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a clumsy poet...

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Once again I'm a music maker. [14 Mar 2009|04:53pm]
[ mood | onefootonthebananapeel ]

I'm nervous tonight my performance will be subpar...
I feel subpar.
Fuck if I know....

maybe thats what I really need to make some art.

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People are strange... when they're a stranger. [18 Feb 2009|01:23pm]
[ mood | death, disease, and disaster. ]

When did the plot spiral downwards...
Were there not patches of sunlight in the thick of the woods? I've just arrived at the party, yet the coats are being handed out and already the empty bottles in the shadows resemble makeshift sundials. My statistics; age, generation, height, weight, latitude, longitude and the like, have qualified me to witness the end of the world. I just might have the best seat in the house.
Maybe that was an overstatement. Its just lately it feels as if all I've known and seen and come to rely upon is unraveling at an exponential rate. I long for simpleton dreams and flawed ideals. I watch CNN and I see war and famine while I live in an apathetic nation. I muse upon the greed and betrayal of big,business America, still I find my own hands rough and stained; hardly able to gaze upon these chains of minimum wage. The news has grown vile. All I see are pedophile preachers; four year old maiming secretary "mom's". They keep us drugged with sensationalism, further elating us with the thorny taste of partisanship. We are gladiator slaves taking arms and sides against the strange and the strangers, and too long have I not looked in mirror. How ugly have we become?

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If I can't boast... whats the fucking point. [17 Oct 2008|05:46pm]
[ mood | accomplished ]

Since I'm here, I 'm queer... I bring you my first two published articles...

thank you Delon Ferdinand,

thank you Valet Living.

thank you Steinbeck and ga.
Part 1
Six hundred and sixty miles ... eight gas station, half-charred, lukewarm, and charcoal coffees... four cassette mix tapes... and two black bag casualties... yet the mountains, and spiraling freeways that seemed to airbrush a waning moon proved such a small distance to myself and my fellow travelers. Eight days later was when my ship in a bottle stampeded ashore by a bible belt current straight into Plymouth Rock. That is when I left the town and cities for a New America. I felt the devil's whisker's cooing on my neck; technology, gadgetry, cable television, I was fleeing the heirloom of my generation. My trip from New York to Charlotte was nearing its completion.

I was staying in the completed basement of my fiancee's parent's. Their home was slanted downwards over a rolling hillside, therefore the side of the basement which I was on still had a clear view of their backyard. Outside my bedside window, man and nature waltzed between the sparring of fisticuffs. Sloping red clay mounds gave way to speckled trees, vines, and the hum of warring sparrows. A chamelion sputtered and contorted changing shades and hues like a spinning prism of light. The air duct upon which it was perched was a shade of white only a machine could wield. Round one completed; and the judges cards flashed, man being the victor, but only with the aid of a few dizzying jabs. The chameleon stared through a few centimeters' pinch of glass and caught me square in the eyes. He inched closer, and turned an ultraviolet green matching the color of my shirt. With his transformation, we became two vaudevillesque spies masked with black rimmed shades attached to a peanut nose and bristled, charcoal mustache. Both the chameleon and I exchanged fits of laughter and blushing, my first southern comrade.

Later that evening, amidst forgotten steps and slips of thought, I found myself on a beaten grass field, fingernails dug into brickish soil watching a clash of prepubescent titans. The Royal Oak recreational soccer league hosted youth soccer matches Tuesday and Thursday nights during the months of April and May. Though I've prided myself never a captive to a wristwatch I recognized the late spring season by the scent of honeysuckle wafting through the air, high heeled, strutting like a cabaret singer blowing me a sultry kiss. Yet its kisses were precious and few and always followed by the hefty deterrent of a pollen kick blowing in every direction. I wheezed and sniffled, while my eyes cowered under the glare of the setting sun. I resembled a hungover, yet still drunken pirate. My red face though wasn't rum induced. Pity! Jeff, my fiancee bombarded me with inhalers, nose sprays, losenges of every shape and color, pills that dried you up, other pills that made you sneeze, syrups to thin the mucus, and water to wash away the twelve shades of green oozing from every precipice of my sinus cavity. Even my ears felt sickened and stifled by the scent of flowers, a defiance of evolution... to breathe with our ears.

I believe it was the cyan coughdrop which lodged itself into my windpipe. Regardless I stood up in search of refreshments. Hundreds of yards away stood a Mr. Softee truck serving fudgepops, and soft served greatness. Unfortunately my breathes were a bit scattered, and my once soothing coughdrop was beginning to feel like a scouring pad chipping away at the tendons and and soft tissue within my throat. The family two benches over noticed my dilemma. By now, I had completely adopted a defeatist attitude. Nursing my inflammation with crossed arms, it was a great relief when a delicate brunette pta mom approached.

"Hun, you want some sweet tea?"

I've always believed there to be one great, all powerful, divide in American culture. There are those who argue over coastal superiority, red and blue states, and even the PETA crazed cat or dog people, but as of recent I've realized that the greatest schism we as Americans truly face is how we get our caffeine fix; coffee or tea. For weeks I'd battled the tried and true Southern tradition that is sweet tea. Whether it be in a swanky lounge in the Metro area, Dunkin Donuts off the lake, or my local coffeeshop, sweet tea ruled supreme. In Manhattan, a veil of arabica brew sifts over the high rises and shops. Block by block its insignia hovers like a percolated Big Brother. Meanwhile mom and pop revolutions battle in small numbers. The coffee war wages, and tea is only remembered as an occasional nightcap. Still the glass in my hand was cold. Ice water ran off the sides, just like the rolls of saliva falling off my tongue. I had been reduced to Wile Coyote. In my desperation, I crossed the picket line, gulping the entire beverage in two long gulps. Never had my thirst been so completely quenched. Coffee...I scoff at your bitter ways. Your merely the choice drink of the philistines. Sweet tea tipped the scales upon which I weighed my newfound home. That is until I realized there was red clay caked all over my khaki shorts. Although I was seated in the grass somehow that North Carolina clay gets everywhere, shoes, carmats, messenger bags, and now all over me.

Part 2
The soccer match was nearing its conclusion. The red team was leading by one goal and the referee's hand flashed against the twilight sky giving a five minute warning. The red's team's sweeper was a magnificent eight year old girl with cherub features, and small delicate limbs. Sweepers are the pin balls of soccer; darting back and forth across the field collecting every pass gone astray. A few seats away I could hear her father boasting about how she was both the youngest and strongest player on the team. It was rather obvious when she stood next to the other children on the field. Every other girl stood ten inches taller, and for every step they took, she leapt in the air feet bobbing back and forth to make up for their twofold advantage of distance between steps. While the others grew winded and red faced, her gait remained steady. The chartreuse, green whose uniforms adorned the field like yuletide wreaths constantly encircled the lone sweeper. They saw her small physique as weakness, but she wasn't afraid of them or the speedy leather soccer ball, which all others shamefully darted much to their coaches disdain. I was proud to know this fearless child. Most of the tween children were already crippled by the fear. The ball enslaved them. They bowed their heads and dashed away in terror of a possible bloodied nose or a bruised shin, but not her. She dared the ball and slayed it like a medieval dragon, her legs being swords of no less a stature. Behind me a farmhouse of seething housewives and blue collar dads cawed, and spit, and clawed into the balmy Carolina breeze. Their eyes shone yellow with the dilated pupils of a safari wildcat, veins bulged from the neck and fists clenched forgetting their humanity, thus tossing aside their opposing thumbs.

" Kill em, Chloe."
" Don't drop that ball, Mary."
"Move your ass, Jen- Jen."

I'm still not sure which demon it was that chased the children farther down the field, fear of the ball or their folks' primal screams.

After the game, I helped with the folding, tugging, and knuckle-skinning task of breaking down the lawn chairs that were scattered across the sidelines like rogue leaves hibernating in late October. I clapped and whistled for both teams fulfilling the utmost liberal stance on diplomacy, and high fived each little girl that passed by. Their pony tails bobbed in a triangular rhythm with the breeze. Amidst the tossing of juice boxes, barefooted toddler hijinx, and the foreboding crackle of thunder in the newly risen moonlit sky, my mind drifted to the towns and cities I'd burned through like aged cigarettes. To be surrounded by droves of leftists, capitalists, artists, conservatives, natives, and all the other suffixes, prefixes, and marvels of modern wordplay that parlay in Manhattan, that was some sort of living. Landmarks and all of its colorful people were a printing press of pictographs. An endless novella, that once was my domain, but within days of my departure had evolved far beyond my comprehension becoming a haze of anthropological fiction. City life was fluid, an exponential variable incapable of calculation or logic. Deep in the carolinas, its people were composed of igneous rock delving lifetimes into the earth, layering unto itself, shifting only with the passing of decades. Earthquakes were its only defeat, and they occurred once a lifetime or so. The ground was trembling. I sensed it, as did most of the locals. I watched their infrared eyes targeting my "yankee" ways, which boomed like the thunderous licks of rocknroll music. The South was dying, and it was myself and others like me who were guilty of slaughtering it.

Suddenly a weighted tree branch slapped me on the shoulder. I spun to find it wasn't a tree at all, but a rather large man. His skin was leathered from the sun, and his pale blue eyes shone dimly through the tiresome circles of trips around the sun. I had seen him before. Earlier in the game I had a brief discussion with him about college football while grabbing a water bottle from Jeff's uncle's station wagon. I gave him a firm handshake, a fluttering smile, and a square-jawed introduction to Jeff. Before returning to his family he affectionately patted our heads. I hadn't felt such authority since childhood. His chiclet teeth parted, and he spoke," Well, y'all you're some good yankees. Just so you know we all glad you left Hell's Kitchen. We got a little room for you in God's country."

I chewed upon his words, spitting out the stained fibers, and decided surely this was a compliment. But whats God's country to a weathered, megalomaniac, liberal atheist? I wondered, what's faith to the faithless? Life and its recent uprisings, of the weary traveler's mind left me open for a spiritual revolution of sorts. I spiraled into a realm of the collective unconscious, where all the people surrounding me and their individual dreams and energies sparkled like fireflies swarming the heavens. Maybe we all were creators of this God's country. I slept that night and dreamt of winged beings booting supernovas across the Milky Way.

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Mac's wooden spoon might come in handy... [17 Oct 2008|05:38pm]
[ mood | migrains and malaise ]

Brennan looks strikingly adorable right now...
counter productive both myself and the missus.
I makes friends like irish car bombs.
I'm an ambassador of half hearted will.
Lap dogs frighten me.
So does the solo work of Paul McCartney
Run devil Run.
Sleep Jesus sleep.

I originally was itemized and delinquent.
Down with militants,
and caffeine, and vests,
and knee high socks.

I love the towns and cities of this world.

Che would approve of this message.

I doubt myself...


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Rarely do I find clever wordplay by uni-named individuals, however I secretly yearn to be a canary. [25 Jun 2008|06:01pm]
[ mood | noda just noda ]

Soy milk is best served with an aged kona brew, cooed in my ear by the lovely mister paul simon.Finite. Even a ceramic mug must know its sovereignty. I can't stand small talk. I'm terrible at it. Quite frankly when I'm left my own social recognizances I wind up babbling over the most histrionic subject matters known to mankind.Sleep patterns, soda malaise, and I THINK ALL MY PROBLEMS WOULD BE MAGICALLY SOLVED IF I DEVELOPED A SMOKING HABIT, AND COULD BANG MY FIST INTO VARIOUS GOODS AND FIX THEM INSTANTLY.

To dream my fine, feathered friends.

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sacred geometry [29 May 2008|11:20pm]
[ mood | heyitssomething ]

I've been seeing the seasonal layers of a tulip paradigm where the sun breaks into speedy traffic lights, and its making my retinas spin. Lashing a la eyelids and the singsong churn of eyeballs' jelly alludes to an aroma of burning rubber, and then they liquidify... my eyes that is. Not the endless road. The road dreamt by accidents and collision. That's the lone pillar of all that is americana. Those veiny trips round marbelized statues of David in palacial gardens, shimmying upwards a pumping, breathing wrist of stone, that is where my whims yearn to be. Where fancies can be squandered like bubble gum smokes tossed by the sweaty fistfuls midday on the northeast recess yard. And rhetoric...curly q's... inquisitive sighs.. can be summed, taxed, deducted, and pinched to indian head pennies. Lovely, shiny, things. Geometric, rhombus, discs. Jargon. Fiction. All that is... and all my soul feigns to memorialize.. holidays and autumn coats. Liberal libidos lecture. Linguists launder
liberals. Alliteration alienates anyone. Liberals' conspire linguistically to launder slick dividends solely to alienate, and the literal is merely litter to be flushed in a premium, chlorinated urinal. My whims are materialized and sketched, and now can be viewed in nearly any american city.... shopping center....$7.25...attractions...seniors half prize...only upon receipt of aged palms. Will there be free doughnuts on Sundays? Culture wears me best with complimentary sweets. My fantasies, wrapped in cellophane and awkward smiles are racked upon doilees and canonized. Framed satellite imagery reveals beams of bluish light. It shines from twenty six million light years away. Its first yelp of air, while raptors scoured the earth from one mammoth continent, to be ripped and torn like a magician's dollar bill. And then to be thrown together yet again, scattered and confetti'd. The houdini's freshman endeavor, scotch tape faultlines, and creases of mountains. Not without "god" or "trust", but no other words or syllables to bridge gaps. While the light hurtles past the comprehensible scaling galaxies, stringed celestial gravity its only deterrent. And then the big cool sweeps. And fossils are barcoded... alphabetized, and packaged down sweeping foodmart aisles. Soccer mom presidents are stampeding whilst spitting... buckling at the knees...foaming round the lips( glue fiending wallabee youths) all wanting to march home victoriously... turkey of the year swaddled over their hip. To keep an inches' leverage distractions of heat sensitive touch screens and customized bell and whistle makers are frisbeed unto various aisles. Hands cross... chins meet. clean up. More spun retinas, and less jelly. I titled this whim, sacred geometry, and I still cannot understand pythagoras, or his leeches, or his theorem, and his triangles are oddly curvaceous. Its glass framed is smudged by the beating of heads; mathematicians and holymen.

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Only hate travels between the noble and peasants.. [19 May 2008|06:16pm]
[ mood | catscratchfever ]

Be weary my fellow stenographers,
who must admonish th politiking,
and conjuring of fences.

Let us indulge in the primordial spread,
salivate upon the fumes of a thinking man's deity;
Dustbowls and fine, venetian, cutlery.

Let our lungs quench dilation,
nevermind the blood cells,
and drums of mosaic strung,
percolated monotony.

We eterally cup the breeze,
jaws puckering of flies,
never do well,
but transgenerate to smithey's of the cosmic fibers;
artisans of progress,
no citizens can create alone.

Words rarely blend to scripture.
History reviles the communicators.

Silence trumps...

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Just a buck and a score around the sun...does that make me a single solar unit? [07 May 2008|08:45pm]
[ mood | blackjack ]

What happens to a fool without a town and city. Do we shatter or liquify like rock candy slipping down a sewer grate? Do we lose a punch and remain a long whispering sigh...what is there...endless decay. But is it love... could that be a village for village-less, and residency must be the welcome mat... the door that perpetually is beaten, and the brass knob that never was screwed on quite right. I crave its moans of metallic ectasy. Thats when the agony of bruised knees becomes laughable. I'm a coffeeshop queen... I'm turpentine... and my love is fragmented oh what a life.

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I'm not lazy...I'm merely Balboa [05 Apr 2008|12:26pm]
[ mood | still on the rise ]

The movies have ruined my idea of motivation...where's ambient noise...and wide panning shots of willow trees and clenched fists, yelps of love, pangs of remores met with even handed salvation and ideal sunlight, and windless running. I smell shampoo....and where's pop music?

One day I think I just might find this a little less humorous....

and then I will have left for greener pastures.

Here's a song for all you goddamn people.

Give my regards to lincoln road.

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Sorry Paul, must the hammer fall... [12 Mar 2008|03:11pm]
[ mood | not-so-jedi-like ]

The trees are rattling out my window. I don't know this appeals to me so, perhaps I only needed something new to say. They stopped, must have heard my whispers....damn nature.

Furthermore I've recently been watching unholy amounts of Star WARS. So easily can I be immersed into its universe. I think I've finally realized why this is so. George Lucas shot the film in such wide shots, and I believe this symbolic. Star Wars is a saga grander than any life I've ever known. I crave adventure, to explore new realms, feel new emotions, create, destruct, erect, upheave, and blow like Mile's Davis's horn. There should be a grand design, a form to the functions which I've yet been granted the opportunity to compute. I want to see Venice( not as a tourist) but I want to bask in its sunshine and have some great novella under its warmth. I wish to play piano, not scales and Handel, but really fucking play, tickling the ivories. I want to touch genuine ivory keys. I wish to find near death on a caravan in the sahara. I wish to sling a six shooter, and be part of some great musical odyssey...a woodstock of a modern age. I want to see the west...climb mountains...travel a great river... I want a life less ordinary.

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I say hey ma... take a walk on the mild side [05 Mar 2008|12:10pm]
[ mood | wishiwerestoned! ]

As creative as I might be, all I wanna do right is recite lines "walk on the wild side" . Perhaps this is because I'm now more attuned LES fabulous, alhtough more likely is because he moment I opened my entry page this little number popped onto my stereo system...brief interruption...

and the colored girls say...doo dood doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo...

Where was I?

Yes midday ...I should be employed...the military takeover should have happened over Christmas... and maybe just maybe one day I will write that great American novel that I've grumbled over every time I enter a Barnes & Noble in la ciudad.

Love and prosperty...


hahah...do you really believe I would end a lj entry with hugs and kisses. Sweet sentiments that my cold, cold heart will never sanctify even unto my nearest, dearest friends. So rather I will leave you at my best, waning more, sleepy eyed, yet restful, stifled, and suffering, crying and laughing, and every possible ironic twist of fate that will slap you upon leaving the front door.

And here's a cup of joe.

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care to make a dirty harry... [23 Feb 2008|10:54pm]
[ mood | high 5'ing ]

In recent days I've developed a fondness towards the Western film genre, more specifically the ethnic smorgasbord, tex-mex meatball of the mill also known as the spaghetti western. I wonder why this dazzling palette of celluloid has fallen into such obscurity. Sergio Leone, knows the value of hesitation. His moments can measure up to radical emotional sweeps making good use of precious seconds. I've only seen, "the good, the bad, and the ugly", however I believe this to be possibly one of the best films of all time.

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a lesser candidate of consistent calamity...thats what I crave instigation of crisis that only you [18 Feb 2008|11:29pm]
[ mood | floating... ]

I am very liberated and lofty. I feel politics and god, I know remorse and solitude, my head aches and spins, loving, getting its thrills from tomfoolery, cheap humor, and mostly slanted shanties. Am I a Marcel Cerdan... where's my darling songbird? I am not afraid of heights, of sleep, dath, disease, my knees going out. Fuck the nuclear powers. Fuck messiahs. Fuck hatred.Fuck fucking. True liberation is maddening love and open roads, to know death not as a failing but an absolute falsehood. My name will live in the rain and spit shamelessly into the thorns I've once breathed. Pop tart consummations... let us be fickle for content, and feverish appetites for all that must be dreamed. I want my captors sunny eyed sleepers, and I'm an insomniac wallowing in my scribes and flat pianos. Keys will be the death of every last one of us, and I'm learning the mastery of burglary.

...can hear

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don't they do abortions with screwdrivers in the slums... [15 Jan 2008|01:32pm]
I have hijcacked this space with a rusty screwdriver. Mwah. Sunny is out buying cigarettes and little does she know I have claimed this space as my own. I have dyed my hair green and been attending the school of insanity somewhere in a undisclosed base in Cuba (coobah as the locals call it). I have replaced my teeth with plastic from toys. I am officially a fucking Toys R Us kid. The wear-er of many hats. The call of the wild is in my head and I'm flipping Tarzan.

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I have my moments... [28 Dec 2007|03:41am]
[ mood | mellow ]

Hey friend,
globe in my palm,
and no mother earth,
I don't need the likes of you.
I'll dispel the myths,
and leave the caravan,
on the foothills,
and I've lost count my moments,
time's no ally I choose to
wear upon my sleeve.

No I won't wake,
I'll will the world away.
Sans my fate,
I'll will you from my day.
And I can't place,
the fingers
from the string
from the signs,
to a blade,
that wills,
the well I've dug,
and the lambs,
a lesser man,
might not blink to kill.

I could dance,
newspapers my ticker tapes,
and I'm fickle,
crooked like a cane,
lavender tickled,
and a burglar,
but liars have most to say,

Wish I were you,
the proverbial you,
flawlessly askew,
and I'd waste away,
a convivial decay,
a slumbered display,
burn me alive,
with a twig for a stake.

No, its a slippery stream,
that bats its eyes,
I'll will your bending brows away.
I don't need your real estate.
And I'll will your will,
if I may.

But may's to might,
and might's too much,
for the fatigued;
like sleepytime babes,
of a time when the mornings,
meant funny legged steps,
and words of no consequence,
but to scream,
for smiles,
and malcontent,
for screams that will never change the world,
for she will suffocate the yelps of youth.
I wish to never turn a rock,
nor leave breathy air upon cooled glass.
and I wasn't born in the month of may,
but yesterday.
To be young,
so young,
will death
before a tiresome age.

In a suitcase will I,
be a soul astray.
With my debts in my dressers,
and sins in a wrist watch,
my cowardice upon my heels,
missteps in my pockets,
and I'm no better,
than the homebodies,
who choose order.
Chaos knows no good housekeeping,
it wears me no worse,
than denim blues.
We all must make our kingdom.
And God holds no reins on me.
No Judas...
No Moses,
No Pharaoh,
only trees.
And I swing and swill,
although romanticized,
begotten I'm still.
To live in trees,
I'd will the leaves abroad in the wind.

And if the breeze became burdened,
I'd fancy the moon,
and within its light I'd slay the planets,
and hopscotch saturn,
chariots hot on my steed,
for if the gods saw me comings,
I might plummet for all my speed.

To fall beneath the valley,
where I sat in mourning,
a stark contrast of morning.
Into a sinkhole of my creation,
digging to china,
and I smile for a sweet chorus of innocence,
must be my big bang,
and heaven's but a scripted twist in the mundane.
my universe,
but a deity,
and love but my mortality,
And the fool who laughs last,
looks thrice to my left,
and once right,
only to stumble
and toss my shoulders,
and realize will is but my torch,
to which I lit my own skies.

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five minute scrimmage [17 Sep 2007|04:55pm]
[ mood | speedy ]

Where do the jackets go,
when the weather's warm,
and the closet's closed,
and the chairs they've gone,
and thrown their arms,
all crossed,
and I wish it were my eyes,
for If I could not see,
I would not know sympathy,
for standing matrons and infancy,
Then again I know
thatif I could not breathe,
I'd lie all hours in the sea,
and what does that make me,
gluttonous diligently,
nobody's patience lasts,
but then how could time elapse,
how could treetops fall,
and lungs collapse,
and thats a breeze,
the fumblings of mortality,
and a hose,
to dribble my words away,
typewriters can be cruel,
once we peg away,
at q's and then its a
fight for space,
my thumb fidgets,
like a an old watch chain,
from a pocket of a new man's clothes,
his pockets lie bare,
wrist enclosed,
with hands,
watch them rain on my parade.

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superheroes and american anthems...and suddenly I wish I were the antagonist. [10 Sep 2007|03:29pm]
[ mood | free smoke! ]

    Good has as of late, been  less good.  There are no absolutes of morality...contrary to the ten commandments... and our own Moses NRA capiton Mr Heston...or any deity..or divine device...or political law...since human history is arbitrary... Would the Holocaust be a tragedy if Hitler won?So what is good... maybe its whats not evil...after all we value the oil and water, ying and yang, and all those lovely other stark opposites in degrees with variable figureheads who are firmly planted in the grassroots of their cause. A police officer walks the streets knowing full well what his badge means and what burdens it must bear. We as a collective, respect the badge, we don't know this man, but instantly we conjure sirens, god's watch, large irish families, reflective glasses, handcuffs, and protection all at once. Especially as a young lady, although I consider law enforcement agents as a whole the lowest walks of life, I still feel like superwoman when I'm coming home late, and there's that shiny object of trust to keep the bumbling drunkard homeless schizophrenics from my reach. The irony of this statement, is those same crazy out for kicks vagabonds I'd be much more at peace  with, if I had say a joint on me which I was  enjoying on that same train platform. This is the fairly obvious... my point being...whats the beacon of goodwill in a world such as yours...frankly I'm losing faith in society's judge of the righteous.Whose to trust... the clergy?businessman?  politicians?  athletes? socialites?
    This is a complete daisy chain to my thoughts, but skip the cobbled stones and dare I say venture along... On Saturday night  I attended a cd release party for the Milwaukees, at Maxwells. I only went out of courtesy to my band's backing vocalists who was to be featured on this album**Backstory** Any folks living in the Hudson area could walk two blocks without having a poster for "the best unsigned band in new jersey" and on and on so the trumpeteers blew. Before their set first on stage were a regular set of of Argonauts of sound; daring, punchy, melodic, blended, and different, this band of whom I still have no idea their name, blew my mind to say the very least. They were my heroes; bearded Baltimorians who killed my ears and won my heart with a shrill guitars, and rocked my skull with a mere piano. They were unkept...and hardly noticed.
    The Milwaukees... they are my anti christ...corporate...generic...sing songy...embraced with beer chants and high fives...a senior form of frat rock loved by drunk stock brokers and women who dance in circles and scream to five o clock shadowed pretty boys, "take off your pants" and my hips grazed and I see their husbands high five in their polo shirts... whilst reenacting hip motions more befitting of NFL sundays...
and dammit the Milwaukees were good at "it". Creating songs of nothingness... making the right hits...and singing words that can be quoted at company meetings in the hopes of brighter days. Good musicians stroking their egos... making hollowed shells that ream through your chest leaving a void. Because words without care and melodies without strife don't mean shit to me...only the good old boys...is that what are to become?And thats good my friend... a flaming pile of inane cliches, without counter, with seamless style, loved by the very goodness and high standing propriety which I've grown to admonish.

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all roads lead to rubber soul... [30 Aug 2007|04:47pm]
[ mood | migrained out ]

 and "pet sounds" .

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A Moral Quandary [24 Aug 2007|08:56am]
[ mood | lamenting ]

Part 1:
       I'm not an existentialist. I think therefore am was never a quick sell to me. This morning I described my mantra as unstoppable science. To intellectuals I feign purist ideals, and theologians find me as the devil's advocate. Thats a statement, not a delusion or a conflict, merely my means of reason. My inner turmoil lies upon the choices in life we make and the life changing events that choose us as their tumbling stones. Sitting on my half sheeted mattress, joint in my mouth, whilst maladroitly attempting to bend my fifteen year old stereo's plug into shape, I looked at my stock certificates to be cashed, and besmirched myself for a moment. To be young and republican, only the innocents are left pardonable. Today I cash these stocks ( earned through christmas cash and piggie banks). As a child these stocks validated society. It was my first venture into American life, and I was proud. My contributions to commerce felt significant rather than foolishly modest. I was a hurricane set out to take the world. I was Gandhi, Ben Franklin, Napoleon, Joan of Arc; a Rockefeller within the boundaries of my dreams. My creative vision rested upon a mankind that existed, on principals long ago founded, I dreamt of capitalism. I find this very strange in my current state of mind. Common sense would lead me to believe a child's mind like that of a looseleaf sheeted coloring book...no lines only endless lengths of flimsy corrugated blankness. Yet I saw roads, tunnels, valleys. I lived with maps in shapes of cubes, with levels of excellence, and every speck of dust was interwoven in ancient codes that somehow I already knew. I slept under painted skies of others. How could one dream a marvel of a sky masterpiece, once they've admired Van Gogh. I swam in an ocean of knowledge, and missed the currents to wield towards paradises unknown.  I longed for convention. I could analyze in depth why my childhood occurred as such, but those phantoms only will bestow awkard melancholy and really hold no long term effects. What I question are the choices I've made to not only stray from these maps, but to downright set them ablaze...
    Part 2:
       My euphemism of the week for the lifestyle which I choose(choose being the key word) is that of a starving artist. Its the oldest triedest and most true of these titles ranging from beat, bohemian, neo hippy, libertarian, anarchist, and naturally none of these words are minutely close in definition. Perhaps that is the range of my character. My beliefs are strung by a minimalist amount of ethics and principle which is loosely strung by calendar jargon and moments of fallibility. Contrary to popular belief i don't strive for the journey and pain and beauty and truth and disdain and sloth to which a life in the pursuit of art  accompanies. Rather this grandiose premise spent years tucked in a crevice within my hair just on the cusp of my ears, with soft nagging cooh's of whispers. My early teenage years were haunted by a distinct feeling that something was very off in my universe. I couldn't put my finger on it, explain my sadness, or understand my feelings of lack of belonging to a world of do'ers and makers. I felt awkward at all times. The world was watching as I clumsily strolled through my first years of misery. Maybe they weren't so mindful, and maybe just maybe that was my greatest fear of all.  I put on a wonderful vaudville act those years. My song and dance kept me mingled in with the best of them. I laughed the loudest. I walked the tallest. All actions were deliberate and flawless, carefully crafted to avoid scrutiny at all costs. I knew one master, and that was the world. I never was alone, and I could never be silent with others. How are ideas created in endless halls of echoes. I was deafened by the voices of so many.It was through sermonic teenage chants of denim, and driver's licenses, and mainstream film, that I couldn't join with my fullest heart. I sighed. My arms reached for metal bars to pull up and see above and soon I found myself seating cross legged staring at knocked knees.
    Part 3:
       Did New York create the beast? The true sacrifice of vision is blindness. The fearlessness to walk into a room of desolation, where light cannot breathe, and to reemerge needing no blessing other than blankness to create from. New York...where the skyscrapers sully the sun, and subway fares are more buses, and death is no mystery but a zanny morning anecdote. Its a vast world of destruction, where blooming from despair is nothingness, and that lack of emotion enables the impossible. It also slays the beast on a day to day basis. Our New York is daunted like Prometheus, its liver pecked by the students, and the traders, and its exploiters, only to regrow each day with a crop of fresh innocents. Perhaps republican too. Perhaps they walked in vivid sunshine and longed for thunder. And maybe just maybe they might not leave the darkness cap in hands pleading for fire, rather bursting  into the passing night a bolt of lightning across a sky that shines for no one else.     

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Syllables make melodies, and notes make happy beat makers. [23 Aug 2007|12:57pm]
[ mood | coming down... ]

Tuesday played a show, doubling as my jive talkin lesser yet far more clever half that is Virginia Slim, with my house of wax. That sounds much less chique than my faux jazziness. Shows are shows. This one worked out particularly pleasing to the ear and other orifices. I can't decide whether my favorite moment was the free half cooked burgers, the last song in our song,"nervous love", the surprise vagabond Cody's random shenanigans, free marijuana via rooftop that surely must have been tainted, or perhaps it was good tunes good friends and great designer fashion. No wait...fuck my friends.

I wonder how much my sarcastic tones are realized... note this is my abstract form of validation. Enjoy!

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