Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Rhythm breaks teeth
And yet theres a silent success
“two men enter,one man…”
Double fisting a dirty martini and scoth I approach a fellow
Eyes low,I connect our elbows
A soft punch.
He starts to mellow out as he realizes im not who he thought I was
(sounds of loose breath)
stressful nights on the beach,we clasp hands as the tide takes are comrads away
their bodies decay out in the medeteranian
strange as I relate this night to the first time
her breathe being mine,
menthol and all those other men.
The drums kick in,and the bass pops
The block is shattered as the night becomes morning
A chorus of crows is all that’s playing
My hands empty,im guessing
in the midst of the murders my monologue dominated the court room screenplay
I smoke a cigarette and turn away from the judge,she’s curious,I can tell by the look on the defense
A chainsaw slides out of the wall
We medicate and restart the day again
Its always going
To all band wagon fans:Because REAL fans stick with their teams threw the thick and thin. True fans have suffered threw every season Michael Young has to come to this point. Real fans know how a team was assembled and how many managers,players,GM’s (and owners) it has taken to finally compete. I died with Kayson Gabbered,Vicente Padilla,Jay Powell, Chan Ho Park, Gabe the babe,Ivon,Alex,buck and oats.Now I finally feel vindicated for latching on to this slowly sinking ship for the past decade. I was born in the shadows of the old ball park, and grew up in the temple. Ive been to more Rangers games the family events. I was a baby ,in the stadium,when Nolan Ryan threw a perfect game threw eight innings,before a home run was hit directly to my section,I would keep the neighborhood awake (and had the police called on my parent several times) if I could not watch or finish a game. You seen band wagon fans have no heart,they don’t have memories…they cheer for the team because its chic. Being a fan is not easy,it takes balls.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
I'm so happy about the new literary journal Eduardo Jones, Jesse Mitchell,Sham, Andreas,HST books,just all these dudes ive met in the past four months thanks to "Finding the Beat..." the little documentry if you know me I've spoken ad-naseum about since the first day I found out. Every day they get great new writers,like a personal friend of a friend Leah Bodenhammers work,or Ben Simon, or Bryce. Trina and Jinx have really started somthing special that is so young and so promising. This is special especially in a time like this in World History. An economic depression,such tension from all sides in a time of a technological rennissance. It makes me feel like at some point,if somthings not done,we will have lost sight of the enjoyment of life,of each other. Its simply easier to coexsist ,but that is the flaw...haha that lame,lame flaw...
I was born during a flash flood in the muggy Texas summer. Born to two Methodist ministers and torn threw the machinery of salvation, I feel repulsed to know its just another business all about its weight in gold. I see time hasn’t changed in these edited history books. People remain the same; the hierarchy is a dark dynasty, then the sheep follow the Judas goat, while normal people know about the finales’ of television shows .I haven’t felt more on edge since I was seven and beating my cousin with a baseball bat on my birthday in a backyard. I can’t explain who I’ am because of this cesspool I swim in, I’m just not as aware as I should have been. If I were to say that I slept in a mansion on a furry rug would that make me distasteful; or if I slept on my friends couch scraping quarters out of the cushions, would that mean I’m a waste of time and space? I’m not the voice of the doomed, or the common obscure. I am the poster boy for a reeling generation; one of dormant aptitude and hasty immoral decisions. I barely trust my eyes and remain constantly vigilant, open to the road and in search of visions or hope, which ever comes most. I’ve made love to the most beautiful women, and bloodied an enemy’s nose all while medicated on high doses of...Whatever was cheap or free at the moment… I’ve spent days in jail, listening to the trains yells wondering the next time ill be free to write or smoke. I’m not as important as I once perceived myself to be; therefore I vomit the beast out of me as consistently and cohesively as my grammar allows it to seem. I am not the thief I once was, stealing the brains of young children and over priced clothes. I’ am a cold heartless man with motor oil coursing threw my bones… I’m sick of EM! All of EM! High horsed coattail riders with neither the scrodem nor skills to envision such a revolution; the sad trend of being someone who’s previously lived threw imitation. Were regressing, as a society, BREATH LITERATURE & ART, and question authority. Libraries will burn if we fall further unaware.