Fickle Matter

Shut the door behind you.
Slick back your dark, dark hair. Put on black socks.

Because that's all you need right? A dab of spit, your right hand, a bar of soap. Because everything sounds dirty. Everything sounds wrong. Once you take it, you leave it--and that's it. Nothing sounds like it should, even when you mean it to be what it shouldn't.

Because I guess you were right. Oh, it seems so ridiculous because it damn sure is. Because these digitized, computerized, bastardized, milked and juiced, and painted--no, encrypted with a smile fuckface words don't mean a simple fleck to your flickering eyes. The eyes that watch over me.

But I didn't mean to curse. No, why should I utter such demise! It isn't my house; it isn't my kingdom; it isn't my lair; it isn't my stage. Don't ever speak of those phrases because you might just get burned.

But it's funny because nothing makes sense--so I won't make sense.

Because all you need is that drop of saliva to seal that daintily touched roll, that fast action right hand to surf through the jungles of pornography and smut, and that bar of soap to scrub that dirt off my upper brow. That's all you need to be happy. To pass the time.

I sink, I swim, I sit, I steal, I sample, I suck, I satirize, I sing, and I say what I may. But bring me that newly sharpened brush so I can paint my day away.

I don't apoligize. I don't want to be angry. So, this is my goodbye to you.

I Built This Treehouse in the Ground

Chp. 7: Occupation I

I stare and I stare,
I fret then I fret.

I blow my remorse
and I stomp my regrets.

I live like a saint,
Yet I cry like a dove.

I live through these pictures,
I swim through this rough.

But born by a sinner
and lived by a swing.

I am pushed higher and higher
and I fall as I fly-- higher and higher and higher.

My age is a letter
My gender is a hall.

On Tuesday they'll say sweetheart
On Wednesday not at all.

And school is a dark room
and life is a cynic.

As I wait in these bathrooms
while mom has her picnic.

But take me for granted
but keep me a secret

For no one should know me
except who shall read this.

Kick me hard in the gut when I'm sprawled on the floor moaning.

My brain is a jumbled complex blend of soup, bone particles and excess fat. In other terms, I'm really tired so here are some pictures I found and would like to share with you because you bought me that ice cream bar when I was young. This is your I.O.U.

The bench that you find in your dreams at night or midafternoon--you know. 

Allergies, you know. 

I slowly passed out as a pigeon made its nest on my head. 

After.

I gave it my best shot--that's all I can say.

Snips.

Before snip.

Almost snip. 

Snip. 

Jenn glues her head to my face. 

Sheared down to size. 

For one more

I entrench myself in it.
You know, you do it too.

When you shut yourself off from the outside. Or the inside--whichever way you see it. When you share it with yourself, or you share it with the world.Whether you sing along, or you just let it pulse through your skin, your hands, your heart, your sweat, or whatever.

You find the words, and you paint the pictures. You feel the notes, chords, rhythms, and compose your own belief, adventure or relapse.Programming only how loud it seems to you, nothing else is to be touched; it just comes to you.It's when you can listen; it's when you can really hear.

When you're finally where you want to be, whether the clouds, the ballroom or in her arms. When you're lost in that one moment that you know is so special that your fingers grasp until the cloth finally runs away from the creases in your hands. When you can see sound for what it really is.

You breathe it in and hold your lungs tight for as long as you can.
You look into the crowd, smile, take your bow and walk off the stage that one last time.

All you can say is thank you.

In this corner on top of this world

As I sit ontop of my concrete forest, I breathe the silky mist and I gaze out into what never seems to end. But then I question this city, this bohemian nest--what will you give me once my reign is done, once you've quietly slipped away.

How will I see beyond the pocketful poor, asking for nickels for a bus ride to anywhere, when they only make that trip back to where they asked you in the first place? How will I know these artists who speak only their proclaimed truth, yet only fade away or never look back? How will I learn your lessons without this crowd, this scene, this masochistic clot of autists who claim they're against yet find their ways in?

I don't know.
Maybe another night under your stars will read this never ending story to me.
Maybe I'll add the epilogue.
Or maybe you'll spoiling the surprise ending.

I Built this Treehouse in the Ground

Chp. 6: The Roots

To his ambient aura, he seemed all but fine.
His lap covered his head, slowly risen in slow paced seconds.
His eyes were like softened grapes and his pupils were mere specks.
However-- he felt just fine.

"Just a headache," they said.
And they said what they had to.

To his developing anticipation, senses found their ways.
First was his touch with the texture of the bark against the smooth, creaseless fingertips that unfolded from his mud encrusted hands. The bark which was so rough yet welcoming. The wood that splintered and burned allowed the boy to grasp with nothing less than what he could give.

First was his touch--then came the sound.

But at the moment, all that was existent was the rough skin against his creaseless roots.

blue bottles and babble me sleep

30 ml goes a long way... a bit dizzy in the eyes...starry...whether or not that is inherent or just a coincedence that those stars shine and glisten on the watery texture of my whites is another story all wound up on top of itself. Breathing in and exhaling while my skin perspires, I click, click, click away another 5 minutes into this ball of a spinning night--breathing in and exhaling. Slow motion describes my current exterior motive--on the inside I am a living robot. Without emotion, my face droops till it hits my knees, causing a shockwave throughout my leg--kicking without my permission.

Meet me on nyquil.

J-Dash gets Henro early birthday present. Henro invades city. Hello Houston. 

I think J-dash needs new lenses. 

The one, the only. 

Done for tonight. 

Thanks J-Dash, you've made my weekend--maybe even my year. 

I Built this Treehouse in the Ground

Chp. 5: Only under moon

Blink once, now blink again.
I am here and then I am gone.

Blink twice, now blink again.
I stay in your sight,
against your closed eyes,
behind your black light.

Because I am nothing
does not mean I'm frail.

Because I am distant
I'll seeth, you exhale.

Exhale all your insides
I turn it to ice.

You don't know my comings
I don't know this life.

I offer a bargain.
Two tales for one price.

And now as you glisten, sweet pale meets moonlight.
I beg you to listen, blink now to blink thrice.