With two bottles of Guinness—paid for with my last four dollars—and cigarettes that I stole from my roommate I celebrate my twenty-second birthday. The only other birthday I remember celebrating was at a seedy bar with a few friends. That was a year ago—the strip clubs and disillusionment, and wind that uprooted everything. I give a bottle to an acquaintance and am given two shots of fine vodka in exchange. And then I go to sleep, like another year of my life has passed and doesn't matter. Or maybe it does, and I just don't know why.

A lighter came in the mail today. For me. They told me I couldn't bring it on the plane because I could potentially "eject the fluid." I'm in the military; you can trust me with a lighter. You can trust me with a knife! They won't trust anyone with matches anymore, either. Not even MacGuyver could take down a plane with toenail clippers and a lighter.

From Monterey to Omaha and Omaha to San Angelo, my birthday present to myself. Wednesday night, and all is well. The greatest part is that people can't figure out how to work the damn thing.

For a few of us, there are few mediums to truly express to people the ways we think and feel, either because they wouldn't think to ask the specific questions that beg the answers we would love to give, or because we would freak them out, or blow their minds. As we as humans begin to transcend our barriers (open and honest communication being the most important), we will gradually draw together for better or worse--hopefully the better--to overcome obstacles that may otherwise eclipse those living today.. our generation. And perhaps a "worldwide network" will do the trick.

Humans must have souls because I can feel mine and it's too big for my chest. Oftentimes when I'm alone on a beautiful day I spring into tears. Rainy days are the easiest to deal with, because I can feel that the weather understands--that Mother Earth wants to cry in my stead, because her soul has pressed against her bosom in the same way--it's the "nice" days that are hard. Everyone is happy because they are comfortable and I try and seem happy too, but it hurts to be alone in this world of beauty and lush life.

In Abilene today a used car dealer sold the vehicle my friend had his eye on. This left him bereft of the ability to drive me to Fort Worth where, to this day, my Chevy van--"The Beast"--still sits in wait for its master/life partner/friend/caretaker to meet it for the first time. Sadly, it was not meant to be. Not today.

Of the few material possessions in life a car, I think, is the most important.. it's.. motion. It's.. freedom. If there were ever a true "American dream," it would be a Chevy van rolling down I-80 and Hendrix.

She packed the last of her things in her little red Sunfire, closed the trunk, and said a little prayer that everything she left in Omaha would stay in Omaha. It was June, and she was still depressed because of the abortion. That huge gold mane shook as she looked down at her feet, smirking, thinking, "it always happens this way." Everything she owned fit in that four-door sedan, and she felt a pang of regret that she didn't own a television, and vowed to never mention those months to anyone; she might, however, write an ambiguous poem someday.

Someday..

Di-di-dit dit. Sometimes I wanna blabber, ramble, piece it together like an idiot. An' if it sounded slick I could get the audience to listen, I'd hoard their attention like a whore and put them in a similar position, turn 'em in to my pimp and have 'em turnin' tricks by ten. With a flash of the hands and a slip of the tongue I don't even need three minutes to do what some of these other suckers have done. Did it dip dick give it up, chump, your whole slam scam is wrecked, give the audience a little respect.

In Contemplation of Emptiness.

It is not uncommon for a human being to say, "life is pain; life is suffering." To accept pain and suffering in this life is to submit oneself to living hell on Earth. Instead, let us see that pain and suffering are both simply states of mind that can be overcome with conscious effort and right thinking. Life is a series of infinitely short moments--pictures. Matter is comprised of infinitesimally small particles, which are made of energy, which technically does not exist. Not having things you want should be the least of your worries.
Try living.

The phone rang, prefix that same area code. "Hello," it seemed to say, conveying every ignored, denied emotion with three numbers, taunting. "Hello," it repeated. Life had moved on, but the past raised its hand through the months like a corpse's bony hand through sepulchral earth, and left a message. Another bastard poem had been born.

She opened it, hesitated, and listened to the sound of his voice. The tone was soothing. The words didn't matter, because she understood everything he had tried to tell her. In a message, in a word, in a number, everything worthwhile. And she deleted it.

The internet is a fantastic tool to make, maintain, and strengthen friendships: geography and time constraints are cut to practically nothing, it allows fringe individuals to form relationships with people that are similar, and it gives people the resources to make connections they may not have otherwise made. My friends live in different states and countries, but I can still keep in touch with them. I meet people online that are, simply put, incredible. Marko, Vixen, Mars, Cathy, Yael, Sierra.. I'm so blessed to have friends that I can be open about appreciating, without their being made uncomfortable or embarrassed.

Lately I've been amazed by the way sunlight plays around my edges. Late at night while I'm lying awake with my wrist rested on the window's edge and the light outside brightens the upper and lower section of my arm I marvel in amazement at the graceful shape I've been gifted with. When I talk to someone I look into the light; an ex-girlfriend of mine said that that makes my eyes shine. My gum soles glow when the light diffuses slow, amber and appealing. I feel like I'm moonlighting. If there's anyone out there, you're invited to find me.

Rarely am I able to remember what happened just a few days ago. It's as though my memory starts over every Tuesday and Friday because, try as I might, my mind can't wrap around that concept of past time. Perhaps this is an extension of a thought process that leaves the past in the past, firmly, for better or worse, to preclude those "what if"s, "could have"s and "might have been"s. Certain thoughts are relegated to the "facts" section, but ideas--memories in particular--simply escape. I wonder if that's a good thing. I suppose only the future will tell.

Nothing about today was worth writing about.

From the Discovery Channel waking me up in a hotel room double bed to the rental car nap that paused at some middle school where some girl won some national sports contest to the Air Force base where I went and did some homework for an hour and then just hung around for a while, waiting for the Great Beyond to open up and tell me what I'm supposed to be doing. The thing about the Great Beyond is that it doesn't open up when you're waiting; it opens up when it's inconvenient.

In this life, I will always be persecuted wherever I show my face too long. There are things about me that people might find objectionable—and do—perhaps that's why I always feel I'm at my best coming and going. Someone once said "familiarity breeds contempt."That's a strange one, if you think about it, but upon deeper reflection you might realize that you're so different from everyone else that it seems like you have nothing in common with them. On the other hand, you might have more in common with your neighbor than you want to admit to yourself.

And she told me that these wings of mine were strong, just beneath the surface of my skin, and that they were what caused the tension in my neck, the knots in my shoulders, and the regular misalignment of my spinal column.

That's the impression I get, feet heavy over this prairie, spread for lovers, ready to surrender its stored-up warmth for the sake of their comfort, grass spiny but not uncomfortable. My shoulder hurts a little. What will unleash itself within me when the storm comes, and how well will we weather what's to come?

My heart goes out.

And there are days my soul sings so loud that it brings music to mind, words, voices, melodies and things, and it's so wild that I can't capture the feeling. And there are nights when my soul roams, wanders out beyond me, and leads me into the world and out from home, and people can feel that you're searching. And there are months my soul lies dormant, waiting for the spark of a moment to set off in a different direction, call it inspiration, I call it spiritual erection. Sometimes my essence is veritably verdant and what it touches, lives.

My future is so interdependent on factors I couldn't begin to understand that my life is resplendent. My enemies and friends are all completely dependent upon me for their existence (not to mention everyone else on the planet). This makes forgiving trespasses more attitude than commission, and zen more appealing than a life of contrition. I'm sorry, but how can humans ascribe vengeance and jealousy to a god of compassion?

Maybe if I roll over enough minutes I'll make a call long-distance to the creator, and ask what we should be fighting for. I just hope my plan covers calls down.

There are women I keep in touch with that I'll never score with, don't feel like particularly close friends with, or really even feel like I have anything to talk about.. with.. I guess that's my addiction. Women, and maybe the internet--though I'm sure that I'd be the same way, just in a different way, without it--sorta' vaguely hoping to make a connection that I couldn't, otherwise (that is to say "in real life").

Maybe it's just that getting to know me is too big an investment, or that I'm scared someone will take me up on it.

In San Angelo, Texas, one particular bookstore has six full racks of Christian literature—five or six shelves (both sides) per rack—and about two shelves of poetry. Not that Christian literature bothers me. The fact that there's no poetry in this place but there are tons of Christian books doesn't bother me either. What bothers me is actually that they can sell so much literature that is incomplete—did you know that several books were left out of the Bible?—make tons of money, and still not convey Christ's message.

Also, I'd have liked to have bought some Cohen stuff.

I'm often afraid to write when I don't feel like I don't have anything to say. Sometimes I don't feel like saying anything at all if I don't feel like what I have to say will go over well. If I sit down and draw a picture that I don't like, sometimes I chalk it up as a waste of time and scrap it. But when I do, it's usually not that bad, and I feel as though those wasted projects weren't really wasted at all; that, rather, my life has culminated to this point, built on those wasted projects.

One who's suffering writer's block may be tempted to say "words fail-—or, to be more precise, "words fail me." But, in that instance, isn't it you that have failed your words? Boredom is reflexive. Writer's block is akin to the timidity of a lover afraid to touch their lover, trembling fingers and near-kisses making edgy that which comes naturally.

The proclivity to project onto others is incredibly powerful but, ultimately, we must take responsibility for our own destinies. To blame fate for your shortcomings is worse than making excuses for faults—it's essentially choosing and accepting complacence instead of existence.

I am beautiful.
I am strong.
I'm a great artist.
I'm attractive.
I have totally sweet taste in music.
I am brutally honest.
I'm spontaneous.
I'm a giving lover.
I write beautiful poetry.
I have friends.
People like me.
I'm have a rockin' singing voice.
I'm unique.
I love myself.
I'm smart.
I don't compromise my ideals.
I'm proud of myself.
I have lots of talent.
I'm wise for my age.
My wings are strong.
I can help you learn to fly.

Homelessness was a concept that had always intrigued him. When he left home, he realized that what he left wasn't his home; that where he was was, to a certain extent. The things that made him feel at home weren't his friends or family but, rather, a few simple trappings.. speakers, for instance, his turntables, vinyl, and the like. Books. A car, for when he felt like he needed to get away. But he didn't have a car, or his own place, for that matter.

That man is me, and I'm tied to someplace where I'm hardly comfortable. It sucks.

Please, my soon-to-be long-lost love, just leave me this, linger one moment more in tender verdant silence. Let us once more embrace, let us again caress, and with remnants of breath within your chest, bless before the spirit's left. Pull my face against your chest, and press your lips against my forehead. Whoever said that parting is sorrow never left a love as lush as this. And I'm content that this was gorgeous but it's time for us to make amends, and let this spirit rest. From the ashes, recreated, lent breath. As softly as ushered in, out, and then..

nothin.'

Some enchanted evening, you will karaoke..
So I was dragged into going to karaoke at this overrated country/hip-hop/latino/karaoke bar called Graham Central Station. I rocked it out so hard that the audience was actually cheering for me. People bought me drinks. People asked if I was straight. Hehe. I even entered in the karaoke contest but lost miserably in the first round. My conclusion? That if I had breasts and didn't mind showing off my body, I could've done much better. Call me cynical, but white guys are at a distinct disadvantage in this day and age.
I wish I had breasts.

This morning—and by "morning" I mean "afternoon"—I woke up with a fuzzy feeling—read: mild hangover—and a bit of interesting news—looks like I'm gonna get raped again. As it happens, my roommate decided yesterday to try his hand at stealing but failed, and was arrested. When they looked through our room, they found my cigarettes.

In the military, sometimes you're not even allowed to possess tobacco. This rule is one that several of us break on a regular basis but, because my roommate broke a big rule, I'm gonna get busted for a little one.

Fuck this.

Some cultures in this world have words that mean, "to tell the truth." All we have in English is "lie"—there's no antonym in our language. Consider the implications: we're discouraged from trusting one another; furthermore, it may be difficult to prove to someone who knows you well that you are, in fact, truth-telling if they have reason to want to believe you're lying. "In my honest opinion" connotes, in my mind, an opinion that isn't normally given honestly. A man with his head in a vice screaming, "I'm not lying!!" isn't normally believed. I, however, am a horrible liar.

I wish I were a woman, sometimes. Not just so I could sit at home and play with myself, either. Sex is a currency that I, as a (merely above-average-in-the-looks-department, not-in-a-band, not-a-body-builder-or-millionaire) man, lack. I lost a karaoke contest on Friday, and a slam in January to two hot chicks and a schizophrenic dude. Those feminist hippie chicks that say that a woman is still a powerless person in this patriarchal society are, I think, sadly mistaken. Maybe it's because they don't own underwear or realize that they have breasts that they're unable to realize how wrong they really are.

Living two separate lives is taxing. When there are things about yourself that would set you apart from others you do your best to hide them. It's easy enough to keep one thing from a friend, but how about two or three things? What if there was so much of you that nobody knew about that you were an entirely different person than everyone else knew?

Would they run away and hide if they found out the truth? Would they stop being your friends, or were they your friend in the first place? Would you be strong enough to reconcile them?

My job is high-pressure. I'm a student, and if I fail, I lose my job. I have to get up early and work for several hours at concepts I hardly understand, learning them just in time to pass the tests. I study for at least an extra hour a day, and am usually exhausted. And the people in my class are people I know, but they're not my friends. And the people I laugh and hang around with are my friends, but they don't know me. Lonliness sucks, but being alone alone is worse than being alone to begin with.

So it looks like Terry Schiavo died today, and thank God. Is modern media really so desperate for news that they'll broadcast 24/7 coverage of a non-issue? A great mind once said that "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results-—sure, she might've recovered, but after 10 years, it's pretty negligible. And besides, has nothing else happened in the world in the past 10 days? Micheal Jackson has been on trial, sure, but is that really news-worthy? We're such depression sluts. Bring on the good news and the sunny days.