G-boro Guerilla

Three cheers to a watered down nation. (more to come)

and he keeps writing despite no one is out there reading.

Perseverance.

Neighbors

those vibrant colors, a pandemic, the rushing sound of images, wavelengths, incredible. We cannot discern the end, or the meaning it holds, but we can bare gritted teeth to accept the suffering. March sons, March. Know every inch of our land, so that you may one day rule it with iron hands. Off on the horizon, I perceive their crafts, glimmering, shimmering, doom ridden, rotting drift wood, pulling small pieces from its hull. We met only by chance, found love by only first glance, danced in the comfort of our minds, and shed each others blood on dunes. March suns, march. Catch your breath for only a moment, catch your tongue and sing.

Then we realize, our measly existence is a mere speck on this time line.

Jumbles of Normals and their phallic intutions

I no longer speak in the rhythm's of madness. I sow the fabric of truth. I make messes that I cannot clean up, I shed the shackles of this zoo.

Sydney's calling, and I can't answer the phone.

We met miles away from shore, in that old wooden raft. Where we soon shed our splinters and focused on the task. with doom curling around us, we planned to make our mistakes, while we pulled at the ocean, we attempted to make our escapes. Sunshine sure can be a killer on a cold winter day.

The knock on the door tells me that we're alone.

Always Losing Yet Still Evolving.

I was too young to realize that I'm nothing without you.

Desserts

Marginalized and categorized. Turned over and under. Reused and forgotten. You must understand that we are not what we believe we are. We are not who we claim to be. That expression lurking on your lips. No over. No under. No reason. No why. Sinking and Sinking, to the bottom we're near, not fighting to escape, because all my friends are here.

Tonight, Bjork playing in the background. Something so beautiful grasps me and I can't explain what it is. I saw that violet sky give way to anger. Smashing and Growling, bright light reaches from the sky to feel the earth. Like a lover so far away. It comes back and can't keep it's hands to itself. What a version of fond heart growing older. It doesn't matter though. I'm alone, stuck with my thoughts. May I learn to live this way or die a foolish man.



Update on life: I'm in Grad School now, working to become a teacher of history. My class is amazing. My fellow students make me smile no matter how I feel in the morning and my teachers are unbelievably caring. I couldn't ask for a better fit for myself. Although, it's a lot of work.

CH. 8 The Myth of Being

" When there’s a million more miles to roam
I think of the life left for me back home:
A “paradise” to watch their “greener grass” grow
And all the time to be alone…?"

I was at the point. The point of being asleep and being awake. The lids of my eyes still wrapping the tight ovals of my eyes. I was at the point of living and transcendence. I was in the middle, the purgatory of sleep yet I was still dreaming. The loud roar of an excited family. I've played baseball all my life. It really is a passion of mine. I was never that good, not as good as Teddy but that never mattered to me. Fifty percent of life is just showing up. I love the game. There I was, hands reaching down to pick up some soft dirt. I rubbed it into my skin to absorb the moisture and watched it run through the seams of my coarse hands. I was in the on deck circle, a bright gold and black uniform with gray sliders pulled down underneath my cleats wrapped my frame. My helmet bearing our insignia. I turned to my rear to see my brothers smiling face. He had just left his game on the JV squad to watch us play. To the left field fence, I saw my parents gleaming in the sea of people. It was an important game. It was a state game. We hadn't gotten past the first round in years, but this time we made it. "STRIKE THREE." yelled the umpire. Gene Piscalli struck out. Two outs now with a man on second and third. It was the bottom of the ninth in a game where we were down one run against Maguire Regional. I stepped up to the plate, cleaned out the holes in the batters box with my cleats and stepped in. I took two check swings before the pitcher came set in his windup and decided on the pitch he was going to throw. With a nod of his head to acknowledge the catchers signal, he threw me a fastball right down the center of the plate. It was a pitch that just screamed, "Go ahead fucker, try and hit me." I swung hard and just caught a piece of the ball, sending it sailing over the backstop. "Strike One."
I stepped out to take my breath. I needed to slow my heart rate down. I was in a big situation. The game was on my soldiers. I turned and looked at Teddy, with a smile on his face he said, "MAKE IT HURT!" I dug in and watched two more pitches miss the strike zone until the third brushed the outside corner for strike two. Another deep breath and another pitch. I swung as hard as I could, tried to push it through a hole to score a run. I tried to put it in play and give myself the opportunity to extend the game for even longer. Instead I swung through strike three. The game was over, my stomach turning. Teddy came over to me and just said, "Sometimes we win. Sometimes we lose. Today was our day to lose, but tommorrow brings a new day dawned for us to overcome greater obstacles. The one thing that stays constant though, Brotherhood." He took his hand and grasped my forearm, and I his. Our heads collided in our as we spoke the words.

I suddenly woke up and sat straight, sweating and breathing heavy. I was panicked and needed to get out of the van for fresh air. Leaping over bodies, I soon found the door and moved my way out into a parking lot out front of a Walmart in Tennessee. I just collapsed to the ground, my back against the back passenger side tire, sobbing lightly into my hands. I had run out of tears when I quickly grabbed my notebook from my back pack. I began to write:

Piles of filth and regurgance of hate, that's where I've lived these past two years. Everything filtered through deaf ears. Everything seen through blind eyes. and the weight of divine providence was too much to bare. I led the way with a vessel, my tongue, cutting words in the songs I've sung, telling stories of distant hearts and desert sands. Asking myself, how far are you willing to go. Turning gold to sand, Turning gold to sand. I want you to know that you broke me, the other day when I lost control, when everything ended, when I stood outside for an hour thinking how easy it would be to walk away, yet my feet stayed planted, when nothing held meaning anymore, the cold kept me awake, the water kept me company, the sand was my bed, I just want to thank you for the opportunity, to live again, I owe you that. Hollow Earth is always with me, It will never leave me.

This is when we discover the myth of being. The myth that we will be forever. When we are at the bottom of the barrel, losing breath beneath the weight of the world above us. When we feel we can take our own lives but find that we can't. The moments we put guns in our mouths, wiping the depths of the barrel with our tongues and find that we don't have the strength to pull that silver trigger. When once again life regains enough focus to let us know that fear resides in us all. That death, the unknown frightens all of us but we continue to live with death looming. We know we live, but for what. To just be, some may say, is the goal of living, and people begin to sink their teeth in to this myth. Yet, if you were to open your eyes, or close your eyes, or just listen, or grasp any aspect of life. If you just let your guard down long enough to become completely vulnerable to the looming aspects of this world, you'd realize and fully grasp that this myth of being is merely faulty accusations to keep people in line. To continue to pump the economy full of drugged up depression filled cheap labor who know not better. But I've opened my eyes, I am at all vulnerable lows, and I am no longer just being. It's not good enough to just be, I have to adapt to the damnation laid out in front of me. I will not just accept it and push forward. I will react. I will prove my worth. The Garage flower is born, shed no light on me.

The rest of the guys were still sleeping and I had to use the bathroom. It was about 9 a.m. and the other guys were still sleeping, tucked in the back of our van. Scrounging for room to lay their heads. There really is nothing better than walmart. You can find refuge in their parking lots for a fort night and most of them are open 24 hours a day, which offers a full service bathroom and air conditioning as well as anything else you may need. Be careful though, you meet some of the oddest people in the world in a Walmart late at night. No odder than you and I, you see. I guess odd is just a bad word, lets just say different and interesting. As I walked in I heard a middle age woman walk out singing a Cat Power song, low but loud enough to catch my attention, the words buzzed from her lips, "Once I wanted to be the greatest, two fists of solid rock and the brains to explain any feeling...." she trails off and comes back in, "...and the dregs of my bed cause I've been sleeping..." I lose the low hum of her voice to the world around me. Walmart is busy, even at 9 am, to start the day.

I get into the bathroom and find the nicest urinal on the wall. The farthest corner looks nice. With two more urinals to my right, I leave no temptation for anyone to create an awkward moment and pee next to me. I head to the sink to wash my hands. I stare into the mirror. The cut over my eye tells a night of intensity in Virginia. We played with bigger drawing bands, to people we knew from the hardcore scene in New Jersey who had moved down there. 150 kids, small club with a stage and a lifetime of friendship. You get a pretty good reaction. While someone was stage diving I took a heel off the forehead, right above the eyebrow. It bled, but it didn't matter. The adrenaline was there but the black and blue stayed. "Another reason for people to stare." I repeated to myself but then I noticed someone had drawn the minor threat black sheep in the top corner of the mirror with a black sharpie marker. A reminder that even if I'm alone, I'm not the only one.

I gave myself the most incredible sink shower to clean up. For those that have never been on the road with a lack of conventional showers, let me tell you, it is the best feeling in the world. With the buildup of sweat and oil, it gives you that boost to start the morning. I walked from that Walmart to find the rest of the guys stirring. They were starting to feel the effects of the heat already building in that sauna of a van. My heavy heart still sinking in my chest, the weight no longer unbearable.

Peter Frampton Time Machine

In those dense few minutes before morning,
I forget why I am,
and contemplate what I is.

A pour shape of excuses,
I tell myself I can't,
I won't, never happen.

I used to smile,
constantly,
and I still do,
I just focus on,
the clouds in my head,
and they've been raining for days.

How is it that I no longer is,
and focused on the why's of who I am?
That's why I'm not,
and never will be,
as long as I focus on those clouds.

The Sun Rises and Sets, and still our time is endless.