When Rome Burns

It's all been hand-delivered through end-times theology.
The forthright destruction of civility.
When we can't believe is when we start to.
The light finds it's way through the fractured cracks, and we know that we always knew.

Come one night, the North Star will be all there is to guide us.
It will point and shimmer on the things inside us.

The duplicitous heat will be more to handle than one million candles shining a path on antiquity...from start to finish, we'll stand accessible to infinity.

On the roof of the Plaza del Toro we'll watch the empire crumble before our eyes. Your hand in mine, we'll find out what all this is for. Look out over the river, it sends a shiver, but in the protective hands of a foreign country we find ease. We find peace.

Stand righteous and proud like a veteran toreador...pushing his luck....stand under my thumb, breathless and numb. I could be with anyone, but I don't give a fuck. I want to be with you. That marked night, when your eyes are as dark as the Mexican sunset casting shadows, hair as dark as an amber brew. My eyes on this night are a blistering blue.

The silence rests on our ears as the blasts and explosions fade away. Smoke and debris is all we can see through the chaos and heat, someone pulled the wheels out from under our feet, on the final day the world turned away. A stoned angel trying to find his way home after a night of drinking salvation, convinced he's done his deed for the day. Putting souls in his pocket to deliver to their maker. The howls resonate and evaporate from the metropolitan districts. From New York, to Dallas, to Miami, to LA. We've no care because we got away. It's dark as hell, but warm. We push on together, in total disarray.

This is the second time I've written for you, but I trust it won't fall on deaf ears, wasted senseless on an exalted ingenue. I feel the scars on your chest. Just know that there is rest. Just forget all the words we've already spoken, and just remember that we all come to the table broken.

I find myself, at the end, at the beginning.
It comes full circle.
In this time the world seems vast, the change has come and we'll avoid the harlots of my past.
Shedding cells of abuse, burning all the proof that we were ever imperfect before this moment.

Je vous veux dans ma vie
It seems to be all I can see.

We'll point our noses South and count our steps. I'll keep tally marks and you can tell me stories of youth and unrest. We're a beautiful mess. I'll smile and nod, we'll stop at the michoacana and get lost in the language we can't speak. We'll do it for weeks. We'll see where it leads. Drink agua frescas and stumble through the markets on the main streets. Bartering not our souls but our pennies. That's all we need. All we need. What do we need? Only a few Hail Mary's to the Virgin Mary to ask for safe passage, we're searching for something, always searching for something and our pursuit is beyond savage.

But I have you.

No matter the faults, there's always proof that everything happens for a reason. We will find ourselves in the middle of this season. When intensity reaches it's peak. For it's there that you learn how to be weak and coincidentally find your strength.

I hold your words like farewell letters from a pen. And I know, for certain, that I am blessed among men.

T.L.O.M.L.

It's quite ironic that the bracelet broke on the day that I saw you. It's quite ironic that I had a backup ready at hand upon my return. Why didn't I just leave it off? Why didn't I just let my wrist be free of it's reminders of so many things? It would've been fine without it. It still had a resident with my silver chain. Why did I have to return it to it's proper place? I've asked that question 100 million times. No answer. Just like the billion words that are sitting in wait to be exchanged between the two of us, but does it matter anymore? Maybe they're better served laid to rest.

If I could get paid for thinking about it, I could purchase countries. I could
outbid empires. Procure half the world. If I could tell you how difficult it is to actually address it, I could withstand all measures of dissolution. But it's rather important for me to deny my recidivist nature. You know this all too well.

It seems to be like a rusty mailbox. You open it up to see if there's anything new in there. To see if a delivery of sorts occurred. You already know what's in that mailbox because you looked inside of it for so long, but you wander if there's something divergent waiting to be removed and opened. I don't know how either perspective glanced, but the box was opened. My stomach dropped when I saw you. Hazy and blurred, but feverish and intense...like always.

Normally a tryst like this would've punched my ticket to depression, but there's something different this time. Something unfamiliar and blank. It doesn't hold that same old sting. I watched you drive off, and then went on about my day. Figuring I'd figure as much out if I didn't try to figure it out. It worked. Time and again, we try to outdraw each other and be the first to touch off a shot. But I don't want my gun anymore.

I can see you in your twilight. A woman looking back on her life and the places, people, and situations she's touched and those that touched her. That nice boy you knew in your youth. The one who always had the nicest things to say to you. Your reminiscent approval or dissatisfaction of my actions and movements.

If I'm not careful I can convince myself to fall in love with you again. I used to think we were just alike in certain regards, but now I see that we couldn't be more different.

God, I pray my last words aren't your name.

"Untie me, I've said no vow..."

Old Habits Die Hard

Discipline is a major concern. But hooray, we all fall down, right? There seems to be no forthright answer to anything regarding motive for actions or causal circumstance. Everything gets hazy, and when it gets hazy, decisions get sloppy. Laughter always comes before confusion, and there's always a palatable static in the air when I know I'm going to be stepping off the plank, falling off the wagon, if you will. It's like there's a tangible force that pulls at us.

Someone once told me, "it's possible to have everything." Fuck that. Maybe. But what bothers me more than anything is people who see something they want and will stop at nothing to achieve it. Often times, their periphery is blinded to the fact that they fist-fucked a line of people to get there. But I'm a hypocrite, because I've done the same thing. Maybe it is possible to have everything, but I think that statement was taken out of context, because I'm a firm believer that you CAN'T have everything. I know people who are in love with the world, (and who's not to some degree...I know quite a few people who'd say I am), but that love affair ALWAYS ends in heartache. You never break-up with the world, the world breaks up with you. It's my opinion that you maneuver through the world as best you can, and take the opportunities that are given you, and you either make the right decision or you don't. But this insatiable appetite to gain, and experience, and hold everything in the palm of your hands is ridiculous. You (I) end up swimming in a wake of consequence and betrayal. I am ridiculous and comical, if not totally hypocritical. I just struggle with myself sometimes.

Epiphanies regularly find me after sweaty nights. I'm stoked I'll be watching the Pacific sunset very soon.

Ryan Adams' new album came out today. Good thing too....I can drown myself in his melancholy. Robert told me that I am his clone. Now, that might be a bit too flattering, but he said he understood my affinity for the guy. A large and prolonged and satisfied smile followed.


Sunshine, bunnies, rainbows, puppies, daisies, ice cream, Root Beer floats, grandma's house, Super Bowl parties, Christmas gifts, Amy Grant, roller coasters, pinatas, homecomings, belly laughs, best friends, Sunday afternoons... !!!

Dear Chicago,

You'll never guess. You know the girl you said I'd meet some day? Well, I've got something to confess....

The Forest From the Trees

His skin is still tight from his youth. His teeth are still sharp and carry their edge, but his mind and his heart have seen the lengthy lives of a hundred men. Twisting and twirling and beating with tornadic velocity. His chest and his head hold tight, barely containing their contents, stubbornly refusing to breach.

He carries a razor-sharp axe by his side as he walks into the wooded canopy amidst the suffocating pines and lonesome oaks. The blade, acute and shiny, is his weapon for so many reasons. He files and tapers it down with infallible finesse on a wet stone. It glimmers and sparkles as the wandering sun catches it with each stride, reflecting light in the woods where no light has touched ground for ages. These vagrant rays from the sun find themselves lost as strangers in a place that was never designed to house them.

All his life he's heard that he and the men around him are the crown of God's creation, but he's not sold on that school of thought. Not yet. He hacks away for redemption. He chisels with accuracy as if to invite senseless inquiry into destruction and creation. One hand over the next, each splinter that falls to the ground reveals more insight on the exposed trunk...pulp unveiled and uncovered, blasting through the yearly rings, overly sensitive to being the new outer exterior of the tree. Shedding the trials and failures of life to allow new air to breathe at the soft center before it hardens from the harsh uncertainties of it's surroundings. He reduces everything in his sight to matchsticks...laid to waste, where it decomposes into the vacuum of time. Knowing he holds the power to destroy or preserve his environs, his choices are scattered and confused.

The tendency is to panic and overswing, but he's conditioned now and he is a master of precision. Surgical. He sees three moves ahead, before he makes even one.

He works hard to keep it together. His secret is a vice and his vice is a burden. It bears down heavy on his shoulders and he fights to keep it from sliding out of his guard. He is the custodian of an unwelcomed guest, and an agent of cognitive dissonance.

He uses his axe to keep the wolves at bay. But the wolves inside of him are seemingly more formidable. At times, he's given thought to turning the axe on himself, but he knows that this isn't the end that folklore and legend hold for him. He misses his innocence.

Quiet down now....hush, hush, my friend.

Give Me Your Eyes, I Need the Sunshine

I need sleep too....

God I love this city.

Slam the Goddamn Ball Bearing Factories With Freeform Destruction

I drink too much. This is public knowledge and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Alcohol and I have had quite the love/hate going on for quite some time. Occasionally (more often than not), his little friend, cigarette, finds it's way into my nightly pleasure-seeking routine....often bringing a pain killer as it's dance partner. Alcohol put me in the hospital my freshman year in college. I can't say it's a pleasant sight waking up from a whiskey-induced coma to see your mother and father standing over your hospital bed in a white room, when the last thing you remember is a hazy recollection of laughing with your friends in a green-leaf canopy park on a sweaty late-Summer night. None too eloquent...to say the least.

I won't go into the myriad of other "less than satisfactory" situations that were facilitated by alcohol in my time here. Let's just say that the devil dresses in liquid from time to time.

It's not just alcohol though. I have a whole host of demons who sit at my front door waiting to greet me as I step outside to meet the day. They're like a reliable old friend, tempting me and lulling me into gentle submission even though I know they don't mean well. And they usually come dressed in something shiny or alluring, but their intentions are hollow and numb and they turn out to be as genial as Michael Vick's dogs.

In fact, I would have considerably more time in my day if I'd take a break from kicking the shit out of myself. I've developed what you might call a ceaseless routine for finding ways to make several situations I'm in disjointed and complicated. But as problematic and absurd as life is somtimes, it's usually by my own making. I'll cut my nose off to spite my own face...without hesitation. But I'm not the only one. We're all our own worst enemies. I've got all my demons in a row.

Another World War reference....

When the United States Army Air Force launched the most expansive aviation raid in the history of warfare on Schweinfurt, Germany, their main intention was to cripple the Nazi's war machine by taking out their ball-bearing factories. They knew that without ball-bearings and the steel to produce ball-bearings, the Nazi war effort would slowly grind to a halt. Every weapon of war needs inertia, thus it needs ball-bearings. The thing is, the Allied High Command knew that they would take considerable losses, becase the Allied bombers would be flying further into Nazi occupied territory than they had yet ventured. In their first month of raids, the Allies lost 80% of the bombers sent to Schweinfurt from anti-aircraft guns, the relentless flak, and the sniper-like efficiency of the Luftwaffe fighters. EIGHTY PERCENT. These were no small-squadron missions. The Allies lost hundreds of bombers and thousands of men for this "objective." One of which was my Grandfather, who on his one and only mission as a B17 pilot, was shot down over occupied France on his way back after delivering his payload. Of the nine-man crew, six of them survived, three were picked up by the French underground and escorted back to England while the other three were captured by Nazi infantry on the ground. He spent two years in a German POW camp as a result. This was before the Allies had the technology to equip their P51 Mustangs with the fuel load which would serve the bomber groups as an incredibly efficient escort fighter. In the end, 2285 Allied aircraft were sent to the bloody skies over Schweinfurt and 1/3 of them never returned to England. The Nazi production...reduced by only 20%. Your nose to spite your own face.

I've had this talk quite a bit recently with different people. We all want to be good people, and do spectacular things. We all want to cure cancer, or win the Nobel Peace Prize, or house orphans, or feed Africa, or have the best carrot cake at the bake sale, or whatever the fuck...but sometimes our intentions go south on us and we end up in the exact opposite place of what we first set out for...be it by blinding ignorance or complete disregard for ourselves and others. And sometimes we have to make decisions where it seems like there is no right answer. Where we get into moral relativism. Weighing the pros and cons is an effort in futility and at that point it usually turns into whether or not you're going to actually make a decision, not what the decision actually is. It's a dangerous dynamic to be in, but it happens quite a bit in life. I was told (actually we're all told this...we're Americans) to follow my heart when these times approach, but what if you can't trust your own heart at times?

It can be small and inane, or it can be life changing decisions. Or it can be day-to-day, menial involvement with people and surroundings and circumstances, but we all face demons. Nobody is immune. It takes tenacity to overcome these temptations or evils, if you will, especially when they're whispering sweet nothings in your ear, promising delight and gratification.

I was told that there is no perfect time to do anything. Even when life is a shitstorm, if you want to accomplish anything, you just do it. You either do it, or you don't. Life won't always give you a lenghty stretch of harmony. There's always bumps in the road. You fight through that shit and do it. You try to improve your circumstances, try to stop kicking your own teeth in, and you stand up proud if your decleated by whatever madness surrounds you. You stand up and you stab again. Sometimes effort is all we have.

As one of my all-time favorite song lyrics so precisely says, "You spend half your life trying to turn the other half around."

Life is foolish and contagious.

Woman

"You're very generous."

"No just happy."

Those stolen at birth. Those floated down the river in a basket meet your face, and into your arms they fall...into your bosom they find rest. The Morning Glorys lie at your feet, as they make no sound passing through the garden. Your voice like a beach off Thailand, your hair like the spool of aureate shimmer. Horses run wild and evoke this response in the hearts of men. Skin like porcelain, and eyes like diamonds. Shine and crest and reflect the light of humanity in it's cradle. A chalice holds your elegance, and lips touch the rims. Only to drink you for a day, or a night, whichever the fates may hold. In song, we men revel and cultivate multi-billion dollar industries when our hearts are broken by your scent, your touch, and your release. I once heard that if no woman would have a man unless he walked on his hands, half of the world's population would be doing handstands within two days. No truth was more exact or literal. No more perfect truth comes from your ruby lips and the soft curves of your figure.

The sundress you wear is like a brandy drowning brain cells. Fortunate lottery winners are those who find the likeness of you. To gather strength and deal with the faults of man, you should not be enticed, but your heart rests easily on our shoulders and your tears fall gently on our laps. They are soaked up as a sponge would find spring rains, freshening the house with the windows down, wind blowing through, spreading your scent making everything new and vibrant. We watch you with curiosity. We are enthralled by your movements. All the art of men is somehow inspired by you. Wars have been fought over your preferences and men have died for your honor. Amorous is your vision and your warm preparation of our sons for the world is what passes the fondness of our admiration through the generations. You sculpt your daughters in an instinctual way. No man can comprehend your moves and never will.

Thirst is the way to describe the longing for your touch and "jealousy" does no justice to describe the feelings of betrayal. There is no word for the time when you turn your back in search of a more capable suitor. Murderous rage ignites, but c'est la vie. Fish in the sea, ahh...see.

Devotion hangs by a balance and when we are young we listen to testosterone, we listen to locker rooms, and we listen to foolery. But when we mature, and our minds find solace, we look to our mothers to find that which ushered us into this life and that which will hold us in the end. You live longer than we...and you see more of the world through your eyes, because God granted you longer life. But our life is cut short so that your's could be made long. It is a man's duty to find a mindful and loving woman. One who will dance in the rain. Let her shirt fall to the floor when unprovoked. Find a way to our hearts and calm the animal that surfaces when we are utterly violent. One who desires to be held and protected from the macabre in the world, trusting us with your safety. The words from your mouth can shatter glass and your look can break the hardest of hearts. You are the strongest drug in the universe. You are God's most beautiful creature.

We live for you.

My Father and His Father Before Him

My father is stoic. When he talks we listen. Reserved are the thoughts, poised for the right time. His wisdom is simple yet profound. His ethics are unbreakable. My father's mental capacity is an immovable force. He lost his father, my grandad, at the age of 13. The son of two depression-era children, he learned how to be capable and complete without any preparation. Hours sweating in a field, to help feed my aunts and my grandmother for years. At 13 he was burdened with the task of helping to prepare a life for three women that grown mature men are subject to endure. My father is quiet. My father is loving. My Dad doesn't judge, nor does he condescend. He is not without fault, but if our fathers are our models for God, then God is iridescent and complete. He once told me...in his logic, that the key to life is very simple yet profoundly difficult. He told me that life is successfully navigated by simply doing the right thing. No matter how hard, always do the right thing...no hesitation or wavering. I have tried to live by that. Failed around every corner, but have tried.

My Dad cut timber rows in Colorado to free up river passages down the Colorado River. He fought forest fires in Idaho during college, living on little more than beef strips and rice in the Rocky Mountains. He worked in Saskatchewan, Canada, learning all the wonders of the outdoors. He put himself through college and provided for my family when we were a young family starting out and were shit poor. He married my mother and has been a model of matrimony and sacrament to her throughout the years. My Dad taught me how to throw a baseball. He taught me to respect women. He taught me that at times we won't understand women, but to treat them kindly and offer support, and they will in turn, be faithful and mindful to you. He taught me not to settle for anything less. He taught me to respect nature, and it's power....and the wreckless power that we hold over it. He taught me that patience is one of the most important facets of life. He taught me to pray. He taught me that life is hard, but it's important to give every effort to be harder. He taught me that life is beautiful, and to take time to enjoy the pleasantries. He taught me how to be a man.

My grandmother on my mother's side, towards the end of her life, became very philanthropic with her thought processes. She wanted to bestow something great to a service which had helped her through very dark days...even though her mind might have been off-center of right. My mother and father had only been married for a short time. My grandmother wanted to sell the family ranch to a charity, while noble, almost succeeded in depriving her children of their inheritance and the lot of land that my grandfather had built and sculpted with his bare hands. Hours and hours of frustrated pleas by my mother and her brothers got them nowhere in diverting her intentions. After she had solidified her stance with her children, ceasing anymore of their pleas, she turned to my father and asked him what his advice might be on the matter. In typical fashion, he sat there quietly observing, replied by saying, it's not for me to advise, but your husband poured his life on this land. I think it would be a mistake for you to let it go. My grandmother simply replied, "okay....I won't." My father is sincere, and out of his sincerity comes the respect that others have for him.

My father is faithful, in all facets of the word. He is a man. He is the quality of man I hope to become. He is cut from a cloth of persistence and faithfulness. He is a provider and I've found him to be more wise over the years. He's proud of his son and daughter, and he let's them know this. Despite their many faults. We differ in innumerable ways, but by blood we are the same. He is my hero.

Bloody Knuckles On a Bloody Easel...Bloody Hell

My youth is a weapon.

No one listens. Until the bang grabs attention. It's the driving of my fist through a cinder block. White knuckles turn red. Blood tastes like wine. Drunk is my eyesight. Piercing is my energy. It's the energy...it swells and radiates a soft glow and lifts high into the air. Lofty is it's perch and blue is it's color. Fills the sky, and white wisps carve it up and pour down below the residue, washing everything anew, and regenerating emotive all the while. After turbulent waters, rivers are calmed and serene. Fertile valleys profit from havoc and disarray.

At peace...like how the other pillow smells like her well after she's left in the morning...or the come down after sweating out the toxins in a muscle-fiber rage...or pain killers camouflaged and hiding in my spine...or the drunk that makes the laughs harder...or when my mother calls on a lazy Sunday afternoon...or the cool air rolling through the truck with the full moon shining through the windshield, turning everything silver, Harvest Moon escaping from the speakers.

Walk to the shoreline, down the beach, into the water. Frenzied and hurried, but at peace...alive and surprised at my lucidity. My fist submerges, attracting the streamlined torpedos. Voracity on it's way. Dark, shadowy rogues encircle, swirling the water, face to face. Stalking the seduction of red blood cells. They bleed resonance. They bleed red. Teeth shine and water foams. Energy is reborn again.

And I'll end my life the way I lived it. Inside the mouth of a bull shark.

My youth is a weapon.

Chlorinated Pools

First of all, you must buy the new Wilco album...Sky Blue Sky...it's like being in love, and high, without paranoia, sitting on a beach and watching the sunset, with possibly one of your favorite people there with you...or being in love with being high. Es muy bonita...

It's nice to sit alone and think sometimes, but sometimes I do it too much. And sometimes...the devil creeps in and starts his subversive dancing. Luckily, I've developed a big bruising bouncer that will usher him out when he gets all too real and out of hand. A good friend told me that my thoughts were visceral and real. Like jumping into a cold, clear pool after boiling in the running heat...wash the salt off. But it's mostly just a geyser of bullshit. I've learned in recent years a very efficient way to cleanse myself of such thoughts of piercing uncertainty...and insanity to a degree. Maybe cleanse isn't the right word, but moreso manage. It's a pretty refined process now, and it only gets more practiced and proficient as time goes on. Like when I deal with issues of envy or denial or disallowance. You just remind yourself when times get too intense (as they often do with me) that there's always an upswing. Being patient and managing that shit is the key. Just wait...it gets better.

One of my friends, whom I consider a brother, just found out that he's going to be a father. This venture into fatherhood was not planned.

Diminutive and trivial are my doubts.

*insert veiled reference to some girl*

Trademark Insanity

I feel like this blog is like a canvas sometimes...a meaningless one, but a canvas nonetheless. I throw shit at the walls and see what sticks. But it keeps me in practice for more purposeful endeavors I suppose. Whateva.

Let's see here...

Sooo, McDonalds has robots that pour the drinks now. I hate McDonalds, but was in a rush to get back to work, and yep, I pulled up into the drive-thru and there was this conveyer-belt-ish mechanism that was pulling cups out of a stack, rotating around, filling them with ice, and then pouring whatever drink it was that I ordered in the cup. But the human still has control over putting the lid on. We're not completely irrelevant....yet. Plus, apparently McDonalds is ape-ing the new Shrek movie, which I won't see, but the best part is, they have these little hats. They're green. And they have the little antennae, that Shrek sports, on top of the hat. With that said, what does EVERY SINGLE MCDONALDS DRIVE THRU ATTENDANT LOOK LIKE? Oh you know...if you live anywhere in the Southern United States, isn't it always a 5'3" 180 to 190 lb. latino girl named Maria or Beatriz? Of course it is. She has a really round face and her jet black hair is always pulled back and she looks just....like.....Shrek. So of course, I pulled up to the window and who did I see...Shrekita. I paid my tab, pulled up to the next window and expected to see an Italian girl with a big nose dressed like Donkey. I don't think McDonalds thoroughly hammered out the idea from an employee-friendly demographic perspective when they thought these hats were "the thing to do." I guarantee in Texas alone, there's 4,680 latino Shreks working, swiping your card so you can eat your heart attack. Well done McDonalds.

I've always said, in about 30 years, pending any nuclear holocaust activities, Wal-Mart, Microsoft, McDonalds, and I'm gonna throw Toyota and Starbucks into the mix now, will battle for control of the Earth. I'll be hiding in the ocean by then, on my raft made of Outback bread trays/cutting boards. Shaded by a huge fucking American flag. I really need to sever myself from the zeitgeist surrounding me. Or create my own, I suppose.

So Rolling Stone came out with their 40th Anniversary Edition the other day, and the gig was, they interviewed all of these iconic music and social figures from back when Rolling Stone was a start-up publication. Of course, it's your typical "political activist Rolling Stone" issue. Bob Dylan, Martin Scorsese, Jane Fonda, Paul McCartney, Neil Young, George McGovern, Mick Jagger, Jimmy Carter, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Ringo Star, Patti Smith, Tom Wolfe, Norman Mailer..you know your standard lineup of 60's art-school figureheads. Every single interview was a "now vs. then," type deal. Vietnam, the draft, the counterculture movement, all of these things were central in every interview. I'm not saying that shouldn't be the way it is. I mean, Rolling Stone was taking it's first breaths in San Francisco in the middle of all that shit, but it's a bit too predictable...if you ask me. There wasn't just a whole lot devoted to the music that was covered over Rolling Stones existence or the impact it has had on the music industry. Fucking anyways, one of them says in the interview that times are different, regarding both of the wars (Vietnam/Iraq), because of the inactivity of the youth nowadays. He's basically calling us apathetic. I agree with quite a bit of his logic. But times are different. They are different wars, and in some instances, they're about different idealogies. Both of which are difficult to make a case for. Everything around us is different, especially our mental proclivity. We're numbed into submission by consumer products and the overload of information that bombards us everyday trying to bogart our attention. He basically says its a junk-image society for a junk-image world. There's a wealth of truth to that...I couldn't agree more. But like all things, it was "better then than it is now," and it was "more meaningful then than it is now." It's all kind of sanctimonious, really. I like it, and that's natural coming from their perspective. They felt their energy was more powerful and revolutionary than any the world has ever seen. The social and cultural impacts they made in trying to usher in this spiritual utopia, even though they fell well short, was the most important time in modern cultural history...in their eyes. Now that could be argued, yes, and I could write a thesis on this shit, about how I think the counterculture ate itself, and how the baby-boomers, who had all these splendid ideas of change and desire for setting a new precedent are the same generation who drove us into this shithole psyche-crumbling existence in the first place. I mean, their intentions were revolutionary, but their greed was ultimately more pervasive. Their drugs then were the vehicles of reformation, but their drugs now are a subsistence of numb coping. But I'm too tired and I won't get into all of that.

My favorite character on the Sopranos died. Chris Moltisanti met his end at the hands of Tony Soprano, ironically enough. He made it till there were 3 episodes left. I rooted for him from day 1, but he couldn't pull out of the funk, man. Too many drugs and bad decisions. All my characters are tragic.

The Kings of Leon concert we went to was fucking unbelieveable. As always. I think this makes the fourth time I've seen them. It saddens me a bit, that they're becoming increasingly popular. You can always tell by the crowd. At the other shows, it was nothing but hipsters, a few drug store cowboys, girls and guys with Buddy Holly glasses, and a few whiskey swilling drunks here and there. This time, I saw quite a few bullhead fraternity assholes with the pink polos, collars popped, Wolverine dura-shock boots, Oakland A's hat tipped slightly to the side...just your typical fucking douchebags really. I mean, I'm rooting for the KOL...I can take pride in showing them to just about every one of my friends who listens to them...I was there from the start, and they're a great band...simple as that. But it would be nice if they'd fly just under the radar a little while longer before they're adopted as the opening songs in frathouse parties, or played on the golf course by drunk salesmen, or at a Mavs game.

After the show, I drank enough alcohol to kill off the remaining rain-forest gorillas, and split my fucking head open like a coconut. I mean, I fucking ruined my face. You see, I think it's always a splendid idea to dance with girl's when I'm drunk, be it in a street or wherever. There doesn't have to be music...or even a dancefloor, for that matter. I usually have some kind of circus music playing in my head, and when I'm drunk, I'm a little misguided in thinking I have skills a la John Travolta. So I'm twirling the little lady around who happened to be with us and I crash like a fucking kamikaze into an aircraft carrier on the concrete....taking her with me. Split the wig with a nice three inch gash and bled like a sieve for 3 hours afterwards. It didn't help that my blood was like paint thinner because of all of the alcohol. It was red water basically. I didn't hurt her...I took the brunt of the fall, which is good...but still not. It's gonna be a pretty gnarly scar. My skull was breathing fresh air above my eyebrow, my ear looked like a terrier had been chewing on it for 3 days, and my shirt looked like "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman" had used it as a tampon. I had the fucking wah-wah's in my ears the next day at work and it sounded like everyone was talking under water for pretty much the duration of the day. In fact, I'm not 100% sure I didn't have a concussion. I went to the doctor the next day, because being so drunk you can't conjugate a sentence kinda gives away the mystery of how you acquired said scar. At least the next day I told him some bullshit about a softball game or something. He told me it really needed stitches, but once it closes up, there's not much you can do. My pride probably hurt more than anything. So aside from the fact that I looked like I called Lennox Lewis a nigger to his face, I had a pretty fun time that night.

On another note, there's things she does that are starting to become really cute to me as of late. I don't need those little particles coursing through my veins right now, circling around the chambers of my heart and the folds of my brain. I think I'll drink some lighter fluid tonight....put the ixnay on that shit.

Scissor-Tailed Sparrow

Oh, little scissor-tailed sparrow, why must you sit above my door?
Is it too much to ask that you refrain from shitting on my front porch floor?
I find it ironic that a bluebird chose my sister's house to nest,
And you chose my apartment to rest your breast, on three little eggs.
Safe from the sharp-eyed pellet-gun assassins and cats on the take.
Away from the wind and the rain and the gardener's rake.
I like that you and your husband are of the monogamous type.
One sits on the nest while the other's out of sight...somewhere in flight.
But you're both there at night, by each other's side, watching your kids.
You don't fly away when I unlock my door,
I can tell you've grown to trust me and aren't scared anymore.
When I come home drunk you don't pass judgement or scorn.
You just sit and watch as I fumble my words, and stumble indoors.
I can always hear your chirps in the dark.
It's not that big of a deal, but it makes sleeping kinda hard.
You see, I have to work in the mornings.
I have to get up fairly early.
I don't mind that you're rearing your young on my stoop,
But if you're gonna talk, can we think of something else to do?
Maybe you can use little head nods, or wing-tip signs.
Or maybe I could fashion a little pencil so your feathers can write.
I don't know....
Hey, you know that band, Kings of Leon, that I play in my room?
Well I'm going to see them tonight, it's outdoors, and you should come too.
It's downtown...so I know it's kinda far,
And you have to put the kiddos to bed, it's a weeknight, it's hard.
But I'd love to share something I love with you,
Since you're sharing your little life with me.
I could show you my music,
Just like the music you obligingly sing.
At first, I was a little apprehensive when you arrived, I'm not gonna lie.
Cause you'd swoop and strafe my head like a Spitfire in a nose-dive.
My friends called you "death birds," but that's far from the truth.
You're just dealing with the world in your own little way, it's what you do.
I'm happy you chose my home to make your home too.
And I'm glad you're a little family by my door!
It makes me smile and think that life is worth everything and more.
So take your time mi amigo pequeño, the rent is never due.
And when I grow up, I hope I can build a family as lovingly as you.

Complete

Short little breaths, staggered and few.
The butterflies in my belly used to dance and sing a chorus for you.
Succinct is the doubt in me,
Gathered, surrounded, and suffocated by the roots you sink.
Aim and fire at your brightest star before you think.
Another star gathered for your basket,
Turns into a man in your hand.
For what it's worth I abandon just about everything I can.
So don't worry about me,
I'll leave adoration destitute and free.
Deserving no epitaph,
Only a simple and trivial toast to the past.
Oh how close apathy is within our grasp,
Emotionless and detached.
There's secret talks for which there's no path,
Only furthering and solidifying this exhausted wrath.
A fiber optic cable for you to watch,
A blinding collapse for me to dodge.
A strain in the eyes for those who don't know,
Looking over the horizon for a sliver of hope,
These matters drag so effortlessly slow.
Smoothing a palm over the sand,
I wonder if you'll stand by your man.
Or return to attempt a long drive with me,
You can play the song that I did my best to sing.
It's in atrophy now.
Like an eraser,
All that's left are the ambulance chasers.
Like a dream,
Like a drink,
Like the pictures that make you think.
For everything you've gained,
Everything you talk,
Everything you smother,
And everything you flaunt,
I think to myself,
What could you possibly want?

J'ai abandonné mon amour pour vous

The Ferryman

To you, O Lord, I called; to the Lord I cried for mercy: "What gain is there in my destruction, in my going down into the pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it proclaim your faithfulness?" Psalm 30:8-9



It's time's like today, moments of the surreal, when there is one particular song that always pops into my head. Call it an organizational defense mechanism sifting through the remnants of chaos, or call it some weird synapse recall, but this song always pops in my head. It did on 9/11, today, and a few other moments when life became all to surreal, or almost painfully hallucinogenic. Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve. Special thanks to Richard Ashcroft for penning one of the more haunting, and somewhat creepy tunes that I've encountered in this life. It haunts me because of the scenarios it re-awakens in my memory, and the times it decides to have relevance to me. The lyrics take on a totally different meaning in these moments than those that accompany him in the video; walking against the grain down a crowded street, possibly New York or London, amongst millions of nameless and faceless people, pushing them down and crooning about change. Yet, maybe there is a reason that particular song comes to mind.

Everybody pays the ferryman. The singular facet of life that we all must face, and are all connected to is death. Every person and living organism from the dawn of time has fallen to it's timeless power. It pardons no one, and excludes no one. If you've taken a breath in this world, you will take a last. Wherever it is that we go after this life, the ferryman awaits, with his bag of tickets by his side. When you meet him, he slowly ushers you to the other side. No matter what creed, or demonination, or faith, or spiritual enlightenment, or lack thereof that you follow, it doesn't give you an exemption from death.

Today showed how powerful entities like time, and mortality, and temporality really are, and how insignificant we are standing side by side to them...just how vulnerable and ineffectual we really are. It's a sobering truth, but one which must be accepted, even sometimes violently. I absolutely hate talking about the fragility of life. It's utterly disheartening. Especially when you are often ringside for the examples of power and grace that humans possess. To see it crumble in one pointless fail swoop is disappointing at best, and revoltingly horrid at worst.

One thinks about the exit. How the pupils must have been dilated to maximum capacity, letting every ray of light in, squeezing out the color of the iris till it was just a sliver of color around a ring of black. Senses sharpened like a razor-sharp hunting knife, flight or fight responses and the monsoon flood of adrenaline down the spine, the disturbing sounds, the sights, the stale metallic smell of blood. Soldiers probably feel this type of feeling on a regular basis. Escaping (literally and figuratively) bullet after bullet, till the one on mark finally catches it's target...for the unfortunate. But in civilian clothes, when the preparedness is afloat somewhere not to be found, how can one explain the horror.

True story...my second week of work at my new job found me facing something that was considerably uncomfortable. One of my coworkers found out that her best friend, a young 39 years old, was going to be put on Hospice care because her battle with leukemia was coming to an end. I remember her sobbing and how uncomfortable it made everyone feel. But of course, it was understandable...it was just something that nobody wants to confront in a day to day routine. We want to come in, stick our widget in the hole, clock out and go home...not to be bothered with matters of mortality. The next day, she was speaking with a friend about the matter...within earshot. She began to cry and said, "I don't know what to do. The walls are thin and they're closing in. I just wanna know what's going to happen to my Annie when she leaves. Where is she going? I just want to know where my Annie is going when she leaves?" I remember how raw and powerful and Earth-shaking that statement was. It wasn't a question of religious destination. It was a human question of the unknown. Where was her friend going? Would she be able to see her again? Would they be able to laugh again and talk of their memories together? Would they be able to be there and connect on that level that saw them connect in this life? Where was she going, and why couldn't she see her again? It's so fucked up...

One of my friends married a girl who lost her sister to cancer recently. She has understandably taken it hard. Without going into detail, she has done everything within her power to hold onto the death of her sister. In ways that are heartbreaking. The funny thing is, we assume that the dead are hanging on to judgement of thankfulness and gratefulness about what we do in their absence. We do things to serve them after their passing and make assumptions as to what they would think...if they would be proud...if they would appreciate it. But the sad truth is, there isn't anyone to convince but ourselves. It's so human, and it's so sad. It's like running the stray puppy off that you fell in love with when you were a child and possessed your innocent love, but knew that you couldn't take it home. It hurt to turn it away. But the puppy didn't know any different. Only you did. It's that feeling magnified by an indefinable number. The dead are not concerned with our efforts after their passing. That is why the present is so consummately imperative.

Two days ago, my old roommate told me of how he witnessed someone passing into the infinite unknown. He works at a hospital and this kid, 20 years old, was rushed in after a car wreck. They tried a rapid transfusion, defribullation, cardio-pulminary resucitation, electronically advanced machines to revive, and they even split his chest to massage his heart for revival. You can imagine, as I can, how disturbing witnessing something like this can be. He had a relatively tough time with witnessing this for the first time. Called his mother for reassurance....as I probably would. To massage the heart for revival after such...

When I was in high school, I would spend one day a week in the Summer's mowing the lawn of my great aunt. A lady I respected very much. Very independent, and extremely intelligent. Her advice was always welcome and after my chores were complete, I'd sit and listen to her as she served me an ice-cold Coke for my efforts (which usually was the perfect cure for the hangover I carried into the job). She told me of a recurring dream she had since she was a child. The vision has stayed with me. She dreamt of the day of her death. To hear her speak of this in the calm and collectedness that she did, was intriguing. She was a woman of faith, and that faith sustained her throughout her life. That quiet assurance she had in her deeply-rooted faith pulled her through so many trials and unsettling waters. She stood by a river after her death. She stood with the man who would garner her path across this river. It was the river Jordan. There were people floating, lying down, face to the sky; floating up and down the river. Nameless, faceless people. Millions of people. Some people were going against the current, while many others were going with the current. Those who were traveling against the current were making their way to Heaven. It was for their efforts of denying the world's enticements that they found their way against the current. Those who were traveling with the current were not. When I asked her if they were going to Hell, she told me that she wasn't sure. She said that in her dream she felt that they were people of faith, but maybe their destiny wasn't to spend the next life in Heaven or Hell. She knew that her efforts got her to where she wanted to be, and that everybody else chose their own paths. God would be the judge of where they ended up. But she was hopeful that her path would lead her against the current of the river. Against the current of the nameless, faceless people.

Get out of my head Richard Ashcroft.


I thought long and hard about tackling this one....I am sad today.

Robbers In the High Fortress

There once was a time when the smug patriarch actually wasn't as repulsive.
But the pressures of wealth errode shreds of morality on the sweaty nights of accumulation.
Rockefeller would blush and his tentacles didn't quite reach as far and as deep in modernity, but penetrating they were.
While socialism is painted on his ceilings, the demons of capitalism guard the doors like sentinels.
It's too easy to strike a chord of paranoia and point toward an insidious plan of complete control, but it's so apparent on the smirk across their faces. They're annointed to play that role, and a scorching performance they deliver.
The CEO's spit out words like "blow jobs" and "great piece of ass" to initiate the new company blood and send some sort of sick relation down the ladder...that's it ole boy...appeal to their unbridled youth...bring them under your wing...soon they'll be suckling the poisonous milk...etched in your image. Give them the booster-shot of confidence to swagger their way up the ladder. Grab a rung and pull themselves up. Crawling over dead bodies if they must. The self-styled sons you never had. Steaming ahead to mastery...ascendancy conquering the Matterhorn.
That tone...that tone...when you talk to her...the young professional trying to break the glass ceiling. Headstrong to go where no woman has gone before. It's funny the door you open to her to find that lighted path. That tone. Ever wonder why feminism gets hostile sometimes? That tone.
It's hard to swim in a life this shallow.
The threads. The tailor, well tipped, makes you shine. Tunnel vision. Royalty. Gordon Gecko. Greed is good, bud. BMW 7-Series. Mercedes-Benz S-Class.
Framed pictures of the wife and kids. Smiling at Lake Tahoe. Honeymoon in Tuscany. Amusing anectdotes for the dinner deal. Company cards. Ice breakers. Closers. Closers. Close it. Can you close it? He can. Can't...can...can't...can...which are you?
Plaisantez-vous?
Cave dwellers eating by candlelight, scratching fingers to the bone, melting their brains, throw a smile from ear to ear when you walk by. The octave of the voice rises when revelling tales of weekends in which you have no care.

"How are you doing guy?" "All things considered?" "Well when you're not too busy hitting your budgets, we should hit the course." "Oh................well it's not for everybody I suppose."

My cigarette cherry burns as white hot as my malcontent and aversion. Luckily, the sun is out. My sunglasses conceal what would otherwise be easier to read than a warning label.

While he fingered the long stem of his champagne glass, he couldn't help but notice his reflection in the side, and he felt affectionate towards it.

And She Speaks French...

Take it easy, man. Just take it easy. Granted she called you a "guinea pig," (cobaye) but shit man.

A timely pull on the reins will do you some good right now, me thinks.

Hey INTENSITY!! It's me Cory. We go way back.

Holy shit I'm a tightly wound ball of nerves right now. Don't stand too close to me, the recoil could be concussive. It feels like electricity is coursing out of my fingertips. My vocal chords are the perfect pitch today. I'm totally and keenly aware. Don't know why I feel this way. I think the beautiful weather is playing a particular hand in it. I'm embracing Austin. Some days it just hits stronger than others, and today it's particluarly intense. It's definitely sending the needle into the red. I hope she doesn't notice tonight...after all, first impressions are the most important impressions, right? Today has been a good day. So far.

I really like feeling this way. I wish I could share it with people. If I could bottle it up, I'd keep a carton of it in my medicine cabinet and pull one out, and drink it down on the days where the world isn't so vivid. I am looking through a prism right now and the colors are fucking stellar.

To be continued....

AAAAAAAAANNND I'm still drunk. It's noon the next day...good God I got tore down last night, and apparently into today. Work is a fucking chore right now. It's Good Friday though, so its only a half-day. Liveable. More like Awesome Friday.

Well, I've solidified that my destiny will see me crashing head first into a big steamy pile of my dreams, or the alternative which is...ummm...shit man, there is no lid on what that could be. Anything I could imagine I suppose, and I can imagine quite a bit...no trouble there. I've got a big-ass future staring me straight in the face and I am thrilled by that.

I've also got a big-ass Summer staring me in the face. A Summer that I am going to put to good use. Austin is the perfect place to be in the Summer. So many bodies of water to dive into and get inebriated beyond all comprehension upon. Great outdoor bars and nightclubs where music fills the streets, interesting and friendly peeps, cute girls, and an international airport to jump a plane and scratch out when it all gets old. I've got a surprisingly large pile of airline vouchers that I intend to use this year and some of it this Summer. Finally making it out to California.

Cory and Matt's Pain-Killing Pacific Coast Highway Tour 2007. Set to take off with insanity and prepoderance. Matt's thinking of moving out there anyways, so it will give that fool a chance to prospect a bit. Plus, we're incensed with surfing again since Costa Rica (even though we're terrible...for now). Soooooooo free flights out there to get busted up by Mother Ocean, and a head spinning with alcohol and sedatives, mixed with shirtless beach wandering is on deck. Any and all are encouraged and welcome to join.

As I was drunkenly swaying in the stall last night, draining the poison (or making room for more), I strained to focus my vision on the wall and I read this beaut in red ink, small handscript, about eye-level above the toilet and I think it's bloody fabulous:

"I am the joke my mother played on the world."

Raw.

It's Good to be a Gator

If there is a standard-bearer for success in the ranks of collegiate athletics, the mantle explicitly belongs to the Florida Gators. I mean, wow. If you're a Gator fan (which I'm sure their numbers have increased infinitely in a short amount of time, because let's face it...everybody loves a winner), then you're undoubtedly floating lightly on cloud nine.

I have never been one of those SportsCenter hacks, babbling about the most inane record or streak that some insignificant team has broken through to be aligned in the pantheon of meaningless statistics, but I am a college sports fan. I love the pageantry (even though that word is used all too frequently when describing our scholastic brethren), the rivalry, and the passion that athletes and fans alike subscribe to, and the carrying on of that passion to future generations. It is unrivaled, to me at least, in the "investment" of being a fan. The NFL, NBA, and MLB, are so mired in contractual disputes, and a feeling of ego-selfishness by players, coaches and team-owners alike, that it kind of takes the air out of the actual meaning of the game. While it is impressive to see Lebron James, or Peyton Manning will their respective teams to victory, it is equally, if not more impressive to watch someone like Jared "I think I might be white" Zabransky overcome insurmountable odds to deliver the big "W" to the seething fans of an underdog organization, bringing them the taste of victory that eludes them most of the time and is reserved for those programs who have an infinite amount of alumni support, and an over-flow of blue-chip recruits.

For the longest time, the SEC has arguably been the best football conference in the nation, and it's hard to dispute that point with the turn of events this past football season. Poor Auburn had to relegate themselves to second best, when no one gave them the nod in 2004 against USC. Not to say that they would've won, but what Florida did this year against Ohio State was proclaim loudly (what Auburn was not allowed) to the world that, "the SEC is fucking hard, and we dare you to try and have an umblemished record at the end of the season in this alignment...(looking at you USC)." Every year, the SEC produces a minimum of four national championship contenders and basically, their chances of being in the final game hinge simply on something like scheduling. Who has who at home. Non-conference games should not even be considered when dealing with an SEC team because of the brutality that the conference provides.

Being a huge, and bled-red Big 12 fan, I can always make a legitimate case as to why the Big 12 is the best conference. But mostly my argument lies in the "type" of play you find in the Big 12 being better than any other conference, because even I understand that the quality of teams is better in the SEC. Put Arkansas in the Big 12 this last year, and they would've played Ohio State in the national championship. Hell, put Kentucky in the North Division of the Big 12 this year and they probably would've won it.

So to see the gains that Florida has made, not only in football, and almost more importantly in basketball, is nothing short of amazing. In a year when Duke was bounced early, Kentucky couldn't secure over an 8 seed, and traditional powerhouse Kansas continued to exhibit it's streaky play (overwhelmingly underachieving), it's time for a new power in college basketball to step up to the throne. What's so amazing about Florida's repeat is that they are doing it in a time of mass exodus from underclassmen to reap the harvest of millions of dollars awaiting them in the NBA. They showed a graphic last night of all the teams who have repeated as national champions, and as monumental an achievement as it was in their time, the landscape of NCAA basketball has changed drastically in the matter of a few short years. Every one of Florida's starters returned specifically to repeat as national champs and they did just that. Corey Brewer, Al Horford, and Joakim Noah (who by the way, is ludicrous in interviews), all were first-day draft prospects after their title last year, but they stuck around with the goal of repeating and I have to applaud that.

There was a controversy surrounding the Final Four, that Billy Donovan (coach of the Gators) may leave for "greener pastures" at the University of Kentucky, the long-time traditional powerhouse of the SEC. Kentucky boasts the winningest record in NCAA basketball history, and recently let their head coach go after only 1 national championship, and only 4 Final Fours in nine seasons, prompting a search for the best replacement candidate. First of all, Billy Donovan would be a complete moron to leave for Kentucky.

Reason One: Florida has cornered the market on success in collegiate athletics which ultimately translates into more money. Success breeds success, and more importantly to school administrators, success on the field and court breeds success in the markeplace. Ticket sales rise, University-licensed materials see a spike in sales; it's a trickle down effect all because of the results of winning. So the money issue shouldn't be an issue. His contract can, and should be restructured to pay him anything that Kentucky would put on the table. It is also great timing what with the downfall of Florida's two biggest regional, athletic, and most importantly, recruiting competitors, Florida State and Miami. The state of Florida is buzzing over the Gators. I can't tell you how many "newfound" UT fans emerged from the woodwork after The University of Vince Young defeated USC. It seemed the whole state of Texas found themselves a new winner to latch onto in the public eye...and let's face it, they kind of deserved it and needed someone with a little more flavor of cool, especially with who we Texans have at the apex of world reknownment. *ahem...Mr. President your new opinion poll is in...you may want to sit down*

Reason Two: Kentucky has unrealistic goals, and an unrealistic fan base. I read an article where Tubby Smith (Kentucky's old coach) knew that it was time to move on. He was doing a radio show and a listener called in and had this to say, "Coach Smith, I just want you to know that I haven't given up on this team yet. I still believe we can right the ship this year." What was Kentucky's record at the time? 25-4. TWENTY FIVE AND FOUR!! RIGHT THE SHIP??? Seems pretty fucking righted to me. Whoever walks into Kentucky is walking into a buzzsaw. Of course, the money is good. Of course, the fans are supportive. Of course, the talent is the cream of the crop. But is it a better position than Florida right now??? Absolutely not.

I'm sure the whole state of Florida is just one big blue and orange orgy right now. I mean, UT only won it in football. Florida did it in basketball, football, and basketball again...CONSECUTIVELY. At this rate, Florida will be crowning tennis, track, baseball, and golf champions this year as well.

Not in my lifetime have I ever seen such widespread rise to dominance from one particular program, and it's a program that actually has risen in my lifetime. I think the whole University of Florida athletic world owes a great deal of debt to one Steve Spurrier. Before Spurrier, Florida was the wicked stepchild to Florida State and Miami, and perenniel also-rans in the SEC. Under Spurrier's direction, the program grew and were the most successful program in the SEC during his tenure...occassionally the University of Tennessee made a strong argument, but even record-wise...Spurrier owned Tennessee. With the rise of Spurrier's program, so did the brand name of the Gator's. In turn, the success of the football team spilled over into the rise of the basketball and baseball programs, who in the last ten years have seen their success-rate skyrocket. Florida's basketball team has risen to power within the last ten years, a relatively short time when you consider the dynasties of Kentucky, UCLA, and Bob Knight's Indiana teams, being capped by the last two national championships.

So here's to Steve Spurrier, for (pardon the pun) spurring the Florida Gators to athletic dominance.

But underlining this misprojected admiration of Spurrier, is the hope and faith that it brings in another similar, offensive-minded, spinster-wizard who is taking a certain football team to heights of success it hasn't reached in it's streaky existence...and my wishful hoping that the Florida dynamic is repeated somewhere on the South Plains of West Texas in the near future.

Here's to hoping.

The Futility of Apologization

I'm assuming it's understood that this is only a forum for me to speak my insignificant voice, vent my frustrations and conversely revel in the bliss of life. Let this be a disclaimer* that I am insane, and the critique or analysis of any sentence on this thing is an utter waste of time. It IS inane psycho-babble. But it's mine.

The beauty of it is, if you don't like it, you don't have to read it.





*This is not an effort to sound self-important...I am quite aware of how that could be perceived.

Jenny, You're Barely Alive

Jesus Christ.....

Blasphemy...oh my blasphemy....

I was told that I have a seat reserved in Hell. Hell awaits the bulb of searching that I've entertained it with during this little lifetime. Cory, you're barely alive. Jesus Christ. I hope the devil is a gracious host. I hope he appreciates the lengths I went through to meet his demands. All the condenscion and the blind eyes I diverted to those in need. On my knees I told God that I would be my brothers keeper...as He asks in the Good Book...but God Damn Him...He's got me barely alive. Maybe there is no Hell. Maybe Hell resides with us on Earth...like a sour neighbor. One who doesn't mow his lawn and drives your property value down, which only we Americans find annoying.

I could have two cars and a broken moon in front of my lawn in another country where I scratched and clawed through life and God wouldn't be quite the prick that He is to those who are perfected through the privileged life...Heaven through the eye of the needle type shit. But that's the American way right? I have the means and the finding to be my own God. I don't need God, because I get my own wishes brought to me by the stars I shoot down with my "anti-aircraft guns" of fortitude. If I'm foolish enough to believe that, then cut me down...which I'm not...truly not. Adam was only a spectator. He did exactly what I would've done. He trusted the most beautiful creature in the world. Her curves led him to the fall. I guess she wanted to know shit, right? It's funny...the Bible explains, in detail, the inherent nature of women. This may sound sexist, but I don't give a shit...they want to know everything...at least those I've been involved with. And that's not just to say those who were romantic with me. Every one of them. They are the most curious creatures in existence. Their very nature is to analyze. Their very nature is to have a bead on that which they are enthralled with. Once they have every detail mapped out, they are hardened with moving on to something else that they can immerse themselves in.

God Damn their fish-like ways. Shine something flashy in front of their eyes and they bite like a tiger shark off the coast of California. Don't blame me for my parallels Mark Twain...you did it too. Your complete inability to figure out the opposite sex is exactly what has plagued all those with a penis between their legs. The phallus is your greatest blessing and simultaneously your greatest curse. Don't make exceptions to me...for you know EXACTLY what I speak of.

Eve.

It's not only the spin cycle that their minds are on. It's the ruling of emotion that rules their days. For fucks sake...HOW CAN EMOTION RULE THAT MUCH??? It's all-encompassing with them.

I am totally intrigued by their ways. And if you're a girl reading this...then YES I've been intrigued by you. Swallowed like a whirlpool in the sea. I'm intrigued by you. More so than anything else this world has to offer. Even every fiber in the muscles in my abdomen tense when my mind examines your every move. I'm totally fucking intrigued. Like a scientist studying your every move, I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know your biological patterns, and the peaks and valleys that you oh so comfortably find yourself in, when I'm trying to find level ground to place my feet.

God put you on this Earth to drive us crazy.

I wonder about God's intentions.

God bless celibacy. I understand. By the way, I trust Your every omnipotent move...even if I don't trust it.

I think on some level You might be able to relate. I mean, for what it's worth, even You couldn't control those who were closest to You.

Hyper-Sensitive Trigger Finger

Father says to son, "You've got to take your time. You've got to learn patience. You kids nowdays...especially you boys...you think everything is going to happen for you all the time, and when it doesn't you get derailed. That's the problem with your generation. You always try to be Superman, but you forget that even he was Clark Kent the majority of the time."

Son says to father, "But Clark Kent didn't have to prove anything to himself. He knew he was Superman. He didn't harbour doubt."

Father says to son, "Welcome to manhood son."

Eddie Rickenbacker flew for years over Europe engaging the Red Baron's "Flying Circus," ripping bullets through the air. Both knew of each other, both respected each other, and both wanted to bring to the other their final breath. Although Rickenbacker never found the crimson wings in his sights enough to deal a fatal blow, it was the thought of bringing down a foe of equal or greater power that kept Rickenbacker in the air and caused him to be the most decorated Allied pilot in the first World War, and one of the most famous fighter-pilots in aviation history. He was intensely devoted to ridding the skies of this seemingly unconquerable foe, but his purposeful (and respectful) indignation for von Richtofen, even in the absence of his ability to track him down and end his reign, led him to be the face of the US Army Air Force for the coming generations. It's what some might call a fateful reward for "patience and devotion to the ride."

But where were the seeds of doubt? They were surely riding high in the skies as a co-pilot. The Air Force almost sent Rickenbacker to the bloody trenches of Europe to serve as a bullet-sponge amongst the infantrymen because of his perceived lack of "aviation expertise," but he continued to familiarize himself with the mechanics of not only the aerial weapons of war employed by the Allies, but of flight itself. He learned the physics and nature of flight, with an almost preternatural willingness to become flight himself.

Nobody sweeps your room for you. Nobody draws water from the well for you. Nobody breaks the stallion in your absence. If you want to ride, you have to bleed your own blood through the dirt.

The same dynamic can be found in Pat Garret's incessant stalk of William H. Bonney through Lincoln County. Or George Patton's unquenchable desire to not only destroy Erwin Rommel, but do so in a fashion that wrote eminence in the history books. He wanted to crush Rommel like a dried-out clay jar and let the sand sift through his fingers. For it was in Rommel that Patton found his scripted destiny. Rommel was the greatest, and to become the greatest, you have to surpass greatness.

Of all these circumstances, there is a common denominator...respect. Even a year after Bonney's death, Pat Garret released a pointed, if not overtly exaggerated biography called The Authentic Life of Billy, the Kid. Respect and patience. Patton would've fought Rommel in ten different lifetimes if given the chance.

Far removed from the destruction of an individual, lies the point to whatever the fuck this is that I'm writing. The point lies in the accumulation of the victory over something impossible and the attainment of what was once thought unattainable. The target in sight beckons your move. It stands in the distance for a fleeting second giving you an opportunity at fulfillment.

I don't think it takes an unhinged, maniacal schizophrenic sense of tunnel vision that so many historical figures possessed to attain such goals, but I think it takes a certain amount of commitment..or a fire, if you will.

I've asked myself why do such thoughts cross my mind so frequently in recent days, and I have no answer for it. I can suppose that maybe it's a part of feeling my footing in this world through the aging process, or maybe it's the search for something greater and more fulfilling than the prescribed living that I fight tooth and nail to avoid. I don't know what it is, and even the fact that I write out my sentiments (mostly privately), and the desire that prompts me to do so, are unknown to me at this point. What is important, or to me at least, is that these thoughts are crossing the mind. That they are finding their way to the surface and being arranged in a somewhat coherent manner...even if it only makes some sort of sense to myself.

Sometimes I think I'm going crazy.

So what was it?

I swear my intentions are good. So why do I have to wait?

Here's To...

Here's to the words.
Don't stop talking now.

Here's to the warm days.
May they envelop us in their entirety.

Here's to the girl.
The girl who is the Edie Sedgwick to my Bob Dylan.

Here's to overestimation of circumstances.
May they forever be overlooked.

Here's to the futility of depression.
For high waves follow close behind.

Here's to the inebriated archangels, drunk on salvation.
When the hell-hounds pursue, they descend to drive them away and shepherd us home.

Here's to the armistice.
It's been a long time coming.

Here's to the venture capitalists.
Funding the crusades of their unworthy sons and daughters.

Here's to the transparent alibi.
Easier to read than a neon sign.

Here's to the incessant need for our wants.
Oh, how each continues to evolve.

Here's to those we've lost.
And their headstones which send us to shivers.

Here's to the unhinged love of our youth.
It can never be bottled and contained for future consumption despite our best efforts.

Here's to the laughter of a person.
It can bring strength to a thousand men.

Here's to the physical attraction factor.
Misleading us daily.

Here's to flashlights.
Rejoice for their innate ability to always look to the future.

There's a hole in the bucket, Dear Eliza, a hole

Like a freshly opened wound, it pours out all my warm ambitions. I want to pour myself over the world.

It's been recently brought to my attention that I, strangely enough, simultaneously appeal to the light and dark side of people. An unlikely blessing and a curse. But you cower like a defenseless puppy in my long, dark shadow. It's unjustified, because I am intensely devoted to my ideals. I desire to leave things better than I found them. No matter how much it hurts, or strains my senses. No matter the insurmountable climb and fall. Better in some way.

I hate it when people confuse having a wild heart with a damaging inability to be content. They are not one in the same and it's a turn-off. Through attainment they are exponentially different. And through appreciation they stand alone...one on it's own legs, and the other on it's shaky insecurities.

A Costa Rican moon hangs low, suspended like a blade, ready to drop and sever the ties of a pyschological crisis, bound and weighted down in the depths. I've seen what they've seen, I've heard the poetic words. The words are like music. Angel dialect, a chorus of praise beset on those willing to hear. Those willing to sing with the words are those who run free and their hearts are wild.

A Strange Threshold

New walls and faces, streets and signs, voices and numbers, girls and dogs walking down the street, fax numbers and business cards, bosses and colleagues, keys and bills, stores and restaurants, bars and churches. I lie awake and embrace "change anxiety." I stare at the ceiling fan and wonder if the people I once met in an old city will remember me. I miss them in this moment of a few sentimental seconds. If they'll think about my time with them. If I'll see them again. If it matters. I won't sleep well tonight, but I will soon enough. I am vexed by ambivalence this evening.

New perspectives are nice. If there were a bride I'd carry her across this threshold for good luck.

It's strange. Right now in this very instance, everything is strange. Everything. Nothing is familiar. Everything is strange.

I like it. I like where I'll be at the end of this week.

You used to say, live and let live. You know you did, you know you did, you know you did...

On the Precipice of Change

Job offers are comical. Especially when there's doubt, but there's always doubt. I already like the rolling hills and the rivers even though it's cold as hell here right now. That's quite alright...in two weeks I'll be settled in a place much, much warmer. Too much thought has been given to not returning from Costa Rica. I have already blueprinted a legitimate plan in my head of how I would situate my life back in the States should I choose to go all Darwin and hop the hypothetical Beagle for an indefinite expedition. It's actually quite scary and perfectly exciting. I could make the colones.

I'm promising myself a few things. I hope to hold myself to these promises. While I furlough a few ideals long enough to have a plan established, I'm keeping them warm on the backburner. Everybody needs a plan. And a speech. You never know when you'll need a speech. I'm surrounded by hipsters...which is great...they're a funny breed...but I like it...because nobody will look at me strange when I go all weird. I liked saying good-bye to the Neon City. It was strange, but appropriate. This town is stunningly affable. I think we are going to get along very well. I see it being a long and passionate matinee love-affair. I assign nothing to expectations.

I like staring uncertainty in the face to see who blinks first. It's unsettling. It's terrific. And it's maddening. I'm happy.

Hard Charging Fool

When the drug hits the vein the strut becomes more pronounced…a gliding walk that is aided by the breeze floating through downtown. They can see the reflection in the silver spoon that was previously shined by their tongues. “I’ll show you the world tonight babe. We can see it. We all can see it.” Who says that?

I like the reflection of the beaded water after a summer rain with the neon sign showing through each drop and the prism of color cast into the night air. We all look at our reflections, admiring the selected threads, in the tinted glass with the electro-funk music emanating out into the line, beating with the rhythm of our hearts. The bass brings you to life. Everybody pays cover here. Some wallets are heavier than others, but apparently tonight we’re going to see the world.

I observe a messy Kleenex with spires of blood...”wait...this is one of my favorite songs...”

“...and it’s hard to believe the mess you’re creating. With your triggers and trash heaps, hidden and waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey.”

There’s no power of refrain on the lips of the children tonight. It is hard to believe. I don’t seem to care, no one does. The only thing on my lips is Bulleit Bourbon and it tastes mighty fine this evening. It’s a nice compliment to the Vicadin I visited with earlier. They slow-dance together in my belly, and their vibes send a sense of calm throughout my bloodstream and into my limbs. Stop my anxiety and the restlessness that is ever-apparent in a moment of sobriety.

Swaggering over are the bad boys and the bad girls. Swing-rope diving into whatever river of decadence was chosen somewhere in the neighborhood of 6:30pm to 8:30pm, when Sprint, Cingular, and Verizon digitally carried plans from one hipster’s ear to the next. Some perfected gesture of hand-shake is given and topical conversation is exchanged. A girl looks at me. Then looks at my friend. Then looks at me again. The look. I know that look. She’s a blonde though. I like brunettes. Whatever. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. I’m sure she’s bored. Or I’m sure she’s boring. They always are.

Next song comes on. I don’t much like this one but for the mood it’s about par.

“...life is just a lonely highway. I’m out here on the open road. I’m old enough to see behind me, but young enough to feel my soul. I don’t wanna lose you baby, and I don’t wanna be alone. Don’t wanna live my days without you, but for now I’ve got to be without ya...I’ve got a pocket full of money, and a pocket full of keys that have no bounds. But then I think of lovin'...”

Geez...play something else.

Fuck it. “What’s your name? Oh yeah? Is your last name Sarandon? It would be much cooler if it were. YOU would be much cooler if it were. What are you drinking?”

What lies outside these walls is none of our concern. We’re twisted. We’re suspended. I think to bring up the important matters that I wanted to share with my friends, but hell...would it matter? No. I can’t stop staring at the girl in the sundress in the corner. Maybe she has some answers, or would like to hear those that I can offer. Maybe she’s not crazier than a boiled barn owl. She probably is though. They always start out normal. Much to my disappointment...well, it ends up quite different. It seems my friends have retreated to the bathroom…yet again. I’ll have a cigarette.

‘Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse?????’ I fucking love this song...who the hell played this fucking obscurity? I’m buying that kid a drink.

“...heeeeeeeeyyyy, let’s cross the sea and get some culture. Red wiiiiiiiiiiine with every meal, and absinthe after dinner. We look good side by side...walking back to the hotel. We’ve got to get something to eat and to drink yeah. We’ll find a place to stay that’s not far off the main way...we’ve got to plan our day...Rodin at the Orsay...and find a way to cram it all in before we drink hard again...let’s get a bottle and drink alone tonight.”

“Yo, have you heard that new Arcade Fire album?” “It’s pretty fucking cool. Where’d you guys go? Oh right.” Our vision as a collective is getting more rotten. Not just visual vision. Pathological vision is getting worse. In fact, if we were in an open field in Europe during the war with a Browning .30-ault-6, we’d be sawed down. We can’t see past our own noses right now. Could we ever though? I’m not sure that we could. Then it hits me. BAM!! Fucking psychosomatic distress. The brain shifts into high gear, and starts hurling violent vibrations down my spine. A pretty fucking large existential crisis starts churning behind my eyes. It always does at this point. Oh shit...we’re the middle children of history (sound familiar?). We’re likely unfortunate parallels to The Sun Also Rises. If Pete Townshend were here, I’d kill him. *Shit I had to get drunk just to write whatever this is* Smile though, don’t let them know what is going...wait, wait, wait, go have a cigarette.

That “Young Folks” song is still a fucking jam. It’s bringing me back to normalcy. Youth and young love. We stare at each other. Boys at girls, girls at boys, boys at boys, girls at girls, with hypothetical fingers crossed hoping that we intersect tonight with someone who carries with them the bucket of butterflies that our stomachs are so ready to ingest. Make me want you. We’ll flash that ever present sequence of events in our drunk, blurry heads thinking “insert YOU into such and such vision I’ve had of the perfect so and so.”

“...no one will surprise me unless you do...”

“So have you done any traveling? That’s awesome. Yeah, I’m actually going to blah in blah. I’m going with two of my blahs. It should be a blahtty, fucking blah. I KNOW!! Life’s too short to sit around and not see the blah. I think it’s so awesome that you’ve blah. So what do you do? That sounds blah. How’d you get into blah? I have a blah who blahs...small blah.”

What????

Another cigarette. Someone has a camera. This is the interestingly unique time when we do things that wouldn’t normally cross a mind of sobriety. Because who loves it better than to look over these digital images the next morning and say things like, “MAN, shit got crazy last night. You remember this girl? Wait *clicking through* remember this one? Remember what she TOLD ME? HAHAHA!! I KNOW!! Fuck man...what was her name? She told you that too??? What a crazy bitch!!! Myspace worthy? This girl was awesome...remember her? Who talked to her most of the night? I thought she was pretty cool...I talked to her for awhile. And who’s THIS dude. He just stumbled over and started throwing up gang signs in our pics?!?! What a douche. HAHAHA!!!”

We lose one of our party to a fight. They’re too busy sorting it out with the significant other. After a 45 minute text message skirmish, they have conceded and lost the battle, BUT hopefully they’ll win the war. I close out their tab for them. “Good luck with that. Hey be careful...holla at me tomorrow.”

Wow, fucking clink the beers, it’s that car commercial song...

“...see me driving down the street. I’m bored with looking good. I’ve got both hands off the wheel. The cops are coming. I’m listening to the music with no fear. You can hear it too if you’re sincere...cause I’m a...”

*Screaming* “You know this is Iggy Pop right???” “Yeah he does vocals for this song.”






In youth, there are moments that we strive for. With youthful integrity we hold onto ideals and dreams with a death grip. The sad part is that many of us have to watch them die before our eyes. The thing that is our ultimate hope is that we can hold onto those ideals and dreams with our youthfulness and somehow collide with maturity enough to see them to fruition. But mostly we watch them die. We are the kings and queens of modern society. Our cares are minute, comparatively. Only to be born in another nation. Our mothers would mean more.

Bad boy lines up and boots the game winning field goal sending me home. Fucker always wins doesn’t he? I blink and you’re gone.

Not this time. I’m convinced...slow and steady wins the race.

I love my friend’s stories. He’s a lot like me. Too much like me. Because he is me.

In Defense of Minimalism

If providence is our most powerful ally, then minimalism is it's weapon of choice.

I've come to realize through an incendiary thought process that what I'm really looking for more of is 'less,' and as recently as right now, I still believe that while I want more of things, I want less of the things that bring us less.

I've always told myself that you should never get overtly attached to something that you can't fit through your front door in a housefire. My main point in this philosophy is the specific inclusion of only the people you care about in this life, and the specific exclusion of those things that get in the way, and obstruct our paths of safety and fluidity. Easier said, "people can walk through doors better than your foolish wants and needs, and ultimately are infinitely more important." I think minimalism takes care of this philosophy.

Too often, I am completely amazed by how insipid people can be. Taking in, consuming, and returning only a fraction of the energy or worldly effort it took to acquire whatever it was they desired to acquire. This lustful ownership over things, be they ideals, material belongings, people, financial entities, or whatever...it bores me.

Some might say, "well where do you stand?" "Are you so swamped in abnegation that you don't believe that we have to claim ownership over anything?" Actually...nobody I know would say that to me, but I'm finding the holes in my own argument, and for each of them I have a rebuttal. Of course we all claim ownership over the things our heart desires. I have friends who desire any and all the world can throw their way from a material standpoint. I'm dumbfounded by it, but it's natural human existence. I have friends who take on a more ethereal approach to their ownership who not only publicly state, but privately live their lives to make the world max out it's potential and be something worthwhile. I defer to the latter of course and my preference for self-awareness is usually found in my friends of the latter. I often find myself loving my friends of the former, but end up patting them on the heads in an almost patronizing way and saying to myself, "it's okay...you can't help it...you don't know any better." Asshole-ish? Maybe. But maybe not.

Maybe some people just are more self-aware. They see the efficiencies and inefficiencies of life. Unfortunately for them, they also are privy to the catatonic despair that can creep through your synapses when you see the world from a different angle. It can become disconsolate. A feeling of hopelessness can find a fertile breeding ground in a mind of this type. People whom I've noticed, and in my opinion don't have a certain matter of self-awareness, aren't as easily victimized by the 'hopeless factor.' Their limits are met by the meeting of their desires, and at times, they become sedentary and fortify their 'position of acquisition.' This is especially true when you contemplate how easy life is when you accept things only superficially and don't utilize inquiry, completely devoid of any functional intellect. But living life that way is not really living, is it?

When you have something that satisfies you, be it worthwhile or not, your sights go no further than that object leaving you in it's grasp. Of course, this is all subjective. All of this is my opinion and the whole argument is based on what I (or anybody) would deem worthwhile or not, but my point here is to at least bring light to the dynamic. So where does that leave the seeker who is never satisfied and always looking for the next best thing? Trapped. It leaves them trapped.

Trapped to the pursuit. Which in effect, is the actual object which keeps them from fluidity. You see, we all have the things we desire in life, whether it's a new car, a successful career, a fabulous lover, a rolodex of memories, world travel, financial security, happiness, contentment, and on and on. The thing is though...nothing is guaranteed. None of these desires can be met, and all of these desires can be met. That's the beauty. Nothing is guaranteed. But my reason for supporting minimalism is in this point: Being attached to things you have no control over or to the pursuit of things that have control over you is going to make you a prisoner. Having fluidity to claim ownership over only the most basic and important necessities in life is going to give you a better chance at fulfilling these desires...and with self-awareness, you might just find that there's an acceptance out there that you couldn't have imagined.