Stranded

I search for meaning in every breath I take.

My eyes peer, glazed and dripping life,
through the chilled September breeze.
My lips yearning to taste it.

What sacrifice must I make?

A slow motion movie constantly in my head.
I live through the imaginary,
and imagine the reality.

Here I am settling.
I've accepted failure,
I just want to fail doing what I love,
loving who I need.

Stranded....



...with my head in my hands.

Escape During Low Tide, Head for Shipping Lanes, Never Think Twice

We sailed safely into the night,
On a raft of misconceptions,
and dead bodies bloated
from salt water and sun.
Pressed forward past the breakers,
drifted with the current,
followed by sharks,
waiting to feast on our remains.
The sun stuck us with blister,
burnt and unrecognizable,
our skin dry like leather,
slipping from our bones.

Modern Living

I have met love,
witty and opinionated,
challenging and defiant,
she is love.

not my love,
not your love.
just love.

she is joy,
small gulps of blue moon,
small slender hands.
she is love.

not my love,
not your love.
just love.

I grasp her hips,
swinging back and forth,
mid morning breeze.
she is love.

never my love,
never your love,
just love.

eyes, deep and piercing,
unselfish, highly motivated,
the smell before it rains.
she is love.

why not my love,
why not your love?
she is just love.

Hollow Earth

Hung myself with that rope called hope,
dangling three inches from the floor,
and the chair's turned over,
making no attempts for support.
Death follows all men,
He just walks a little closer to me,
Forgiveness now a memory,
created for the weak.

i love the new blacklisted album

I am, I am extroardinary

Wake up early, in deaf silence,
the sound of rushing water comforts me,
stand with my hands against cold tile,
hanging my head, feeding the fire of that belief:
I am insignificant,
I am insignificant,
in the mass amount of time that blue dot turns,
I am insignificant.
and on the comfort of moon-lit porches,
howling songs at the moon,
that guitar screeching like tires,
just slightly out of tune,
and it sings:
I am insignificant,
I am insignificant,
unless I make a choice to make a difference,
I am insignificant.

That cold breeze,
hands in pockets,
shivering spines,
warm wool sweaters,
north face jackets,
waiting for that white powder,
fresh, for angels to appear.

Ten Pounds

watching seeds grow in salted sand,
hands reaching up, pulling at our shoe strings,
tying knots to keep us close,
gravity is a lust of one's inner being,
those that stay are
those that are condemned and those
that evoke the worldliness of faith.
Faith, what a clumsy word.
heard it too many times
running out that old steel storm door,
hands clasp, knees throbbing,
Sunday morning crucible, and I speak on
what I do not know.
So what if I don't want to be?
What if he didn't want to be when he was all alone?
I saw him in my dream
and felt the world hum.


Oh these roots. these roots keep me close to home,
humble and away from the road.

Just as we are, and am, variables and space. Who are we kidding? It's been you and always you.

What if I don't want to be? What if he didn't want to be when he was all alone? I saw him in my dream....I felt the world hum.

Rapture

Do you fear?
Do you fear as I do?
That quicksand in my stomach,
at the very thought:
disease stricken bodies,
torn flesh in the cracks of our teeth.
And I fear,
that warm hum of silence,
as the world stops turning,
dilapidated buildings, crumbling statues,
withering, decaying, failing.
And I fear,
that last slow hollow emptying of air,
from lungs that once raised the chests,
of young men and women,
the blue faces, purple lips, and shut eyes,
six foot holes, steel bins, toe tags.
And I fear,
to come to two paths,
and choose poorly,
to look back and find that I have changed,
or to see that I have not changed at all.
So I ask, Do you fear?
Do your fear as I do,
of broken hearts and limbs,
of long dirt naps,
or following wrong paths,
so much so that you forget,
to ever live at all.

"The best pace is a suicide pace, and today looks like a good day to die." -Steve Prefontaine

Write something that is true to yourself. Sing something loud, so everyone can hear. I will be better, I can be better, or I'll die trying.

In the midst of midnight mornings blush,
powdered cheeks of rainbow dust,
starlight's distance gaining lust,
to the coast, boom or bust.

Market Street

I've seen your face in that passing car before,
it seems so familiar and inviting,
I wonder about your past, your present, our future.
I've slept and seen you in my dreams,
ever so lovely, beautiful, marvelous,
and yet you soon become distant brake lights,
into the edges of twilight's oblivion.
Love is quick, and passes with every moment.

Mother Mercy

And so all things I love do fade,
The vibrancy's that once brought joy
to life's inconsistencies now wilt with falls flowers into winters clutch,
choked by the lung stinging breath of her ice cold chill.
hope, no longer young man, as time will catch us all.

A sense of instability is my crutch,
Yea I'll keep laughing while the roof comes caving in

Indifference

That warm hum,
yep,
that needle to the earth,
that warm hum,
yep,
at the center of the earth.
It turns,
It turns as those pearly gates are chained,
with platinum locks,
while we wait our turn to pass,
baring witness to the sanctioning of God,
yep,
that hum is still there.
Those gypsy kids still march,
blood red boots, curbs flushed with flesh,
stepping through the mounds,
that used to be their heads,
yep,
that hum is still there.
and all the while we are wondering,
why we're all alive.
Sound waves still thinking their larger than life.
The Rhythm keeps me safe.

Where Cowboys Dare

Love you Uncle John. Rest In Peace!








....like every grain of sand

Petitioning An Empty Heart

Those grains of sand passing slowly to the bottom. Time is endless in a world that doesn't count on time. Time is endless when its time to shine. And all light beams streak the stage. They know us, we know them, all too well. Now we are obsolete. The stress of divine intervention, seems to wear us all down. Sun Bleached White, marked for hell, strapped for cash, just can't get well. I feel guilty for my sins, God don't know. I feel guilty for my sins, no God don't know. Pass the proof, mother earth send me home, pass up safety, mother earth let me roam.

I will never be a great writer....

I am limited by my lack of experience.

World War Z Baring Down

"Are we son?" his short breaths begin to slow as he watches the clouds roll in. "Are we all meant to suffer? Do you believe that you've truly suffered?" The pause leaves room for a response but the son can't find the words to fill the void. His lips are blue, frozen. His tongue is heavy but nothing clever rolls from it. He planned for a moment like this. To lash his tongue deep into his fathers flesh. To match those scars that a few shards of shrapnel had left. "Just like many questions, there are no answers, just awkward expressions that hold truth." The sons hands now begin to shake. "I watched men roll over grenades and have holes punched through their stomachs. Limbs torn and strewn across long expanses." The winds picked up. The sweet smell of wild flowers carries past. Gently, their hair moves. "I watched as our units vehicle hit a land mine. The mass of flames and steel rolled over my friends leaving me sitting in their mush. I sat their in tears for two days. They found me laying in the desert sand." His expression hasn't changed. It's getting darker, rain begins to drip slowly onto the curves of our shoulders. Picking up as time passes. "I wear this scar on my shoulder as a reminder, that I was lucky, that they weren't." His eyes wander from the sky to his son. "Son, you don't know suffering. You know nothing of the sort to be exact. The surge that's coming will surely bring you to know what suffering is." Faint images appear to be walking in the horizon. Flesh eaters. Empty vessels. Human Serpents. Both dead and alive. The wind picks up their smell. Rotting. Their slow walk turns into a mad dash. "Well, it seems like we need to hurry up. They'll be here in a few minutes." The sons body hits the ground, his eyes, once filled with fear, are now empty. Hollow. The only bullet his father had left in his gun, used to take his sons own life. "Suffering. I truly know suffering." He sits, rubbing the warm barrel against his temple. He sits on an old hickory stump, waiting for the living dead to over take him. This was his gift to his son. "Know not suffering son, know not." Moments feel like hours passing through him. He can now begin to hear their feet stampeding toward him, but he doesn't hear their moans, their howls. It gets louder, right on top of him. He hears a booming voice, "stay their, we're lowering to get you. Help is here."

Drudge

In times of peril, we grasp for those safety nets,
hope we crash softly, fear not, know not, am not,
and we try to allow our tears to bring hope,
a purge of weakness, a new found strength.
No nets beneath us, no ropes to ease us back into place,
fear not, know not, am not, can not.
and each dream brings us clarity,
each grain of sand intensifies the purge,
Fear not insecurity,
Know not suffering,
Am not a plague,
Can not truly die.

Heroes exist in those that lose all hope, faith, security and even against these odds they seem to gain true clarity.

Bright Lights Burnt Out

And they pile high in excess, tears still streaming from their eyes, the hot lights and bright sun tan their skin, the sweat, the blood, each one dying sooner or later. Children, all of them children, that quick crack, the strap runs up my back, cutting the flesh, with each snap, new warmth. You could see the skin peeling into the air. Dig me into the ground. Tunnel me into the ground. Save me, Save me. Last of a Generation. Last of a Generation. And as I dream, I drown, and as I breathe I suffocate. Time’s run out.

we can learn a lot from bumble bees. I've noticed that they have an easy time getting into tight spaces but have a terrible time getting out. They stay there and suffer until they die. Alone and forgotten. We spend our entire lives trying to find our way in to whatever we wanted to get into...it's getting out that's the tricky part.

I am no one....

I am nothing

We Expand On Collapse

Steele structures, rising upward to vast heights,
up and out, manifest destiny, up and out,
at the tops, small lights that used to blink
reds, greens,
magnificent stars shining in unison,
they all rust and become weak,
climbing their curling stairs,
now a danger,
each step, a trial, a tribulation,
insides gutted by times effortless trials,
so swift,
so unforgiving.
rusted machines lining the roads,
once moving, now abandoned clutter,
times cruel reminder of insecurity.
glass glimmering from broken lamp posts,
smashed windows, Kristallnacht,
abandoned apartment buildings,
expensive high rises,
the rubble still there.
The remains of denim designer jeans,
torn and disassembled,
strewn through each of the streets,
high jungle weeds grow through the concrete,
entire sidewalks devoured by swamp grass,
bits of planes strewn from corners,
finding their paths through desolated buildings that burned for months.
Some things are constant,
the wind still blows, the sun still shines,
the sky still blue.
Silence,
my ears are deaf with silence.

Each Point Remains My Center

In my dreams, I see oceans
bone dry, skeletons of large mammals salting the earth,
I walk it's desolate deserts, I follow it's bottoms,
large mountains rise above me, I move through its caves
I find heat rising from their warm centers,
I close my eyes and see the future, nothing bright,
nothing safe, all desolate, unforgiving earth.
I close my eyes and see windmills,
they turn slowly as the a breeze finally brushes past me,
the earth has stopped kissing our backs and faces,
fluttering warm summer and cold winter air gusts through us,
I feel it in my bones, and taste it on my tongue,
nothing more to understand, no more to love.
Deep breaths and I find forever,
in the moments before sleep.

and the perfect day begins with the a deep seeded feeling of disappointment.

I want to do something with my life

before it's over

I met a Man at the center

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)



From empty bellies of times misgiving,
stand, with trunks digging deep into earth,
washing the sickle's feet in ash.

Let drums hum, deep and dividing,
marking god's footprints, tearing, ripping,
grasp at it and feel it slip.

And cobbled stone left stained, enchanted,
lips holding, poised, jaws shaking,
feeling despair settle into your syntax.

He speaks, "Just as tumult subsides,
bright light doth bring anew, fear not
the pain is endless, but the end is near."

From promises now forsworn,
from Gaea's bosom, Colossus is born.

If a generation of dancers lives peacefully, count me in.

There is a rhythm to my madness,
the girating compression of joints,
swinging rapidly horizontally,
and I don't care who sees.

My hands grasping sky,
in daylight, in moonlight,
feel it taking hold,
and I don't care who sees.

Moving gently with the breeze,
and wildly with the ocean,
if the beat is what fills you,
don't care who sees.

Mine is a dance of agression,
happiness, sadness, loving, glee,
and I move to the rhythm of my own madness,
come and dance with me.

Give me paradise

Those same violins keep ringing in my head. How old songs go unforgotten. How fond memories never fade. How each hour feels like a fleeting moment. I miss it. I miss those days. Not so long ago, I felt alive. I lived for the sake of movement, the passion in slamming my hands against floors. the blood, sweat, bad back, headaches. Those basements, small rooms, highway convenience stores. Yellow line Paradise keeps calling me home.

Days pass by and everything stays constant, the wind blows, the sun rises and sets, the trees stretch their branches to the sky, the birds sing, the bees hum, the world turns, and turns, and turns. And I am to believe that I'm meaningful, I'm a mere speck on the continuum. I am a mere dot, living on a pale blue dot, living in an ever expanding universe, that is a dot in another universe and so on, and so forth. Merely everything and nothing, I am, I am, spinning and spinning, living and dieing.


There's a screen window here, a small hole in its right corner. it's been there since I was young. It never looked so old. Slightly rusted and worn. Not as taunt in its frame but who isn't with age. A little loose in our frames that is. that same black oak branch is reaching toward my window. The one that spit shadows against my wall when I was four. I was so scared of those shadows. Now they watch over me. They know who I am. What I am. How I am. There is a closet here, slightly cracked. As if someone is peering thorough at me and there are. The faces of thousands of old baseball players staring at me. Those musty old cards stacked miles high on the top shelves. I must have a million. How I love them. How I love them so. It smells of dust and gauze. Oh how I've become accustomed to those smells. They linger in my nose even as I leaver. They run deep into the fabric of my clothes. I don't mind them, those smells. I have grown quite fond of them as well as the fresh gauze that wrap my empty cold heart. Where every room is a prison, I stay hidden.

Those same 'ol ashes

Somewhere along the line you lost your way. Spent years shouting for change. Waited for the world to adapt while you stayed the same. You've spent too many years staring at your feet to not know where you stand. And that suites you.

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.

Stay Gold

That same uphill battle,
me against the mirror,
told that I'm too short,
therefore I can't,
told that I'm too fat,
therefore I can't,
told that I'm too dumb,
too ugly, too uncoordinated,
It hurts to know that,
people still feel that way,
about me.
I'm lost, can't find my way out.

Rejoice

Everyone's laughing but I can't bring myself to smile.

To Things Forgotten.

Huck,
Click, click, click, click, click,
Huck,
Click, click, click, click, click,
outstretched arms catch wind against that old flannel,
those worn jeans with the honeycomb against the back of your knees,
that backward ball cap that gathers sweat,
those vans that just fit perfectly on your feet,
because your toes are worn into the canvas that lines them,
the cuts, scrapes, bruises, tickets, and late night push sessions,
spotlights against ledges, black out security cameras,
cops telling you, you need to leave,
the thousands of signs that read, "NO SKATEBOARDING,"
that moment of ecstasy when you land that big trick,
that one you've spent months learning,
the labels, the road rash, the broken limbs,
all for the love of,
Huck!,
click, click, click, click, click,
Huck!,
click, click, click, click, click.

The Trees Canopy grows, and changes colors with the seasons, but never forgets what shade it was.

He feel asleep a young boy,
and woke up a young man,
removed the sheets from his body,
and stepped onto that cold, wood, floor.
Dusk and dawn collided out his front door,
he, in a trance, danced to the edge,
of a small cliff a few hundred feet from his home,
sitting he grabbed a handful of sand,
and let it drift through the cracks in his hands,
catching the sweet spring breeze that chilled his bones.
He began dropping small rocks off cliffs edge,
and heard each one klip and klop to the bottom,
with each small sound growing fainter and ever so distant,
like his memories, and his past.
Aging and falling farther from the surface,
getting away from the ground it once called home,
spinning wildly away from its dreams and hopes,
forgetting its useful existence as a mere grain of sand.
Faster and faster it goes, picking up speed,
and at its furthest point away from both surfaces,
it reaches a terminal velocity, until it comes back to its original state,
hitting hard, yet sitting back on earth.
That young boy now a man, and that man still a boy,
listens to those sounds to understand,
that we are alive once,
and then, well maybe, just maybe, never again.
Gravity seems to have that effect,
A lust to hold us close,
praying for us to just let go.

Misery is the only company I keep.

I want to be buried in an unmarked grave,
shallow like my breaths.
Enough so that I can feel the rain,
but deep enough to connect to the earth.

The Heavy Hands Of God

Sometimes I miss having you here.

I took up the habit of wishing on stars. Then realized that they've been wished out.

I spent last night dwelling on poor choices. This morning I woke up and wanted to meet someone to share creativity. Not someone who pretends to be creative. The difference lies in the lie.



Love Dance Infinite

She was twirling her hair with her finger,
grasping at stones,
throwing them gently
at glass houses.

I thought I heard the sound of concentration breaking.

wrapped together against her,
we competed for a dominant position,
to attach at the lip,
and I can still feel her hips.
I heard her exclaim,
"King of the Hill"
I was willing to give up the ground,
I feel her weight on my wrists.

We rounded each others bases,
mimicking gravitational lust,
while exhibiting polar opposites push,
all while being tangled tightly in bed sheets.
Her breath against the swell of my neck,
our legs intertwined,
the slow drag of her fingers,
raising goose flesh along my back.

Dawn nears through eastern facing windows,
colors catching white walls,
those shadows now stalking the edges,
of the corners of our room.
Peering deep into those mirrors,
noses grazing tips in circular fashion,
the soft press of pedaled lips,
I twirl your hair in my fingers.

Pause.

I thought I heard the sound of concentration breaking.

Something is Happening. Can You Feel It.

::Transmission Begin::

It is unquestionable, that in the belly of humans, there is a discontent with the imminent, a thirst to destroy, and a need to believe that material gains are the only way to prove that we are god's chosen few (the puritan work ethic). The majority of the world has bought in. That discontent with the imminent, whatever that beasts name be, boils in the blackest portions of our stomachs, eating at the lining of our hearts and tearing through our lungs. So that each breath be haunted with that disease. We know not its name because we choose to ignore it instead of face it head on. Finally that discontent meets the world and begins to destruct. Today, 12 men and women, were shot because of that gluttonous beast whose name we do not know, who lives in each of us, and unless we do battle with that beast will always remain in us. It will reside in the darkest trenches of our beings. It will fester and implode. I am in turn left with questions, is this is a message from God or are we forgotten with the rest? I was always taught that if you have the ability to stop the evils of this world, you should make full use of that ability. Even if your own life is lost in the struggle.

::Transmission End::







"Rise like lions after slumber,
In unvanquishable number!
Shake your chains to earth, like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you-
Ye are many; they are few!"

(Read from Howard Zinn's, "A People's History of the United States." Poem Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley and titled "The Masque of Anarchy."

These Colors Don't Run

I grew up in a city of wealth and prosperity, I grew up with two parents who loved me, and the environment that surrounded us fostered creativity, Now I watch it all crumble beneath my feet, in a crumbling economy, in a land of uncertainty, and fear makes me believe that nothing is coming, nothing better is coming and even now I watch Rome burn slowly.

And they all told me to pick my chin up, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off my own two awkward feet.

To fix our problems you gave us a uniform and watched the bodies pile to the sky, a youth so violent, so loyal, untrusting, self loathing, satisfaction seeking, self serving, and wasteful human beings. What do we owe them when they’ve given only their lives.And what happens to old fathers, their stories and tales, forgotten.Can we not learn from them?And what happens to old mothers, who’ve already seen their sons come home in a pine lined box.

So to rid myself of these pains, I buried myself under the dirt, and committed myself to the earth, waiting for flowers to grow.




WHEN HAPPINESS CEASES TO CREATE STABILITY, SEARCH FOR THE MOMENTS THAT YOU WERE ALIVE.

Spit and Piss

these depths,
curling up inside,
already burning on crosses
they've built of dry timber,
etching out the means,
to feed humanity.

God give me the will,
to perish before I get,
to see the innocent rot.

I doubt my wishes will be granted (I've already seen it).

these depths,
hold secrets,
funneled into the darkest portions
of small intestines,
clutter the mess,
in piss and shit,
only to be revealed,
in the vowels rolling
off your tongue.

I hear the voices,
trembling spirits,
giving ghosts,
haunting sermons.

and in our darkest days, you'll always have complaints.

in these depths,
chastised servants,
bound by intelligence,
hands tied tight in knots,
un-bow their legs
so they may walk,
un-bound their mouths,
so they may speak,
lift the weight from their chests,
so they may breath,
or do you fear the,
plagues they would release.

I feel the hands,
grasping for the sun,
digging at the earth,
howling at the moon.

it's a daunting task to live a life of captivity, servility, sterility.

in these depths,
darkest trenches of war,
we pay to cum,
we kill the seed,
we spread freedom (?),
no atheists,
in foxholes,
no fear of death,
in the forgetful mind,
and I hear them in my sleep,
screaming through the pain,
and I hear that loud crack,
to ease their way to oblivion.

Even in my dreams,
they're their,
waiting for,
meaning.

Goodnight dear, Goodbye, to the smell of spit and piss,
overtaking me.

Solemnly Sworn

My Brother, My Blood.

I've told stories of fearless grandeur,
some over exaggerated and occasionally flawed,
but today I speak truth,
whether It reaches you with open ears,
or closed mind,
I do not care because today I speak no lies.

My Brother, My Blood.
Born.

Hands clenched and screaming,
Teeth clenched and screaming.
born of warriors blood,
boiled with the warmth of the sun,
lips perched north,
and you sing,
"an honorable man,
shall live forever."

heart pumping love,
smile bright and embracing,
restless, strong, forgiving,
intelligent, athletic,
charismatic,
child, boy, man,
forever mine to cherish,
heart and mind.

And They'd spout,
unclench your fists son,
and they'd spout,
keep open hands son,
but you kept them shut,
those unforgiving knuckles,
inflicting hate on those,
who stole happiness,
from beautiful souls.

My brother My blood.
death.

Stand tall my brother,
at the gates of judgment,
let your heart pump love,
and your smile shed light
on the man,
Strength in turn shall be rewarded.

Take your rightful place,
Amongst Titans.
Let Gaea embrace you as a son,
and Neptune keep you warm,
in the blanket he wrapped the sky.

You surely cannot die,
for you are a COLOSSUS of man,
My Brother, My Blood.

Never has it been so true

I promised myself I wouldn't lead you on. So here it is confused and flawed. As foolish as these words may seem. As foolish as I may be. See, I'm just a factory worker's son from a railroad town. And yeah, I can feel the steel mills rust. But Iìve been doing my time and I've been thinking about getting out. I'm running fast the other way down a narrow dead end road. I know this won't be the last time I sing "These dreams will be my anchor. These dreams will be the death of me." Through all this I've been feeling like I'm slowly burning out...nothing is all bad...nothing is quite right. So I kept inking and screaming from my room...the only way I know how to...I'm calling out to you. I'm calling out to you. Nerves wrapped tight around my spine. I'm past the point of caring what the rest of them think. They've got the fear. They're holding back. And this is for the go-for-broke common-muck few. And this marks the end of an era and the start of something better. What can we do when the war is all around? The veins are constricting the pressure is coming down. What can we do when the war is all around? The veins are constricting. The pressure is coming down. Everyone knows we're living in a world we just can't trust. Left in the wind to die in the dust...so we spoke up. Crazy, Ugly, Illegitimate...never again. We are the symptom. We are the torn in the side. They scream 'til it hurts. They can't sleep. I want to be one of them. We try. We bleed. Endless. Broken. White. Lines. And we don't care anymore. I don't give a fuck. 'Cause I'm one of them. Our rebel hearts will turn restless ghosts. They can never truly kill us and we will never truly die.

-MODERN LIFE IS WAR "Hair Raising Accounts of Restless Ghosts (A.K.A. Hell Is For Heroes)

Progress For Vultures

I am not as creative or as eloquently put together as other people. Over the years I've watched friends become strangers with familiar faces. I've lost just as much as I've gained and feel good that I'm even close to breaking even. Self-esteem doesn't live here, I'm as good dead as I am alive.

That said, all I do is listen to Cat power and Snapcase, while reading constantly. Life is good. Never been better. Worst ever.

Hey there vulture,
swooning in the glare of the sun,
stirring the whirlpool in your kettle,
you can't just wait to taste blood,
no one can get near that diseased carcass
that you call life,
I long to quit you but all I get is dry mouth,
spitting sand at all walks of life,
so you can pick me clean,
white of bone and dry of blood,
it seems you keep popping up when
I least need your affection or attention,
I wish to quit you but you sense the end,
and retain a drive to ruin all that warms me,
block out the sun so as to shade my eyes,
block out the sun so we can all be blind.

Impervious to the dry desolate kingdom of earth, he strives forward, “do not fear the divine, we can rebuild what they can destroy.” “Foolish words from a drunken tongue, speak wisely or these may be your last pleasant breaths of air.” “I surely cannot die, I am a colossus of man.” Cautious be those who spout wisdom from lack of knowledge, more cautious be those that listen with a trusting ear. Staggering to forgiveness, grieving for life, he mocks death as it smiles upon him. To understand understanding is to begin to heal. His last breaths. Now peace is eternal? I hope that your god forgives you for all your sins. I hope that the life you live chokes you as it has choked me. I hope that you are thrown far from the narrow road you walk. I hope your deliverance brings you eternal suffering.

Praying for a miracle, I have to choose between life or death, has life been created out of kindness or wrath, technology seems to be advancing our hate, media biased warrior culture thriving on lack of understanding, progression for the sake of progress, losing hold, losing soul. How important are you, holding grudges on the lifeless. How politically correct. I fester inside your heart, only to stop it from beating. I am the opiate to the masses, I am cynicism, I am the web. See you at the bottom.

Teenage waste is shed on you and me, you are so self righteous, stop your crying, because I ain’t listening. A million have it worse, third world hell hole, no one to hear their pleas, no one to calm their conscience, is my son dead, is my family buried beneath the sun, hunger is setting in, thirst is setting in. You pray for things to be better, he’s tired of listening to your petty pleas, empty heart, empty mind, no remorse. And we are all doomed for your sins, if he’s still there at all. Send me nothing, I walk alone, because a million have it worse.

‘Wipe that smile off your face son’ abusive to the core, ‘If I told you once I told you a thousand times’ taste the satisfaction, my anger is my disease. I’ll feel better if I hit her one more time. Down the hatch, it tastes like success. Work is hell, hell is work, life is pain, so we pursue our American Dreams. Go ahead get that chip off your shoulder, ‘don’t talk back to me.’ I hide myself at all times, behind a cloak, a label, and a bottle. Peel the flesh from my bones, so you can see the rot, peel the world from my shoulders, discover disease. You have entered my frame of reference, ‘BE THE DREAM’ and all is silent so all is well.

I fell in Love with a world that COULDN'T Love me back

In those open eyes,
reflecting back fresh painted yellow lines,
I hear the car door slam,
and we're off again.
The time will pass,
by counting those rusted railroad tracks,
better pray to god,
that storm don't roll in.
Again we stop along that old highway road,
heading west, waiting for the world to swallow us whole,
curious are these words,
I watched the spider weave.
Here the sun is unforgiving,
It'll take the soul from your body just for living,
pedal to the floor,
roll the windows down.
That bead of sweat,
rolling off your brow from your forehead
caught by the wind,
air conditioning your brain.
Although we're fried,
We'll get there quicker and in half the time,
they want us dead,
they may get their way.
I inhale smoke,
the engines blown and won't cool down with Coke,
bottled up,
so the sun can shine.
I've lived in sin,
but just this time my heart might give in,
to stay alive,
you have to choose.

I walked a day through the desert sands,
left to die for killing another man,
but he would have killed me too.

Culling Songs without Titles

Eyes drop to the floor, he cannot bare to look you in the eye. Blood crusted around the edges of his nostrils, taste the spit, foul fractured face bones metal plate to seal the bond, the world meets you at your lowest point, feet anchoring you to the worlds gravitational lust, barely holding on, that which is now created will never be again, and yet you’ve settled for less, you allowed yourself to rot. Eyes lodged to a technological break through, nostrils barely snorting air and dust, you passed out and hope you never wake up.

May weary days come crashing in, may vital signs be growing faint, alive or dead I’ve found elegance in every deep gasp of air. A journey of mind, body and soul ends in six feet of water, a toe tag and a worm infestation, but it was worth the trip.

Do you fear, do you fear your end? What way will you go, a mass extinction of building egos. Or do you fear, do you fear the change of times. How an idea can kill the very foundation a generation was built upon. Are you afraid that your originality will be bought and sold, afraid that you were educated to provide lips for service. May my mouth be the vessel of discourse and remorse. Carrying waves of sound through willing ears to be regurgitated and resold. I am the enticing cynic who spits upon the fabric which morality was sewn. This is my plea for hope that this is the end of your generation. This is my plea for hope, may this be the end of your generation. May I be the carrier of the disease, may every breath I take infect another life, let me infect all those that can hear. Let the world know you are not a slave.

Enter the life that calls for you, breathe in, it’s all you have left, just breathe, but you know that some ones waiting. Your hotel room is quiet but you enter anyway, she begins to undress and it all seems surreal. She’s already dead, you’re already shaking, your blood pushes through your veins, faster than before. You can taste the air, its thick with sweat and mold, neither of you says a word, you just dance around each others bodies. Her eyes are sunken into her head, skin drips from her cheeks, hollow and alone, lost and immersed in the poison that has plagued you for years. All it takes is a deep breath and your guilt is gone, your conscience submerged in cannibalistic thoughts. It’s all you have left. Empty and torn. Pinned between body and floor. From your sleep you’re stirred. Soaked in sweat. Time to move on.

Exanimate

Everyday passes with no accord; we share the light and process the adaptation, maybe we can step forward, from the bottom we burrow, and sink, and decompose. Fall deep into the shadow, and fear the comfort lost when you’re still part of your own skin. Ignore, Ignore, Ignore, in massive migrations we burrow to the center, to the center of the hollow earth.

TITAN

Life is monotonous, life is static. And all of your will has been removed. I shall run oceans dry; I shall scorch life to dust. Where change has brought no virtue, I will remain to consume. This crossroad, neither path shall lead to a center. Time and space, destroyed and devoured. Can you feel your mind running weak? You were born under the veil, possessing the means within your hands. And you will reap what you sow. I HAVE FOUND IT IN FILTH AND SORROW. Almighty Gaea, mother of all life, deem me your titan, I shall find you in the earth, and I shall find you where mountain meets sky. Move your feet, lift your anchor, one step and change begins.

THE ALCHEMIST

I leap forward to catch my tongue, I smile crooked and show my teeth, and all those that fear shall come to know my name. I belong, to the Earth. This is goodbye. WATCH AS I TURN GOLD TO SAND. May we realize we all share the same fate, let this be our bond while from either shore they rise, to destroy us. All HEARTS REST WITH THE SETTING SUN. How far are you willing to go. So I hope you can understand, why I'm leaving you, in the absence of death, I am the end.

May these words reach you in deep slow breaths.

February's arrows through hearts leave dead men come March

How can I write about love when all I know is pain? All I know is false hope and crushed dreams.

Anyway, my friend Missy is planning an event that, this year, that will benefit cancer research. It will consist of food, live music, booths, games, etc. The festivities will occur sometime in May. Not sure on the exact date. If you or anyone you know, knows of anyone who would be able to help out in anyway, let me know. Thanks!

Furthermore, I've been writing a lot more Poetry? I guess you could call it. I'm not sure if my form is any good but as far as I'm concerned, anything that art is art. No boundaries, no stipulations. Just you and the things you feel. Simple and delicate. Intricate and rough. You can thank my buddy Taylor.

Toes hanging off the edge of town,
the sidewalks ended, run out of ground,
and the sun slips through the sky, down,
while I stand in the lights of that old ford.

The engines still running into the night,
the tail pipe smoke curtails towards the moons light,
drifting like I used to, like I still want to, like I still am,
through a that old cemetery known as life.

Just another coal mining town, where children come to die,
Just another dead end road baring witness to time,
we were all friends, and we were nothing like them,
and we've got death constricted, wrapped tight.

I just don't want to continue to pretend,
like everything is still alright, like it used to,
and I can still taste that red lipstick on my lips,
look how clumsy time has made me.

mutterings

The ever so inviting sweet smell,
of candles burning, cigarette smoke and home cooked meals,
and the warmth that builds inside my bosom,
when I cross that white frame,
rushing through that screen door,
large bag of unwashed unmentionables,
left sitting on the floor.

I tied all my hopes to a string,
and cast them out into eternity.

we grew cold as the world grew old,
we grew apart, like magnets.

strong current of electricity,
burning holes at the bottom of my feet,
conductor, conducting, insanity,
grab hold.

"My Candle Burns At Both Ends"

I packed all of my things,
into a nike duffel bag,
and walked out into a blue morning,
into a small van with six friends.

Most of our time spent,
driving, waiting, sitting,
coarse straps of nylon,
wrapping us safely together.
The warm summer air my blanket,
a side panel door or a shoulder my pillow,
off ramp and on ramp,
starbucks bottled espressos fighting sleep.

Those bottles ringing off the pavement,
80 miles an hour down an empty road,
the spark of bright light and loud shatter,
dives deep into Babylon oblivion.
Seemed like we were going nowhere,
and still it feels that way,
All those hard wood floors,
and nights spent in our van.
How days used to seem to run together,
and how moments of insanity,
seem like moments of clarity,
and how the end was written in the creases of our faces.

I've prayed to wake up to those mornings,
to wake up in another place, another town,
All those nights thinking I wanted my own bed,
I find, now, myself addicted to white broken lines.
Sitting together in all those late night diners,
spent so many hours inside my own head,
because the only place I felt at home,
is in a van and on the road.

Twenty minutes of loud expression,
undeserving faces and mis fortunate ears,
ounces of self devourment ripping at cartilage,
sweat, sweat, sweat, for destitution.
This is my perfection. You can't take it from me.

Stalks

"A Ship Close to Harbor is safe, but ships were not made for this purpose."

In my heart, it is what it is and to those who wait, good things are bound to happen. A mantra that sits in my head. I want to meet someone that I can wake up to every morning and say, with every ounce of honesty in my heart, "I love you."



I grew up in a small town, that grew exponentially, outward and upward, forward and backward, where trees outnumbered the money in your pocket, and wealth was measured in grains of sand on an abandoned winter beach. We grew and our friends became withering stalks, and we watched them wave in the breeze, Dancing to the rhythm, bundling together in the moon lit marshes, a scene I hadn't seen since I was a child, when my father and I watched a storm roll in off the inlet. They left as quickly as they came, rotting into the earth, becoming mud and trampled beneath loud machines, slaves to a grind, men and women with no futures, to become chained to fruitless marriages at young ages, they want to be in love, so they make believe they are in love. they are resentful children whose parents "messed them up," they pray for their better years, so they buy big houses, and loud cars, and smoke pipes, and drink every night to dull the pain, just because they want to be stalks again, so they could measure happiness in grains of sand. Arise Colossus to a new day.


The constant is the dull stabbing feeling in my side, puncturing my lungs. The fluttering is blood loss.

I went to a wake today. I'm never good at those things. Life's been good for me but has come to test others in ways I could not begin to imagine. So why do I have to be happy while others hurt.


The stinking filth under my fingernails,
dirt coiled beneath them,
so I bite them lower.
In public I curl them into small balls,
into small fists wrapped tightly together,
hiding them from eyes.
I bite and bite until they sting,
I tear at the skin until its red and raw,
The hurt lets me know I'm alive.
I remember when I first started,
Sitting in the library in second Grade,
bored and uninterested in learning.
I began to nibble, and spit the chips to the floor,
I felt the pain of fingernails cut too short,
they bled for the first time.
No longer stinking filth underneath,
but dry blood crusting the edges,
embarrassment still coating my face.
I bite them not out of nerves but out of boredom,
I bite them sometimes to feel the sting,
All because life is living itself around me.
I am not living,
No Not Yet.
What a filthy habit I have.



I walked in,
Black Shirt, Black Slacks, Black Tie, Black Coat,
The feeling of remorse on my face,
The feeling of "I'm Sorry" and "My Sincerest Condolences."
I held you in my arms,
you hurt more than I could imagine,
I try to find soothing words,
There are none.
Your mother is gone and there's nothing I can do.
"She would never want me to quit,"
I cut out, I am no good at these things,
"She loved me so much."
The cruelest of places are when you are settled,
Right before you're going to sleep,
Sitting up at night wondering, thinking, pondering,
life and its mysterious happenings,
nothing but why's, why me's, and why her,
My heart sleeps with you on those nights,
May a part of me lay restless to soothe you to sleep,
May your God be generous in giving you peace,
In giving those you love peace.
We Used to play ball together, and joke,
You had a fire about you, you played hard,
Continue to play hard, because life's hard,
It doesn't recognize winners and losers,
just those willing to fight until the end,
and those willing to give up without incident.
You said there were no words to describe it,
There still are none.

Strays

The heavy hands of God baring down on you,
the pressure so inviting,
to crush our skulls.

Fearless are we who seek the bottom,
the lowest rung of civilization,
the essence of truth,

I have seen the sun and all hands reach to grasp it,
They have seen the sun and all hands reach to grasp it.

The river flows in drops,
through the cracks in old hands,
weathered and calloused.

Fear engulfs their young eyes,
terror embraces their expressions,
"Love No Longer Lives Here"

In shadows we dance and sing,
In filth we dance and sing,
In the dawn we dance and sing.

Each hair torn individually from my brow,
from the top of my head.

If you see her ask her about me,
Does she even think of me anymore?


"Cattle die
kinsmen die
all men are mortal.
Words of praise
will never perish
nor a noble name."

A Clenched Fist Becomes An Open Hand

Below is the transcribed version of Barak Obama's Inauguration Address. I saw it on TV (while sitting in a dentists chair having my teeth cleaned) and felt kind of "meh" about it. I rewatched it on youtube and read along. It's words carry a thousand pounds more weight than they did when I first heard it live. Enjoy!

I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.

So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land - a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many.

They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America - they will be met. On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted - for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things - some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.

For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.

For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.

For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn. Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.

This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions - that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.

For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act - not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age. All this we can do. And all this we will do.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions - who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them - that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works - whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. And those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account - to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day - because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control - and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart - not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake. And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.

We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort - even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus - and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect.

To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West - know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us today, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages.

We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment - a moment that will define a generation - it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends - hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism - these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility - a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

This is the price and the promise of citizenship. This is the source of our confidence - the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed - why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

"Let it be told to the future world...that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it]."

America. In the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.

That Itch...

No not the "mosquito bite on your elbow" type of itch. Not the "I've been rolling around in the grass" itch either. Definitely not that "crabs" itch. In my bones I feel that need and want to make music again. I have this deep yearning to want to make something meaningful again. To perform something so beautiful, so chaotic, so prolific...and not have it be for anyone else but myself. I don't need the whole recognition thing, it's not even about that. To be honest, if everyone forgot who I was, I think I'd be much happier. I just want to make something delightfully auspicious.

In other news, Goya is Colossus and according to Tom Petty Nirvana was like a Sickle to Wheat.

Here a Flower grows,
No sun to support growth,
No water to revive life,
No love to nurture,
No faith to speak of.
Here a Flower Grows,
against a concrete wall,
in a pile of sawdust,
with a will to blossom,
and the grit to endure.
Here a Flower Grows,
my stem be strong so I may stand,
my pedals be bright so I may shine,
my thorns be sharp so I may defend,
the life I protect on my own.
I am the Garage Flower,
No sun will shine on me,
No water will grant me life,
No soil to call my home,
I will survive on my will to blossom,
and grit to endure alone.

"Might a tempest relieve me of sound and sight.

Might I unearth the hatchet and put it to proper use.

My hand is poised and in fury.

Only thunder gives me rest

Dare me to Breathe, when I can't catch my breath, Sway my tempers balance."

And that’s where you left us, skin melting, face down in those ditches, inhaling mud. Let it be bliss. Let it be a malfunction. Hanging from the meat hooks of evolution, here’s where we reside. A statement with no validity or meaning, wrapped in sugar coated terminology just to appease our own lust for inhumanity. Your fists are all still in the air. The sky is raining shrapnel and feeding us our own intestines. As I choke and spit the blood that is now caked to this coat, I gasp, “we will all see the will of truth upon us.” Leave skin hanging from the reeds in the mire. And the sun sets to empty lungs and quiet tongues. Man is the pawn.

The Great Worm...Shai Hulud. We will all learn that we have judged ourselves from the onset of our existence. Why should the end be any different?

Nothing to Wake up to Tommorow

diving closer to the center, I grab it, the rock. I hold it to keep me closer to the bottom. In the all but still wave of the ocean's current, I feel pressures handshake. The ringing in my ears has yet to subside. Through murky water I peered to the surface and saw pounding waves and bright sun. Eyes thirst for tears in a sea of salt. Have you ever accepted death? Have you ever said goodbye? Wondered what you would have said and who you would have said it to? Thought about your last kiss? How you didn't really savor it? The light press of cushion against the warm moist object of your affection. The deep passionate pose, how seconds turn into minutes, and minutes into hours. Slowly running your tongue along the lower lip and then against her own. Allowing your top row of teeth to grasp your own lip, pulling it into your own poised mouth. At that moment, serenity is granted, as she runs her fingers through your hair and pulls you toward her. Slow. Deliberate. Breathes. The set passes, the glaze over the cool ocean water tells the story. I gasp and fill my lungs with air. I held my breathe for what seemed like hours. I went down myself and came up a different human being. So close to death. I really did almost drown.