grow lil' tree. grow. grow. grow! plx

its very night,
and i.

don't know what's in me.
this push. this puuuuuuuuuuuush.
toward a bed and out the door,
together. we. are.

i'm learning a remote control.
i'm learning pancakes.
i'm learning bills, and debt, and my first gray hair.

bells. scooping up my books, my bag,
flying fish and invitations
full of decor like lightening,
and fuck, maybe,

unicorns.
dragons.
a dying tire, sighing brakes, the long shadows of ex's and a worm
out history of families, broke parts make
believe.

fixes, and a plead
for soft landings. sex

plus us.
plus everything.
see?

part one

1. your nose
2. your distracting jawline
3. your stubborn positivity
4. the humility of your upbringing
5. the complexity of your upbringing
6. your love of shopping
7. your willingness to give
8. the honesty of your pain
9. the art buried into your instincts
10. your passion for celebration
11. the sincerity of your tears
12. the sincerity of your touch
13. watching you eat a chilli dog
14. that you dislike scary movies
15. that you like mushrooms
16. your eyes
17. ok, your body entirely
18. that we are mosaics that have settled for along time for finger-paintings. they are abundant, easy and very fun but were never ready to see all our complex parts. their idea of us as a whole was incomplete, and when, inevitably they were faced with the details of what life next to such a muddled work of art looked like up close they mishandled us or we simply could no longer endure the simplicity. now between one another, each piece makes sense, is beautiful on it's own accord and in terms of the whole. we are surely uncommon. we are surely wasted when entirely devoted to the common. we are no longer adrift in finger-paintings.
19. your martini order
20. that you aren't afraid to work
21. when you get snarky
22. that you will drive anywhere
23. your honest love of sushi
24. your honest love of people beyond race or disposition
25. the way you take photographs
26. the instantaneous stress of a missing key or misplaced object
27. your affection of harry potter
28. that your heart beats so hard i can feel it through your ribs
29. the gravity you assign to celeste green, errr turquoise
30. when we grab furniture that someone else has thrown out
31. the way you eye baking items when we shop for kitchen things
32. your love of a grocery store
33. your commitment and indifference to your cat

what has been, what will be, come to this one end, this present. lessons from bed.

lit bulb

when you redefine the function of a bed.
feathers
the entwined cotton
the hum
of an air conditioner.
the red glow of digital clocks,
and the creaking of an old wooden house we are too involved to hear.

together.

they take the agency of all the globe ive ever known.
they are the busy streets i stumbled into.
the bars i shoved across.
the taxis i pushed into.
the reverberating walls i leaned on for support.
the ground i crawled on to find my wallet's contents.
the girls that yelled, swung, brooded and went cold.
the end tables, coffee tables, bar stools, and periodic tables
i fell into, i crashed right through, or blew.
the sum of a history comes,
    reeling
to a lone focus,
in a simple room. we are
      heavy
   matter.

all the time i've ever poured
out, like an apathetic exhale

is now heavy on you. wrapped around,
mussed up, and across whatever part
of your structure i am nearest.

and then our arms and feet,
wind 'round like vines.
dangle off the edge among
clothes
clothes
pillows.

fingertips,
tracing lips or slip
down along

your cathedral ribs,
magnetic hips.

middle america: i thought i could never love you, so entirely sorry.

light rays bend along the surface
heat, oh Ohio roads.

yellow lines chop at you
asleep. these arteries of interstate
we circulate, to go
home. oh, Ohio moans...

for more sense,
more dinners in small kitchens,
more friends.

and we,
Ohio's own.
a cake lover and a heavy handed drink.
we bend light,

across our surface heat.
and we,

remind our dear thing,
our adopted city,
to beat,

life out, across,
through it's streets.

oh Ohio, oh sanctuary, oh my Melanie.
time always goes on,
shaping the simple grace, that,
before we bore scars,
before history and broke hearts,
we couldn't see.

dear march, o you.

you're soooooooooooooooooooooo dead.
silly little fucker.
gawd, you were nice.
fluffer you.
thanks...............

rough-lil-month
i can see your spine
i can see your breasts
i can see the indentions in your lower spine
i can see the muscles in your abdomen bend , curl , heave
i can see you

rain on me
rain all over the
plants: the tall grass, the early azaleas
all over the dogwood blossoms
all over the lent, the foreheads swiped in ash, the plans for vacations in destin

i am trembling
i am drinking
i still smoke
i keep "losing weight"
i'm sure im falling apart
    like a storm tearing up some rookie leaves.

these are my,
my white knuckles.
im holding on
i am taking you with me. silly tree
stubborn roots
obstinant foliage
you glorious fucking flora

welcome to a new world
wilkommen auf der april
here's muh teef
my abdomen in tune with lapping waves
my steady breathing, like an old train
my piles of american dream
my lost self
my book burning wit
my scarred forearms and my X

hale.

i love, love, love concrete. strong, cold and complete.

   When i was in 8th grade i had a teacher named Mr. Teed. He was the varsity soccer coach and my 8th grade "Bible" teacher. I remember one day i started arguing with him about some very insignificant bit of theology because i had been raised presbyterian and he was a very devout southern baptist. he interrupted one of my objections to something he had said. The reason he stated for doing so was because he had apparently looked up my "file" because i was that big of an asshole already and he had noticed i had an very unusually high i.q. he felt that i should basically "shut up" because someone "as smart as myself" would know they were just being an asshole to fight all the time about things that were by direct inference only there to fight over. why he wanted to teach things that were implicitly meaningless wasn't really as much of an issue to me as the "idea" of my own innate potential.
   Potential. what the everlasting fuck my "potential" means is still almost entirely meaningless to me. i just got home. i was out till almost 5:30 drinking with whomever was willing to be awake and drink with me. i was awake because i get off work at 3 am. i was at work till 3 am because i work in a bar. i work in a bar because i needed some form of a job to pay my bills. i needed a shitty job because i am still in school and my schedule was limited. i am still in school because i can't seem to get a grip and do bullshit undergrad general education requirements. i cant do those because i am as emotionally mature as a 16 year old. im that way because thats when my dad left. i have been doing whatever i could manage to do to keep from dealing with the monotony of life because 16 year olds are that stunted and act in their own self interests and for the sake of direct stimulus, shamelessly. i went to school in europe, montana and even in russia to not just be "myself" and therefore live up to my "potential" but to just as much not deal with how "shitty" and "ordinary" life can be so much of the time. did i mention i went to school in europe?
   yeh, i did that. i went everywhere. i saw better concerts than anyone I've ever met. i stayed in nicer places than any full grown adult i'll ever meet(most likely). i drank more than any such also. I've flown in an airplane over 300 times. i saw a person die. i saw carnival in venice. i saw st patricks day in Dublin. i went to and got bored in the Louvre. i took off half my clothes for a picture in front of the Colosseum. o and i have scars. i have more scars than i have stamps in my passport. i have a million stamps in my passport. I've been to brunch in country clubs former presidents were members of. I've met a fucking former president. i was drunk. i own alot of suits and they all fit fucking beautifully. i know what it is like to win 1-36 at a roulette table in a mafia casino in moscow. I've been part of 8 people fitting into a chicago cab. I've been bitten in a concert. I've been bitten in bed. I've been bitten by a dalmatian not seconds after proclaiming i was a "beast master". I've watched marriages fall apart. I've watched long term relationships fall apart. I've watched classroom discussions turn into fights. I've watched fight's turn into tragedies. I've watched tears well up in girls eyes. I've watched a house catch on fire. I've watched myself like a movie hide a sledge hammer behind my back everytime i was watching everything else, and im sure i was the only one noticing. my guilt.
   yes, mr. teed, i have incredible potential. i do believe you. i do believe the test scores. i do believe all the tests after that. i believe the sincere eyes. i believe the letters.i believe the kisses. i believe the scars. I believe the tears and my entire lack of them, except when i see some commercial or reality tv show or very obvious movie... and all i can think is "why are there tears in my eyes!" i fucking wish i cried. i'd love the catharsis. but honestly why then, why with all this "potential" would i fucking tear up now?! i was the only one there when my grandfather died(the good one), and he said some meaningful things to me. i had nothing.
    I'd believe my "potential" meant i just came full circle to being affected by dumb shit i would normally associate to dumb people that, bless their hearts, wouldn't know better, but thats not true. tonite i stood in the middle of central avenue and took a picture of it with my i-phone. i was standing on the yellow line. there was nothing human and alive around. no cars, no dogs being walked, no joggers. i was alone on central at 5 am, punch drunk and, at 28, living up to my full potential. there is more. i know it. more than a resume of how low a capable person can go, and i am going towards that more. one foot in front of another, slowly down the yellow line, falsely proving my sobriety. for that knowledge and for the promise of my thirties... my potential and i are grateful, with teeth showing, crouched and ready for the pounce. whatever the noise is for a simultaneousness "rawr" and "sigh"... dear reader i assure you, i just made it.

haha fuck, who knows... im going to the bar.

a clean dark, just as nessisary

you you you
unscrew
every single star
burn and bomb
the forests to shards

this is flat ground

this smoke is clearing up

i have this spade, this rake

and a plan.

what a big moon that was!

curl all around, me? yes, me for now.

sometimes its nice to not have to think too much. a great way to accomplish this is get all emo after you've slept straight through the nicest weather Memphis has seen in 2011, realize you feel compelled to skew you decision making process during the course of the fast approaching evening, find some dubstep remixs on  youtube and finally write a love poem with rhyme that you have no intention of rereading or editing before you post. rawr for catharsis!

curl all around
kindergarden love poem for the night


goodbye day star, how warm
you are tip toppling right back
into the cold
the place i keep you.

dear evening, hello
here lets do that secret hand shake
lets high five, and to make it loud and alive
watch each others elbows.

lets play out our rituals
one by one till we've shuffled through
this silly dusk
till we've done them all.

and then i find my shoes
and you'll clear our streets
and i'll push caffeine into my frame
and all the other clues we use for our pet names,

with fall like dusty lions
to this new new courage
and a remix of our song, some dumbstep
of falling boots and lighter clicks.

the small fires, shaking
hands no no trembling lower lips.
dearest evening, dreamy eyes
cut nails and street lights.

we, you plus i
are building another already!
its only been a bed and a night cap
since we buried the last comedic bits of our most recent night.

teeth out and clothes tight.

yay tuesday: a pep talk for midterms week

cut it out.
pull you lips back
down over those sharp explorers
those teeth of yours
rearrange your hair
it's getting ridiculous
and no
you mockingbird
you emotional vacuum
you very deliberate wishing well
theres no crowd
no swarming mass of short breathes and endless approval
no wave machine to constantly lick your shoreline
pick up and move your trash
soften your broken glass
or quickly erase those imbalanced art projects
the drunk version of you thought would pass for sandcastles
your jokes about disposable art are getting old
and if you keep picking fights
with old people
libertarians
the devout
some asshole
collared shirt
truck driver
is going to create new pleats in his khaki pants
as he winds up a punch or does something worse with some random piece of sports equipment
like a bat or golf club
and if you even crack a smirk
thinking to yourself how silly baseball and golf are

im gonna drop you off a curb on the way to school, right in front of some compact car
and send us both to the emergency room.

love letter

Dear birthday,

   i stayed awake for every minute of you. i took your advice and introduced myself to people from various classes. i ignored how much my feet hurt and you walked next to me. you ran your hands through my hair. you bought me a drink and by early afternoon i could feel your hands on my back, pressing up my spine and ruffling my very metaphorical wings. which wasn't annoying this time, despite how often i explain to you their current sad state. before you pushed down the sun, you gave me a chance to look at some very wonderful people right in the eyes. you actually let my mouth do more today than just lick air, hide a clenched jaw and run up against glass. i think i know how much i loved it, tonguing syllables and and bothering to try, to fall on some swords, to put down a pencil, the pad of paper and play with the puzzles and blocks all over the floor of you. you helped me make some mildly wonderful point to entire history classes. you let me sober up, and when got slow like honey you reminded me to stop stealing other peoples art, get off a bed or out of a very comfortable chair and use my teeth. you gave me some friends, and they were so grateful they gave me alcohol and hugs and arguments about the UN and duhhh-bstep and the city school systems.  i could feel how proud you where of me the second i cut it out. i slept with no one else but you. i gave you all the effort a twenty eight year old could have, and still i woke up alone, stood in the mirror and counted scars for almost half an hour before my first cigarette, think the entire time how very satisfied i was with you. how much every inch of you had mattered this time. how startled i was having bothered to bother with you finally. i made coffee this morning in a fucking cloud. i made coffee this morning with a mild tremble to my hands and piles of gratitude.

sincerely and humbly,
b

vulgarity crutch: a kripple's approach to dialog

"Give me your shirt", he said between short breathes.
"i uhh, i... i can't... i don't want... what if someone sees me", she muttered while blankly staring off at the cement wall.
"Are you fucking kidding!", it's all under my nails, i can feel it on my face and in my hair, and it pooling under your fucking feet and you..."
"s-t-o-p".
"no, you stop being totally nuts right this second and give it to me right the fuck now!", he growled while drawing out each word as if talking to a child.
"ok, ok, OK!', her eyes flashed like they had minutes before and as she pulled the white t-shirt over her head she continued, "just stop being a dick."
As he caught the shirt against his chest his tone lost its edge and he looked at her silhouette glowing from a nearby street light and he felt compelled to explain, "i love you or i wouldn't have..".
"Stop, i really can't do this right now... just hurry", she interrupted.
As he winced drawing the shirt up his forearms he said, "My arms are clawed to hell. That was unreal, his fingernails where so sharp, that fucking awful sucking noise and the mess of red seemed like it just wouldn't ever stop."
"i feel sick", she coughed covering her mouth slightly, "please stop talking about it."
"sorry i really just can't focus. It feels like..."
"like needles everywhere"
"Exactly, like needles everywhere", he repeated, almost to himself.
"I'm cold, can i have my shirt?"
"It's entirely ruined."
"What isn't. I just want it back... all of it."

**************************************************************


In a restaurant kitchen as the cook begins to start closing down for the night, a server comes back to make conversation and kill some time till close.
“This should be interesting”, the cook muses almost to himself as he peers through the service window and into the bar area, “those two broke up last weekend and they just sat down for a drink together”.
“What?”, the server casually asks as he arranges a stack of one dollar bills.
“ That couple at the bar now, err I think they’re a couple. That guy she’s with is a dick, I mean he’s my friend I guess, but he’s a real dick”, the cook says firmly as he makes a forceful chop through a red pepper with a large chef’s knife.
“What exactly is it to you?” the server asks as he now looks up from his stack of small bills, “I guess what I mean is we see assholes in here all the time and you don’t generally seem to care”.
“It’s just weird”, the cook replies dismissively.
“Shit, shit, shit” the server masks a laugh with the top of his wrist, “That’s the girl you were talking about Tuesday!”
“Yeh”.
“Wow, dude, doesn’t she know you work here? I mean didn’t she say they were done, and she had been into you secretly for over a year?!”
“Yeh, I mean she was crying a lot at the time and I’m fairly certain she was high”, the cook said as he stared at what had become a very asymmetrical pile of red pepper in front of him.
“I don’t really see what some bitch crying a lot and being high has to do with leading you on. Well, at least the high part.”
“People do dumb shit when they’re high sometimes.”
The server shoves his handful of money into a back pocket and declares, “Well im gonna grab some pint glasses behind the bar and give them both the look-of-death or something”.
“Ha, don’t. It’s not worth the bother, and the guy she’s with, Trevor, is enough of a bastard to break something or get in your face or whatever he can come up with just to make a scene.”
“Fine, but not because I don’t really really want to.”
“O I’m sure you want to, but thanks, I feel mind fucked enough right now to not need the added drama of Trey’s shit to deal with”, the cook remarks as he leans his head into the cooler below the prep counter.
After taking the a step into the bar area the server rushes back into the kitchen declaring, “Man, fuck that bitch, she’s all over him right in the middle of everything like a god damned prom queen after a pint of vodka! Fuck her!”
The cook closes the cooler, steps away from the counter, leans his head backward till his face is staring at the ceiling and after a long exhale mutters with a small grin, “I did.”

girl in alley or silly sophi: an incomplete view of bad decision making

 so she really did it. not 2 months in her study abroad program, having been warned to not even go down that alley in the first place, having heard very negative rumors from people in bars around that area, Sophi took that first simple step off the worn and familiar cobble stones. Despite the strong wind in the narrow space, nothing seemed to move. nasty little whispers seemed to swirl through her short dirty-blond hair, like a cacophony of chimes being dropped at a distance. she whispered back under her slight, urgent breathes, "desiderium sinus cordis". she was a latin nerd. a latin nerd at the threshold of a very ornately carved and heavy looking wooden door. above her head hung a swinging sign that wasn't. wreathed in thin iron twigs, a small male peasant was prostrate eyes fixed directly in front of him. his gaze however, was only met with the detailed border within which he was seemingly confined to die a very tragic, little death.

Sophi. For fuck's sake... are you really going in there?

"yes"

*author falls in love, finishes coffee, smirks at his sad little blog post of unfinished and rather non-compelling prose and remembers he needs a shower before class*

post script -

    

equivalent to anthológ ( os ) flower-gathering

i want...

to never run out of saffron or olive oil.

to always have a hot shower with good water pressure on a snow-day.

to overcome myself long enough to do whatever is necessary when something is actually necessary.

to be able to smoke without it killing me.

to never feel like i lack the right shoes for any given moment.

to have more overcast days.

to have coffee, at any point throughout half of any given day.

to be a decent presence in the lives that are entwined with my own.

to wake up at least once a week with permanent maker on a place on my back i can't reach, and i want it to read "i love you".

to not ever forget that desire makes the heart deep.

to not ever forget that until i can accept a gift, i have nothing to give.

to be less sore, less tired than i am right now. existentially and otherwise.

to not lose sight of how menacing i am, and to bridle that menace with some degree of karakter.

to renew my passport before 08 april 2011.

progress: so far i have a sharpie, a shower and two months.

for mornings or...

around the moment you realize you're getting drunk, and you are in that condition because you are playing more than suffering, self-destructing or whatever other unfortunate reasons alcohol can be fortunate. in my case these are a couple songs from the past little bit that i can't quit. if you lift weights and love team sports im going to go ahead and stereotypically suggest these won't be a big hit with you.

unf unf unf unfuunf funfunfunfnunfunnfnfunfufnufnfunfuufunffnfufn


FUCKING HORSES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and SWORDS!! kjhhkidhfhgkjhdklgdokjgfdlkjgglkdmglkd


gl with your weekends ppl:)

klass notes: part one

                                            who else does this when they are listening to lectures?

                                        i heard someone say once that the university of memphis

                                                          is where dreams go to die.

                                                obviously, said person can not doodle for shit.

between coffee and genocide

swan
for trusting me with your credit card


you field of feathers,
all snowy with caffeine
and plumes of various keys

blow up.
the neat stacks
of cinder block, linoleum square feet,
ceiling tile
stains and florescent flickers

when you.
hours and hours in,
are ours   the very walls fold.

a maelstrom pushing us into the night,
into zee Greater Shelby County,
with handfuls of lamps.
with heaps of lit candles.
and a menacing human grin.

i can has journal? i has journaling!

dear weekend,

give me back the things you take and take and take. and thanks, seriously, thanks. she drank her beer well. i got new nicknames for the B.O.T.H.(back of the house) and a motto(we run this shit). nic is now nicolas, man of science. i am now simply "quality control". i also saw this fight, which im blaming all on you. good thing those two bothered to roll thick. because thats how i do, or not at all! o and then not only did you compel me to mix strawberry juice with whiskey, you had me beat EVERYONE's ass in that car bomb speed test. I AM FUCKING IRISH. I AM FUCKING ITALIAN. so dear weekend, get bent. i know it was you who made those 2 girls fight. i know you added the 3rd one just to get them to fall over in a mess of heels, taking out that entire table. i know it was you that made them make out. it was cruel, having forced that fat kid to watch it all. he kept mouth breathing and he was sweating all over everything. i am however grateful, pleased as punch. i ate pork twice in only 3 days. TWICE! and then i saw my nana, and i know it was you who made her ask me why i wasn't married yet. i know you made her tell me im getting old. i know you then made her forget all that and re-ask me both things over and over all through lunch. you pulled my clothes off in some unexpected ways. you put them on in some even more unfamiliar ones. you bit me. burned my fingers. surprised me in texts. reminded me of some things i'd forgotten. made me laugh at my own jokes. like that one about telling a girl i was writing a screen play when she asked what i do. "Whu z ab-owW-tuh"... "its a screenplay based on Oregon trail." that was actually kind of great of you, dear weekend. between the cordova wolf and text based pioneer role-playing im finding it hard to hold a grudge on the other things. wait, honestly. weekend. dear sweet weekend. darling. comrade. captain. sweet, sweet-heart. i forgive you weekend. i want to have you babies. i want to punch you in the fucking mouth. rock you to bed. paint your fences white.

dear weekend, i want to laminate you, and carry you with me wherever these fucking weekdays try and drag me.

you are my secret. my first impression. my waves. my overcast in a warm bed. i are yours. i are. i are.

sincerely, humbly, brazenly yours,
b

january! jean! shorts!

in honor of tobias funke, and in celebration of the odd winter heat wave... i did:D

votes and a tally

ok so, i can't take credit. this one was a gift from someplace close to harvard and mit where julia roberts teaches girls to become women. a.t. im gonna have to come up with a clever way to say "thank you" and "sorry" at the same time. because i am, o and im fascinated by what it is you do:)

ok for the masses: the footage is from "breakaway" (1966) by bruce conner. if you don't know what a purity ring is you are either not from the south or likely hell-bound:). i obviously posted the video frame poorly, i can live with myself on this one... so i hope you find it in yourselves to live with me like this as well. if you aren't 18, close the door before watching i guess. otherwise, what i though was a joke was pretty enough to force this post.

on sonnets? all over them.

firstly: im not being sarcastic about the form. classically sonnets have been about selfless love, depth of concern and romantic exultation. as forms began to fall apart like other old things might throughout the 20th century (in zee west) classic ones like pantoum, villanelle, heroic couplet and sonnets received a nasty little stigma of being too naive, constrained, inorganic and elementary. often naive is just a nasty thing people say about retaining a degree of hope. constraint might be the best lesson to learn before you aren't. inorganic is likely a critque that speaks more to the historical short comings of the critic. finally, i think it's worth pointing out that there is alot of potential gravity in being elementary. i think its safe to say that often there is more metaphysical value in the word "damn" or "fuck" than in the word "metaphysical". although dearest o'hara* would get mad at me for feeling that way, even though he did all the time.

so i feel like sonnets, once freed from there stigma and left to roam in this silly age have to ask themselves before they fall asleep each night, "what exactly am i good for in this anvil of a year '011?" id say they're about perfect for content like this...

Bars/Mouths
a sonnet


Lindy Luckett: SHIT i saw her last night!
what the hell came out of my 3am mouth
i wonder. what it would be like to pin you back
to a sink. dye all those blonde locks pink!

Lindy Luckett! fuck that name is syrup! i
bet i could say it a thousand times and mean it.
and who couldn't when speaking to such a sinner's
mouth and eyes, so tracer bullet, so lampshade!

Lindy Luckett! granted the bar was girl-full,
but honestly its like a tipped over recycling bin
sometimes. i'm fairly certain despite being Catholic
drunk and your trillion cigarettes we were breathing

mouthfuls of air like stair-walkers, and i'd have prized
having you punch me in the mouth and pull me back.



see, slant rhyme a traditional scheme to bits, establish a thematic content that flies against the older ideal but wades comfortably in the general area... you have enough ammunition to depose all manner of beat era tyranny. all the while leaving yourself with something that i would assume amounts to a literary cookie or juice box in the above case. sonnets are lovely, and as minute hands do what they do i would argue that sonnets have kept pace well as not only a reminder of what was once accepted concerning love's potential with far less cynicism but also as an old best toy with all the new possibilities of simple being older and having such.

post script - at some point my run on sentences must transition well outside the boundaries of prose. i wish i knew better when exactly that was. i'd be content tossing handfuls of punctuation at my messes. in the mean time: i guess this is "fuck you" MLA.

* frank o'hara - american poet circa mid 20th century. trolled around society in new york. named dropped shamelessly in his work. gossiped shamelessly outside of it. died after getting hit by a dune-buggy in the hamptons (likely was drunk).

"as for measure and other technical [literary] apparatus, that's just common sense: if you're going to buy a pair of pants you want them tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you. there's nothing metaphysical about it. unless, of course, you flatter yourself into thinking that what you're experiencing is "yearning.""   frank O

what an ass:)

anticipation like a fork, turning

resolutions for the week: listen more. find a few swords worth enough of a fall to actually engage people in what might possibly be meaningful conversation. find something between these two things that might compel some desire to write. try to sleep. try to eat. get over how boring this post is in an effort to care more that i bothered to post than the terror that i can at times be exactly that: dull.

relevant confession:

im more comfortable having eyes bright with a weekend's stories than the monotony of the many things i simply must "do". to be honest im convinced this is not too much more than being lazy. replacing novelty with beauty is  a trap. i can drive a constant type of dissatisfaction with life that forces audacity into a habit littered with laziness. like pop music possibly or reality television. content often falls victim to a trained appetite for simple stimulus.

there is an obvious place for this kind of entertainment. it can be respite, even cathartic. however it is no place to build a home, accomplish a life. wake up, dusty human. there is in fact beauty, regardless of how long you've neglected it for the sake of  piles of clever jolts. there is an art to all of this that overwhelms your artful self destruction. there is a gravity to the grand effort of a day, and in it there are new jobs for the author.

maybe boring was just an excuse. likely it was never actually boring at all, a day, things that must be done. maybe be this label i've given the to simple work (tedium, monotony) was never more than the sad child of a simple cowardice, topped with all manner of excuses for an often overly indulgent young man.

*runs tongue over canines / feels a pulse*

now fucking go to sleep or you'll never make class.

  

one of the many ways i excuse my lifestyle choices

not even kidding: this is how we WoW ppl talk to each other

  so i uhhh... stay up late alot, and since servers are getting a sandpaper tug-job, i've been drinking the better part of an 18 pack of vortex neck miller lite bottles, smoking alot of cigarettes, eating left over sushi from earlier tonite and reading every 4.0.1 shaman thread i can find.

   today (hopefully) when LS goes live we are all stepping into a new game together. for a general loner in game, who fancies lvling secret alts (prior to real-id), hours of farming various mats bc i get tunnel vision chinaman syndrome while catching up on episodes of the daily show or w/e gordon ramsey show i can get my banana hands on, and long water walks on the beaches of STV... i couldnt be more thrilled on the eve of Cata to be in the company of so many players i respect and enjoy and under the leadership of someone as patient, perverted and overly good natured as Alan.

  we as a guild are on the verge of an incredible chance to create epic momentum heading into the most exciting expansion this game we all share and love have ever seen. i believe in the work we've done. i believe in the trials that forged us as a grp (member losses, attendance lulls, endless wipes on twins in togc, icc10m grp drama, getting used to uruu, getting used to rudi, getting used to melee's weekly gifts of unique and surprising ways to wipe us, getting used to kakes forcing slogans like "HEY MEAT" and "sounds like prom night" into situations that didn't warrant it, cringing when the girls argued in vent (as if it was somehow more volatile than any of the rest of use telling one another how bad they were), seeing the guilds we were all in pervious to <Del> falter, the sad condition of hunters past and present ( im suggesting as much plight as blight so dont be offended), cruico, dks that can only express themselves in terms of racial slur before quitting over loot, hipps' SM questline, making alli laugh so hard im convinced she often pees herself, making alli so angry im convinced she often pees herself, a whirlwind of parallel life issues from jobs gained to jobs lost, illnesses, romantic tragedy, romantic comedy, also, saleos' theft of green beans and the ensuing debate over the appropriate uses for bacon, cuban santa claus, the return of arefest, the introduction on incredible new talents among the army of knuckle-dragging apps (ilu ben), the abolishment of binds during raid... which was an incredible act of leadership, the demise of arthas followed by the standard jokes about how bad a pally foldring is or "damnit! we wiped release", that guy that bought kingslayer a couple weeks ago whom alan had stand at the throne and was thus ushered to his death with the first wave of valks)

  we are a rare guild in terms of our capability and our relationship to one another... and if youve played this game long and still enjoy it you know how true this is.
download your patch, regem, respec, play the AH for massive profit, buy all your new fun glyphs... and ill see you @ 8 server blizzard willing.

ice cream,
kakes

not even kidding: some ppl i play WoW with

another part of aforementioned advice

love:

   love conquers all, but sadly it does not control all. ill hit on the later part in a minute but for now love is my subject. a metaphor ive always found very vivid and valid is weeds in sidewalks. love takes on the unglamorous job of the weed. weeds being only situationally unwanted plants and organic or essential parts of the natural world is an important point. a weed is a flower under the fight circumstances. it is a remedy under others. and alot of the time it can be both at once. important to this subject matter is its relationship to sidewalks. sidewalks being inorganic, an informative sociological byproduct of an contrived culture. sidewalks impose an unnatural repression of the more organic surrounding with the idea that what is given up by crushing the more natural things around them is gained in simple connivence. when goals that often obscure love and the search for love come into play people tend to create sidewalks everywhere in their lives. they throw out what is most essential in exchange for what is most expedient to making that suppression of love less difficult to stomach. but gloriously and to the untrained eye very unimaginably weeds endure. they press against the concrete, they overcome the inorganic sidewalk and they break through. not by way of hammers or wrecking balls but by way of this simple fact: in the end the weeds came first and if or after the needs for those sidewalks are rendered obsolete time dictates the inevitable victory of the weed. love is alot like this, it breaks through peoples walls, it overcomes their false worship of selfishness, distraction and comfort. it does all of this because it is more essential, more necessary, and like a weed, love conquers with a force that is foreign to the world of sidewalks.

(i ended this original email with a disclaimer about how fucking bad my grammar was and i think i mentioned i had achieved more run-on sentences and elaborate sentence fragments than faulkner, which isn't possible because faulkner was downright awful)

a part of some advice i gave once

control:

   outside ourselves its a myth. absolute control doesn't happen, but the fact that lesser degrees of control exist sometimes falsely compels us into believing in control and our possession of it too much. when it comes to sav like i mentioned before you lack a strong voice with her in the sense that it would be almost impossible at this very moment to confront her with concerns for her lifestyle without setting off ww3 and triggering every defense mechanism she has. this lack of voice or sway with her is a current fact but i believe strongly not a permanent one. however acting as if you had a voice you don't have with her right now will likely only make her likelyhood to alienate you more sever. curt i think you love in the real sense of that word more than anyone else. therefore i think any act you take to try and call her out, corner her or seriously intervene in the parts of her life she isnt sharing with you will only serve to increase the parts of her life she wont share with you. and she needs you anywhere she is still willing to have you. she needs your love and your love must accept that while it is a conquering force it is not a controlling force. 

    it can be easy in your situation to psych yourself up into wanting to confront her by sensationalizing possible horrible scenarios wherein she gets hurt or worse because "you didnt step in". these thoughts are bullshit and should be dismissed as best you can. theyre bullshit in the same way powerball is. so not entirely bullshit but so astronomically unlikely that they make almost no sense to risk everything on. accepting your current lack of a voice and her fragile state of mind towards you. and taking into consideration how much she needs you despite her fully knowing it... do not play the lottery with her. take the love you have and the control u dont and harness the incredible qualities you have of patience and long suffering and just love the girl in any way she lets you. o and if your thinking "if i really love her ill confront her because i care"... our parents used the same reasoning to raise us somewhere between guilt and a beating throughout our entire childhoods. confrontation may be in order at some point when you get back some of the voice you had with her once, but until then remind yourself that a mute's ardent confrontation and warnings look crazy to everyone else... those kind of words from you right now will fall dead and push her further away from the best thing she has; you.

its worth pointing out this one has Memphis in it

a slow wake

your a ball of fire kid

a regular matchbox by early morning!

shivering in the sheets,

swaying the entire bed

   like all the steeples of memphis.

what surrounds your bastille

torches and shovels by early morning?

shivering in the sheets,

swaying the entire bed

   like streets in the memphis-summer.

you can keep

the answer in your mouth.

tight amid those startling canine teeth,

barred from all the weak ears,

   from the privilege of new air, life

its clear

in the unframed-couple,

folded 19times over by the early morning.

painted in all those scattered strokes.

a bruised and burning palette,

your eyes

a hell of a answer.

a sick little affair.

a real ax in the wall.

a pile of emptied shells.

a floor swept wide with faux-rubies.

what a bedroom you've built.

what a way to be reborn.

almost limp in the sunlight

best guess: was at/in a wedding

a balcony, a perch

 

some suits, two wheelchairs, a slew

of botton down shirts, the crowd

 

is swaying to

  the eery sounds

         of a thousand swords

                      being sharpened.

 

buzzing electrons.

 

alot of bulbs.

 

air pressure.

 

pews.

 

a regular easter without candy.

a real christmas eve without treats.

  and a crowd?

 

my, my! and now some...

white-shirted lions!

ooo-ahh-pointy

                     teeth!

ohh-wow and claws

                       just like klaws!

isn't this refreshing? like syrup or roses?

isn't this wonderfully uncomfortable?

 

what a pulse

against tall tall windows!

drawn shades, bald, and careful mouths...

what a brilliant little pack of pathos...

such passion.

               unexpected as chineese fireworks, love, money in old pockets.

 

where have you all come from?

the eggs are all found, the antlers are resting for now...

there's no candy.

 

only this floor of swords, two wheelchairs, this solitary sheep.

whatever, i had fun

all with

front teeth, the romance of guns, patience

 

ice

on the nose, the nose, nose and ice on it

 

alot of ice

alot between it

alot of new room

 

then (she or shes, no them) the near worthless glasses

all worthlessed up, tape tape bent dirty mouth - oh wait...

 

<break>

 

drugs in the ice, no

just prolly in the ice, no

yes there but more between it

 

<taxi!> for fuck'sake please...

 

yes your name is nick

yes your name is amanda

yes megan, you said so...                     ealier, now this.

 

blood under a nail

down the back of an ankle

between a toe, the tongue

 

haha, honestly... prolly IN the drink(s)... this,this,this

what a show, what a church, what a pile of planets

impossible, edged and splintering skree.

 

 

three gifts from a girl out of reach:

 

a tired laugh, hope and anyword that means the same thing.

best part about old poetry: trying to recall what the fuck you were talking about

sort of, a birthday

made me want to bleed a little

to sleep for days, to be hit in the mouth,

to fall down stairs while holding

full bottles, a stack of plates.

(a dog i was too frightened to name.)

i drowned it,

through a window.

as the world hummed like a child-

hood home's appliances in the night.

as the ceiling fan should have cut in pieces

a series of sleepless evenings. i did.

i drowned it.

used the black in my eyes, chest, fingernails

for a millstone.

in

 the

  hope

   that

    now

     when ...

>breathing comes back toward involutary,

  the moonglow tints two sets of red lines

  on two collections of a back and neck,

  a downed lamp ushers peculiar sleep

  full of adjar mouths and fields of feathers.<

 i find nothing stalking

  the new freedom and mad draw of a small declaritive and a proper noun.

a car full of brontes crashes into a wall made of sub 3 syllable nouns

 respite with sylvan trim

 wooden lips are two
 luna, mother of maddness
 wooden lips are too
 close eyed, and by and by

 an odd strength to see
 it through. see it through
 luna, wooden lips, mouths
 askew, the lips are two.

 emrald, sapphire, charriot
 no no just this earthquake
 hands and glue glue glue
 please, luna, time to see

 moths and dust
moths and dust
  moths and dust
 briars, wolves, minute hands

 past this
 to you

if vegans dream of tofu sheep, this is for ewe

bad decisions make for the best stories, and if life is a narrative then cigarettes are my punctuation and all my conjunctions have an alcoholic content. my mistakes aren't at all. they're my creative process, and you are nothing short of writer's block. an entirely unanticipated respite in this whirlwind of loose leaf. my confusion, inconsistency and erratic disposition are best confessed with words like surprise and gratitude. i can only hope you'd forgive such a weak apology.dear lord i sound like an asshole, grammatically and otherwise:(

with icing,

kakes

hello human, what a brute you are without them

tools for extended survival:

1. be very kind without EVER considering the follow through.

2. all questions should be fitted with a very large arrow pointing directly away from oneself.

3. internalize grief/longing. these will come in handy later.

4. qualify all commitments/convictions and follow them with an insistent facial expression that compels listeners into the talkers again.

5. always act confused by simple phenomena as if every little thing was a beautiful life lesson filled with intrinsic worth.

6. eat 50%> meals out of plain sight.

7. in the calm, contrived and isolated space these rules form. release held breath, wince and hope. 

(the above is taken from earlier advice offered to a truly impossible person)

2011 act 1

"what did you do last weekend?"

"got catholic drunk, fell down stairs and to sum up the rest im pretty sure i broke my moral compass"

(conversation about new years) yay 2011

chopsticks: more like the kids song than the sushi ones

10 years:
 maybe more than 20 countries
 4 universities
 3 very different and important romantic relationships
 5 houses
 1 apartment
 1 dorm
 5 dogs
 6 cats
 1 passport about to expire
 3 drivers licences
 5,000+ beers
 250+ bottles of wine
 30 scars (rough count)
 0 broken bones
 0 stiches
 3 car wrecks
 47 states
 200+ airplane rides
 50+ train rides
 0 major illnesses
 360+ days of world of warcraft
 3 jobs in coffee shops
 2 cars
 2 bikes
 3 computers
 3 pairs of cowboy boots
 1 night in jail
 0 dui's

these are some of my ornaments, and if it could possibly be true that we aren't only or are more than what we've done... im compelled to hope who exactly i am hasn't been given a voice at all yet. otherwise i think at least i could claim that my personal waste of a decade was accomplished with a notable degree of artistic merit. i feel tidally. i hope always. i want rest not only for myself but for everyone i know. i can't honestly think of someone i hate. i'm unsure what to actually do with any of this. hi, my name is bobby.