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Circling into winter with a spring in step, relearning to discern notes hidden on insets. I took a chance and a picture of a sunset. Burning like a surface with a thirst for curbing the issue we've been skirting. Flirting with stirring long slumbering wording. Bursting to herd this earthling lurching towards you from hurtling into blurring lines and vision. Birthing a churning, burbling brook where ahold your curving took, small shapes your configuration makes during the earning of your encircling around my frame. Bursting to be wrapped around your finger, no worries, no pressure, no ring, no wedding singer.
Ignore the taunting and shouting on the other side of the wall until it knocks off your door and tell it like you never could before that you don't want to be part of the problem anymore. Cry by the creek and know it has been time to leave for longer than you have wanted to believe. Book a flight four weeks from now and memorize this moment to swear not to repeat the same speeches and stings that tear down everyone involved without a loveless feeling solved. I live with it every day. Don't ask why I can't stay.
I take the city bus. Keep the tour bus. I put my feet on the seat. In the break room. And on the train. I pay the fare. And my dues. To clubs I refuse. To belong to. Cut the rungs to watch the scramblers fall. Don't want to hear about. How I'm up for sale. Your handshakes leave me cold. Your pitches are stale. If I could wear the desire to be alone, then anyone approaching would know. And just go. It's a suicide mission to go after my soul. And a santa claus fantasy dreaming of anything old.
There is someone behind me in a large, dark freezer. If I fall before I find the door someone will find a body soon. He heard some noises and thought someone was here, but I'm gone. I woke up wishing for what I was handed tonight and my fingers are all that twitch one. last. minute. in the booming hollow sound of unread last rites when wrongs were all that were committed by exhibit A when bated breaths were hooked and taken away and it looks like metal tore through the side of a face, the body chasing something shiny.
The unintelligent with more common sense than could fill a lecture hall. The grammatically incorrect who took all of five minutes to learn what it is to see an empire fall. Whe figured out what it took big big brains years to reverse upon and say out loud he at all. Who unlearn the iron systems twisting around their wrists. Who who whether they lay palms flat and lay out their truths in lists or make it even simpler and show defiant fists. Who have the guts enough to resist the persistent slogans passed down through the years like lisps.
Those who notice party lines slip when those poor slobs without six figures to list let their scissors snip not to hear noise dribbling from busted, caught red teeth and lips. Who would rather laugh than put some money in place of where a mouth is. Who vocally rip newspaper clippings useful only as sun roasted shit for the other dogs to lap up while those labeled village idiot don't permit themselves to taste or even lick. Whose mental ammunition is sealed with an iron kiss. Who break down apathy that presses against with the force of a lover's hips.
Tell me how you're happy and you have all you want but your desires hold you captive in a vicious cycle while I drift and carry on. Enjoying the instances that always pass and accepting each time I shatter as glass. Duality holding me loosely in its grasp before the next momentous memory becomes the future's past. Tomorrow is a fiction. It can mean whatever I say but it doesn't hold the truth inherent in today. I want to unravel a story to be the living proof that ideas don't fade and that I existed at least in some way.
Heroes are not meant to be fleshed out or real, just the essence of some personality traits that are clearly only ideal. Models to strive for when struggles are faced, inspirations to draw from, never to footstep for footstep replace. My greatest motivations were inventions of the mind. Others might have looked to their families but I didn't place stock in mine. My creators are writers, poets, thieves, artists and savages, screamers with shattered dreams. Rambling rovers who roam and remain untamed. Heart crushed militants without a cause to claim. Attack them with torches, scriptures, laws. I emulate their "flaws."
Inspiration strikes while someone is checking mics. Something clicks when the bass drum kicks. I feel a rare sensation in my fingertips. Loss of inhibition, cares falling away. Nights like these carry me through days even if I never make it to a stage beyond a sing along next to a stranger's face. Forging a path from between sharpened branches of rootless trees that gnaw and gnash at my elusive feet. Two stepping onto a new level of dreams that taunt and tease with their royalty of how I can rule subjects by writing out that they mean to me.
I don't mean to talk shit (which means I do) but I think it is necessary. From what I have seen if a lesbian has a problem with a lesbian, then she will handle it one of two general ways or both ways. The first option: world war three. Tears, booze fueled at least, someone will run out, etc. The other is the passive aggressive method. Ignoring one another at the club or sex shop but acting like what one is doing is so fulfilling and interesting that one is not actively ignoring and is merely oblivious to another's presence.
Here is some texting terminology that may be useful.
nexting: texting someone who is right next to you. This may be useful when secretly dating someone while in mixed company or talking shit about the person in the room with food in his glasses.
exting: texting your ex. This may be useful when obtaining those jeans you love or slowly weaning yourself off a relationship only to then create a complicated pseudofriendship. May sometimes include sexting.
brexting: this may refer to texting before or while eating breakfast or while breastfeeding. I am not sure
More texting terms:
dexting: live texting while watching Dexter. May also refer to texts about reruns and books and anything Michael C Hall related
blexting: for when you can't make it to church
fexting: fake texting, pretending to text
guexting: trying to guess what a text means or in some cases, says.
drexting: drunk texting, which can cause guexting
lexting: letting someone else text from your phone pretending to be you
mexting: texting in spanish
hexting: for when you can't perform curses in person
Punk is what makes me realize that nothing is so serious, nothing is so bad in my personal life that it cannot be used in a joke. Punk tells me that nothing is sacred, truth is subjective, and everything is fair game. Punk is searing, sloppy, witless, sneering sheer idiotic brilliance and a mess of vomit baked to perfection in toxic sunshine. Punk is the gateway drug to the ongoings that used to be secret, hidden in shadows, not shoved into bright light and mirrors to the sounds of shrieks and barks and sarcasm. Punk is blank. So am I.
Hardcore is punk's more serious, brooding little cousin. Hardcore used to get picked on so it pumped iron and is back with something to prove and a lot to say. Hardcore doesn't like you. It comes in through the window not the door. It doesn't ask you for a ride. It steals your car and sets it and your house on fire when it's done. Hardcore is so loud and distorted you don't know what is hitting you but you read all the words you can and find the ones that speak your language so you can hurl them back.
You don't have to mention me to anyone at all. You don't have to love me. You don't have to call. I could be your friend forever. I can swear to keep my distance and never try to sever your ties. I can let hurt sting and look you in the eye. Just kiss me one more time before I die. I could wait for decades. I can love you from afar. I could watch you age beautifully and proudly bear for you any scar. Please someday drive me home even if it's the last time you start a car.
Again with the torn apart guts and hacked off limbs. There is nothing casual about the tactics used to distract self-destruction. Caving in, collapsing on exhausted limbs from running away and riding the wind. I can still feel so I can still win. Rage aimed at no one calming my nerves. Imaging driving straight when the road curves. All I hear daily are emotionless words unless I'm missing the cues I have heard. Uninterested in reading facial expressions. I understand everyone seperately in learning human lessons. People all wanting sides to take when options have no sense to make.
Waste your life talking about what you have but to me you always look so sad. You can buy everything but meaning. You can have everything but anything that takes work. And what's worse, to be moving in small circles or stuck in reverse? Regressing back to a screaming child when nothing that you want can be bought with a perfect smile. You can buy everything but meaning. You can lose anything but what you will never have. You spent your life on what will never matter. Now isn't it sad? You can return but you won't get anything back.
Every move you make has a meaning and I'm straining to understand but I can't feel what isn't in my hand. Counting down the letters in your name and hoping nothing stays quite the same. Spelling it out with my foot in the dirt and then stomping it out. Because I am the whisper when you needed someone to shout. All that I have left wonders, was I what you expected to see? I'd pull the covers up and hide but the oly escape is to stay on my feet, moving on to places of no safety and no retreat.
It's kind of funny how you can live somewhere over and over again and every time you come back it feels like the first time. You more or less know your way around but so much changes over time and every time you come back it really does feel like somewhere new. There is a new building or sign. The places you used to go are boarded up and blocked off and fenced in. Shutters are closed and all these new babies are hanging around waiting to leave town, but some of them will stay. And some things never change.
3rd wheel? Try 19th wheel. Immune to the commonalities that meld together other steel.
In flames on the side of the expressway. That sharp scent burning eyes and nostrils.
Craned necks interested but the culprits nowhere to be seen. Who will be around when you need a spare?
Driving by lose lugnuts and sweat and grease and tiredness. The fatigue clearly seen from conversationalists searching for meaningless talk to pass the time when traffic is stopped like a grocery line and that person not like us is holding up all of our entitled minds.
It's not that I like murder mysteries for their great plots or sick twists. I guess I just keep hoping something will tip me off to what was going through the mind of a guy I know who killed other people, well at least two. Maybe I could understand something more of the four I can remember from my high school who died; the drunk driver, the soldier, the quad accident, and the murder suicide. Maybe some fictional or factual account can help with my eldest loss and their youngest ones I never got a chance to meet. Maybe not.
I only like watching sports games on TV when they are close games and preferably fast paced. Anything else is a bore. Endless fouls are a bore. Timeouts are a bore. Baseball is rarely a bore because it has a steady pace and very few delays or changes of pace or macho altercations. Basketball tends to keep a fast pace but gets bogged down with fouling tricks in addition to the usual foul routines used to win. The 4th quarter of many games is time outs and foul shots. I get pretty bored especially if one team is way ahead.
The best part about sports are stats. Stats define who star players are, combined with or in place of longevity. Stats are what disprove the stereotype that all sports fans are idiots. You try remembering useless trivia and numbers over the years. You try guessing which team will win well enough to win money. You try playing a drinking game where every time a point is made you drink a beer while watching a 100+ point game without dying before you pass out. You try running around your living room every time someone hits a baseball, without visiting the ER.
Contradictions apparent, paradoxes inherent, a defect inherited. Could be on a roll. Could be on fire. Could be the biggest let down and the honest-to-god liar. Cut and run from my mode of fun. I'm not that special someone, but I'll let you hold my gun. Cuffed to your wrists, my standard lines in lists. Spread across your face larger than a maple leaf are countless signs of disbelief. You're not so easy to deceive as those who came or were drawn to me in looking for something, anything to believe or act out. The role is cut.
I tossed in my turn, ignored what I'd learned. Felt the fire to know I was burning, didn't catch smoke signals in my stomach's churning, blending reasons for motives into seasons that rushed past as crushing locomotives. I'm tied to the tracks. The train is running late so pick me up, take me back to your place. Of course I'm only kidding and saviors aren't fitting to us who chew through ropes and hang from ceilings in hopes for one word heard that could feel true. Guess there's no difference between everyone who has cut me down swinging and you.
Repeat. Replay. Retract what you say. A cycle. A circle. Bruises fading to yellow from purple. Comments hurtful. Concerns merciful. You're so damn beautiful. Avoid the cubicle. Enter. Exhale. Take the first step, unafraid to fail. A late night scheme that doesn't work in AM reality. A long distance idea that blurs out of focus each mile I get nearer. The facts far from the story's continuity are getting clearer. You can't lie convincingly to the mirror. Imagine the image arriving any minute. Well rehearsed lines of your truth and how you spin it between capability, culpability, authenticity, and animosity.
I write there words as empty gestures. In the days of kings and queens I was a jester. Who's laughing now? Not concerned about who I made proud. Try to kid myself that there are no egos accounted for or allowed. Thought I wasn't looking for what I thought I had found. Still haven't ripped my head from my ass or the clouds. You are the only dream I barely said aloud. You are the madness, the reason I wander off drunk and alone with thoughts racing and fists pounding into walls and on the floors.
These are the words that come to mind:
empty lonely quiet distanced forgotten persistent asshole hurt kerosene soft sleepy phlegm when denim perfection bonus disappointment victory easy minor descending apprehensive guilty aching blackout waiting disbelief fuel denial night speed too fast crash bend transparent disturb crimson pale covered trust fall sixteen salt pattern disguise bet disintegrate concrete darken repetitive thought mistake honesty disinterest bare invisible ego clown neon lung pretensious slowly mercedes benz class interrogation discover group follow worst joshua saliva fear disillusioned hero block cross run floor time compromise destitute dry bucket rectangle mouse hair we for
Funds low. Little to show. A heart undersized refuses to grow. I see my cue to go. Tired now and unaware. Not too observant, few reasons to care. No cause to carry or emotion to bury. Still I push on to see a new dawn. Hold out awhile to exchange a smile. Waving you forward in the hardest race you've run. Finding the motive to put down the gun. You hold me up infrequently but enough to see the best in me. I never tell you of my dreams but you know more than it seems could be a possibility.
Make your way through the crowd to the front of the stage. At your age the only solace to seek is a healthy release of bottled rage. A predictable cage engages the last sage advice about which you'll never think twice. Ignore easy answers in simplified quotes. The captain is sinking and taking the boat. You have a solid life preserver on which you can float. Though I wish you no ill will, the cards are stacked against you like a pile of overdue bills. You exit through a curtain of beads. Glance back at neon lights from the street.
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