better than I, necessarily, but I do find myself avoiding events where I would have to mingle with people like that. Well, that and social anxiety but that’s another blog altogether.

I don’t think creative abilities should be a deterrent to being creative or making something new using the tools that God gave you. We are all built with the ability to use our minds to create, we all just do it in different ways. In theory, someone who work wonders with fixing vehicles should be on par with someone who can create masterful works of art on canvas with a brush. Someone like me who spends a lot of time creating new ideas with the English language rather than clay should be no less of a creative force.

Maybe it’s just me and my own perceptions I’m trying to repair but I just can’t shake the feeling that, sometimes, art is treated as its own particular club where only the elite creatives are allowed membership. I think a lot of people have that perception as well because art has often been lifted up as the ultimate of the aesthetic pleasures. I’m not putting down anyone and their talents; I am merely addressing something i’ve perceived over the last few months. But I still don’t consider myself an artist. Creative, intuitive and maybe a wordsmith but never an artist.

Because, if I’m an wrist, than everyone else is an artist too.

Texas doesn’t have soil. It has stone. And I hate it.

All my exes live in Texas
at least they all should
because I feel like Texas
is a tough state
like a bullet between gritted teeth
drinking whiskey from dirty glasses
and wearing assless chaps.

I think Texas is a suitable place
for those I’ve loved and those who have left me
and maybe those who eventually will
because I think dealing with me is…
Like trying to shoot holes in a polka-dot dress
awash in a sea of polka-dot dresses
and or a bee out of a bonnet
Let me shoot holes in the saloon walls
That’s easy
and when the alcohol all leaks out like
a black hat’s blood at my feet
I’ll weave a lasso rope through the holes
in the shape of a cactus
with big arms and
vaguely in the shape of a hand
giving the finger
And from the lone hole I missed
with my lasso
a bird will emerge and from its
sawdust and gritty songpipes
it will sing the song of Moses
after parting the red sea
except it sounds like Moses’s been
smoking unfiltered, handrolled cigarettes
(and on a sidenote, I want to try that shit.
He says his staff turned into a snake once)
but I digress…
and he drank from too many dirty glasses
because this songbird
has the voice of tracheotomy
as it sings of the egress of my exes

So I connect my heartstrings to the lasso
And pull that wall down
I watch as it salutes me
quite the stoic, stolidly
as it crashes into the dust
with a great Wile E. Coyote….
With extra plosive on the letter P
like a burst of Acme TNT,
fuse lit and flame-whittled down
to the base of the wick
like just when it appears the stick is a dud
and you want to give up the game
it blows up in your face.
The letter P does that.

But enough of letters. I’ve written enough letters.
If I connected the pieces of paper
On which I spat my inky thoughts
I’d have a scroll that unrolled the entire length
of this one horse town.
Because my scroll is exactly one horse long.
And it’s the one I rode in on
and I stretched it as far as it would go,
used part of him to make glue
as a security device and told him not to let go
while it dried.
So my horse stretches for miles
And everyone else walks.

Everybody walks but nobody wants to go anywhere
Except my exes because I know they’re here
I can sense each and every one of them
with the antennae in my chest
I’m on a hunt for revenge with my six gun
in both hands.
Because I’m not strong enough to dual wield
I tried that once
flinging lead with my reflection,
a mirage in the sand
and I landed flat on my back in my own oasis
staring as the clouds went by
so I rested on my laurels for a while
and watched the sky change moods
until once I saw the sky turn grey and cry
or maybe that was me
forgetting everything I’d ever wanted
for the sake of all I thought
I’d left behind.
And the seasons passed like dust
from my hand to the wind to gravity
it returns to dust again.
And my laurels became doldrums
‘Til my soul could rest no more
and I told myself I’d go to Texas
because Texas was tough
and maybe I could learn.
Then maybe I’d get revenge
on those hoop-skirts that
cat-walked out with their tails up

So, I mustered up what I had left
which wasn’t much
and jumped upon my trusty horse.
Yanked the reigns and dug in my spurs
The horse reared and dug its
soon-to-be-glue hooves into the dust one more time

And you know most of the story
except that I ran through there
shooting in a blaze of cordite scented glory
My spurs jingling like bells
which is how they found me
as I ran for my life from women in hoop skirts,
men in white hats and some of their kids
in tiny white hats.

They chased me out of Texas
I was not tough enough
I guess.

Couldn’t tell you what I was thinking, honestly.
Because I know revenge is a dish best served cold
and lead slugs tend to be hot when they’re fired from a gun.
So that defeats the purpose… doesn’t it?
Is my imagination or is it hot in this desert?
But hey!
I found a phone.
I can call for water… or something…
So I pick up the ear piece and
hold it up to my
Never know what desert critter could crawl in there.
All clear
So, I put it to my ear and turn the crank a few times.