Friday, December 04, 2015

Breaking The Glass

I used to find solace in words, in imagination. They’ve been stalwart friends in the past. I remember some of the adventures we took into nearly countless worlds. I can sometimes see their aspects still dwelling deep inside.

Now, it seems, that they are another albatross chained around my neck. I often just want to chuck the charm and wit overboard and follow them into the briny depths. In the grand scheme of things, it would only be a momentary existence of painful pressure and then I’d be free to wander.

But to wander without words or imagination? No, it is a burden that I must bear at the moment until they become glorious once more. I’ve got to carry them as they’ve carried me. I’ve got to coax them out and keep them safe. I’ve got to care and feed them. I’ve got to move and shake for them.

It is never easy. Some days are easier than others though. Some days are so difficult that it is all I can do to bear staring at the blank screen in impotence. It on these days where what comes out is akin to waxing philosophy to an army of darkness hellbent on destruction. It is a pointless endeavor because I know that the words are futile. They will mean nothing in the long run.

The digital entities of bytes and bits that make up my words these days will be wiped in the future. No one will know of my exploits or pain. No one will remember the tales I tell. No one will know of my existence.

It’ll be nothing but an empty spot in a magnetic field that once held all of my dreams and ambitions. It is nothing but a wheel in a cage. An illusion of movement designed to keep me entertained.

Thursday, December 03, 2015

Chronic Conditions

Blank edges. Around the border, we are ripped and bleeding. Empty words fill the lanes.

Here we are in yet another day. We woke and remembered to breathe. We shuffled out from underneath what coverings we had and slipped into a morose reality that was made for us by our reactions in the past. Somewhere along the line, we void ourselves of what has passed through us during the previous day. But we still hold onto the memories. We cannot void those.

Thoughts of vanity are sloughed off as we see ourselves in the quiet moments before our ego wakes. We’re all bed heads and sleepy eyes. The moistness of our wet and yawning gape glistens in what light is available. Darkness fades from our vision in this brief time where we simply exist.

It is the time before thought. It is the moment before realization. We are beasts of pure instinct. Hunting is not in our thoughts. Deception is not in our mind. The only thing is need. We are the matured infant aligned in conceptual and wordless understanding. All we are is a biological machine of need.

Crying at this point is useless. It serves no purpose. Mother is not coming to supply us any comfort or warmth. The fatty liquid we once craved has been replaced by something that represents our outlook on this universe we helped to create. The breasts that once fed us and kept us safe are now supplanted by silicone and tattoos. They are easily delivered to us through a warm mainline jacked directly into our brain.

But, as always, that comes later. We need to fill our needs first. Which corpulent blister are we going to scratch open first? Is it the bitterness of a daily intake or the pillowy poison served up in sweet cream? Is it the course weave against tender feet or slick frigid vinyl that slaps against our face? Is it choice or destiny? In truth, it doesn’t matter.

Etched in cellular memory, we move into the stream that is flowing around us. We’ve created the habitual addictions based on our predilections. The claws and fangs come out somewhere during our journey from need to want. The ripping of our soul is almost silent. We don’t see the transformation, but it is there. Here, we stuff it all back down in preparation.

Blank edges. Around the border, we are ripped and bleeding. Empty words fill the lanes.

Monday, November 30, 2015



This is often the road I see. It is not calming. It is not serene. Not to me.

It is muffled. It is coarsely silent. My footsteps are solemn. My soul is swollen.

Hard concrete beneath my feet lead me through an echo of illuminated lamplight. These are the streets of my mind. Clogged and hidden by a thick night’s fog.

My shouts are stifled, absorbed by the cool blanket surrounding me. It moves and shapes itself on its own, never needing my influence. Strangers show in the swirl, trying to find their own way. They don’t see me, thank the gods. I cannot help them. I cannot even help myself.

Not knowing what else to do, I keep walking in the eternity of greyness.


Thursday, November 26, 2015


Thank you for being here, or there, or wherever you are. Thanks for having an influence. I wouldn't be the same without you. Thanks for showing me shadow and light. Thanks for showing me evil and good. Thanks for showing me failure and success. Thanks for showing me deeds and words. Thanks for showing me similarities and differences. Thanks for showing me homologous and heterogeneous.

Thank you for allowing me to be quizzical. Thank you for allowing me to be stylish. Thank you for allowing me to show you the world through my eyes. Thank you for allowing me to understand the world through yours. Thank you for allowing me to be me.

Thank you for supporting me in times of need. Thank you for letting me feel important. Thank you for the kindness that you display. Thank you for letting me wander. Thank you for offering to open doors for me. Thank you for the interest you show. Thank you for being you.

Monday, November 23, 2015


Echoes of lyrics run through my head. Songs long past their prime, but still rise up and jerk on taught heartstrings to bring a pale and broken memory to the forefront of my mind. These sad memories, akin to a slow and inconsequential masturbatory hand job, seem to just exacerbate  the feeling of loneliness that has never left the back of my mind.

Time after time, the lost will never find what they’re looking for. No one looks for them either. It is the sad reality of it all. Downtrodden and pale are oft looked over in favor of something bright and shiny. I’ll sit here sipping coffee and whiskey, thank you. I don’t need the stoicism of a stiff upper lip.

What I need is the slow wail of a saxophone coupled with an electric guitar. A gravelly voice seeking to move people with a story that is as eternal as the night. I need to lose myself in another’s dream for awhile so I can find that missing piece that will finally take me to a place where I can unleash my own brand of shaded intimacy.

Elusive and vital, I can feel it calling out to me like some sort of smoky dream lost in that space between waking and dreaming. That strange widget without form or function to others sits in some odd train station as an eternal tchotchke collecting dust. It no longer shines, but serves as a yellow-tinged thing to show that the holder is edgy and unique.

Yet everyone has them.

Voices sing out, leaving the world behind them. A low growl amplified over an electrified microphone lets me know that everybody knows that God’s away on business, leaving us to our own fallible devices. Inevitably we hide in our darkened cellars trying to avoid the Category 8 shit storm that seems to have jumped the breakers.

Once, perhaps some time ago, each of us were worthy of a soapbox. These days, everyone has a blog or newsletter. Each of us can write for the Huffington Post for accredited exposure rather than accumulated cash. Any of us can write up a Wikipedia article and wait for some other account to vet the information.

The words don’t mean much these days. We can all write until our fingers bleed. We can all read the positive statements and apply them to our wounded psyche. But it doesn’t change much. It doesn’t move us to move faster or in a different direction. The cuts are still there. The crowd still tramples us when we fall. The blood still oozes from the thousands of small cuts to our skin.

Dreams die here in the midst of crowds rather than in solitary silence. It is the cacophony that drowns us out. It’s not the lack of concern, but rather the mystic entertainment that is going on just beyond our own stage that seems to capture the attention of our audience. Frankly, we’re not loud enough. We’re not edgy enough. We’re not unique enough.

In the end, we’re like everyone else. We’re just as special. We’re just as disillusioned. Oftentimes, we just give in and stop speaking because we’re made to feel just like furniture. And no one tends to notice when we fade into the background to fulfill the destiny handed over to us.

We’re not special or powerful enough to shine through the gilding. The curt tang that seems to hang on our tongue holds no sway to the jaded and disinterested. Our wonderful phrases and illusions fall onto the ones who are already bewitched by a different mystique that is just around the corner from our own.

Drumbeats finally fade as the crowds pass on, leaving us to our own home-made devils. The whistle blows. Steel wheels begins to grind upon rails that lead onto some other vista. The passengers waive at us, letting us know that they are off to some other place.

Here we are.

Here we sit.

Here we wait.

And die.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

In Need Of A Nap

Yes, I should be writing the #NaNoWriMo.

No, I’m not at the moment because I’ve got a headache and I’m a bit heartsick. 

The headache is from a new crown on tooth 29. It’s the lower right molar. Well, the molar that’s left on that side, anyway. It was a two-hour event spawned from last Friday when it came undone. Apparently some bacteria got underneath it and ate away the glue.

That’s what the doctor has told me.

After the scraping, grinding, picking, wrapping, etc., I was ready for the new crown. I don’t know why I needed a new crown, but hey, whatever. My dentist took a 3D scan and loaded the image up to the software so he could play with the digital model of my mouth. He then sent the signal through the airwaves to have his machine mill out the new crown. About 45 min later, I had the permanent crown installed.


My heartsickness is from recent events in the headlines. I don’t know why the hatred is there. I never really thought to research it. I never cared to bring it into the realm of my headspace. I distanced myself from it. 

I don’t understand why US-based reporters have to be in Paris. There is no need for it. I’m sure the European-based journalists can do just fine. Perhaps I’m not seeing the larger picture. Perhaps I don’t want to.

At this point, because the nation is so concerned for safety, we are ready to give up freedoms. We are tampering with fundamental principles that made Americans who we were. We seem to be forgetting that hatred and fear only breeds hatred and fear.

No, I don’t want to get into any debates. No, I don’t want to have my building bombed. No, I don’t want to be hunted down and exterminated because I am different than the guy holding the gun. I would rather like to be able to do what I love to do, even on this limited basis.

I’m unsure of the world that is being created around me. It just makes me sad and anxious. Words and thoughts are bleak because I’m worried for the future. I’m not in the right frame of mind to really perform any creative works right now.

I just want to sleep until it’s all over.