Monthly Archives: October 2011

so give us a joke then

I removed a benign melanoma I had, kicked it’s ass. I won but I’m wounded right now with an inch wide stab wound. I don’t like needles so I cauterized the wound instead. I felt like I was removing a bullet lodged in my back. Honestly, I just wanted to drive a sterilized pocket knife into my back. Watching everyone else stab each other in the back is worse than doing it to yourself. But I lived. I always fucking live. They will too. But my wound is flesh, theirs of metal.

I believe I’ve come to terms with my honesty. There are lots of things I want buried of course, but the fact I’m alive means I can joke about it. Maliciousness can come and go. But when they leave, a tiny bit of it stays with you. Dark is much simpler to be within than light is. Only the strong-willed persevere and find the light. It ain’t me, babe, but I couldn’t care less.

Everyone has a chance to win me over. And I try not to have opinions because they’re often jokes to lighten the morale. I try to have jokes instead. Good things happen, bad things happen; something always happens. It’s illogical to fret over the things that make us sweat. Once you start taking something seriously, something you can’t crack a joke about, that something matters. You’ll find yourself arguing and stressing over something you’ll find trivial later. So give us a joke. I won’t care if it’s a bad joke. I’ll know you’re just looking for a smile. Let everyone else scream, as if we need anymore of that noise, anyway.

The kettle of mortality and birth can be spilled by the slightest misstep or exaggeration. Are your bounds of flesh or of metal. A Ouija board spirit named Gomez said that to Marina and I. Finally, I’m no longer a ghost.

 

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Filed under rhetoric, stories

Topic of capricorns

May her smiles eternally shine brighter than the sun,
Always warmer than any imported whiskey in my lungs.
Rode bicycles down a single solitary lane,
In a blouse and big blossomed blue eyes,
Ne’er the skies could ever be more blue,
Almost making up for the days ethereal beauty could be true.

Lion hearts in the most honest of realms
Underneath many moons and many yawned nights.
Expectantly awaiting the next morning’s eccentric sun.
Seaming the days of past with the days of now to reignite
Candor in the things we used to believe were fun.
Helixes of honesty and haughtiness may glow in her light,
Endurance prevalent ever-danglin’ in yay or nay in the long run.
Never will her heart settle on complacency,

Jaundice, or any sort of pointless stressing conniptions

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mirrors have seen many things

my love is tardy but bold
my vessel only ever punctual
almost a quarter of a century old
my heart beats as if love was still functional

I may be fickle in my dating and mating leisure
a fool whom watches clothes dry on the line
however I see naught tidbits of pleasure
in trying to make every woman mine

barter your hearts amongst each other
denounce thy loneliness aching within thine bone
my taunted fickle heart only beats for one lover forever
and patiently watches your dominoes topple the next down the row

Mine will know the days
(Whomever mine may be)
where two listless hearts could dance
to a single loving beat

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kitty cat clause

they cuddle and play with you because you’re
so
darn
cute
but when you want something
or heaven forbid
need something
they lock you
in
the
bathroom

I can only save you from being alone
when i’m ’round and at home
believe in me my son
I love you most dear
but your kitten eyes must see clear
for you ain’t th’only one

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Filed under fiction metaphor, non-fiction metaphor, poetry

you can’t be angry at him, and not believe in him

I don’t read blogs often. I’m always afraid the way they arrange their words, their prose would desensitize my own. The ones I’ve read tell me things I don’t care to pay attention to anyway, really. I know that sounds mean, but I just don’t have an opinion about their day. I certainly don’t write into my blog the way I do because I think it’ll attract readers, it’s a place to let my thoughts go. So I’ve got the same view when looking at others. But I found one last night (while searching for something completely different), one that chronicled all the things I don’t normally care about. I read years into this person’s posts and I fell in love.

She sounded like the part of me that died long ago. (That’s bad writing, right? ha!) But she made me feel that all the unfortunate things that had happened to her, was undeserved. A person so sweet hit with all the bitters, yet she held, and I mean grasped on for dear life, this bright and positive outlook. I had no choice but to fall in love, and I fell deeper with every posting I read. I didn’t hold on for dear life like she did.

In a secular sense, she chose faith while I chose fear. She passed and I didn’t. You know why they have ribbons for colon cancer and liver cancer and other cancers except lung cancer? It’s because people believe they deserve it, that they did this to themselves. It’s not the cancer that kills a lung cancer patient, it’s the guilt that kills them. Guilt told me to let go and fall into the dark. (Yes I’ve become a better writer because of it, but it is expensive. That whole sadness and despair thing as inspiration is bullshit, don’t believe it. The art was already there, your ability to live tells you how you’ll translate it.)

I fell in love with her through her blog because it showed me how beautiful I could have been, had I have just held on a tiny bit longer. When you’re dead, you can only be loved, but you can’t return it. Maybe her words are the fingers reaching down to pull me up, and she’ll never know how happy her little fingers made me.

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Filed under non-fiction rambling, stories

tolerance is a sign of intelligence

There was a sense of safety I felt I had when I was in gloom. The best way to describe it would be to say it was mechanized. A self perpetuating gloom gizmo lethargically inducing the same expected results.

For instance, the apartment is fuck-filthy and far from poo-perfect in terms of sanitation. But I come waltzing in with my obsessive compulsive disorder (partial to perpendicular angles) and scrub the sin off everything. I also believe it’s a great trait for a maid to have, except I’m not. (I did want the reciprocation of proper sanitary practice, but that’s besides the point.) The point is, I expect them not to.

As far as the overcast in my heart goes, I expected them to leave me alone as they have, as I’ve made clear; their inadequacy in making me feel any better. However, I selfishly did not even think about the lengths they’d have to put up with. And when my own best friend (of whom is also a roommate of mine) finally scolded me, I felt terrible. Well, on top of what I’d felt before.

Everyone always expects me to be the fun guy, the guy that made everyone else feel better, but even the clown can get tired of his own jokes. My face had grown sore from the smiles it’d shine. It felt as though it had shone for too many moons and I thought the gloom would give me a break. That was selfish thinking, because fake smiling hurts a fuck of a ton less then a real friend’s hurt. I’ve got to go back to work.

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ivy campus playground

it sucks a ton
to dumb down a word
and there were more syllables

it is terrible
that it must be done
and there was less confusion

waiting for a bottle of wine
to aerate
while I smoked a cigarette

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