Old Vices Return

I guess I'm going to have to keep wondering when you'll look back and face the real self you're letting wander in the shadows. You're refusing to trace your footsteps into reality and instead keep trudging towards what appears to be a selfish facade of indulgence. Like gluttony and lust, filling your plate too much and satisfying your very needs, you'll only end up alone and pathetic -- a perfect example of who you are versus who you could have been. Face your deadly vices, count them all on two hands, but don't dare look to me for help when your throat is clamping and you're beginning to choke. Perhaps speaking up with truth earlier would have helped you in the end. Instead, the filth lined the back of your tongue, making you the eighth vice on my list.

--dated 9/12/07... a look back to almost a year ago.

Infinity Speaks

Infinite Noise, Quiet, and Force.
Exploding, Imploding. Exploring.
A moment without words – expression.

The world revolving around the evolved.
Her presence echoes, quietly.
Singing… her music tells a story.

The waves that carry miles of barrier --
Language, time, and surf,
Continuously crash, recede, and repeat.

The sounds echo without much menace
A sound that soothes and reaches
To those nearby, eyeing the rising sun.

The warmth stretches its comfort and arms
Enveloping and holding the silence
Of anyone willing to witness the sight.

Becoming and destroying, one entity of force
Strengthening, Weakening, Being.
Creation at its peak -- an infinite voice.

False Days

this is a day of celebration.
we are of the bold and the free.
though
irony and its laughter plays
within these veins
for this is also a day i dread.

independence.
noun.
self-rule and self-determination.

bullshit.

From the Vault - April 2007

This present anxiety,

Like nails on a chalkboard.
The screeching sound,
A terrible product of friction.
Nervous habits,
Nervous laughter.
Laughing
When logic screams solemn.

This gnawing anxiety,

Shaking all over.
Unsure of what to do,
Unsure of what to say.
Thoughts
Flowing like water,
Into a bottomless chasm.
Rubbing away,
Creating a schism.
This throbbing anxiety,
Blacking out thoughts.
Scared to reply,
Scared to ignore.
This wicked anxiety,
Consuming it's prey.

all the while

the surrounding places have everything to say
lives pass through with stories to relate
and all the while, you stand
resisting against quicksand
inhaling the sadness that revels in and around
the madness of a sentient coma resounds
and all the while, you remain
resisting against constraint
emptiness embraces the lost and lonely
dissembling true emotion just barely
and all the while, you stand
resisting against all you can
a plethora of advice clouds judgement
compelling the heart to grow absent
and all the while, you remain
all this time, you've maintained
the heart that bleeds unwilled tears
the soul struggling to adhere
to the mind that sustains conflict
while life becomes the verdict
and breathing is the penance.
all the while, you grow distant.

losing time

a sum of genuine discern and practiced care
reveals a pretense between her hand and his
careful in witting words as well as plastered smiles
a tall entrance marks the shadow of a withering child
a crowded room will only contain lonely persons
with minds reeling of schedules, deadlines, and dates

after all this time, where do footprints fall?
tracing and erasing the moments recalled
a grain of salt is too much to swallow
when chewing on these deafening hallows

with combined effort there may be connection
but only briefly for time does not pause
for such trivial pursuits as friendship and love
quicken your pace -- you must run
towards the inevitable
no sense of smell or even sight
for time does not pause
for such trivial matters.

after all this time, where do footprints fall?
tracing and erasing the moments recalled
a grain of salt is too much to swallow
when chewing on these deafening hallows

Conquer. Crumble. Repeat.

Trapped between two vicious realities always craving the other. One you're trapped and uncomfortable. Clawing at a box for any excuse to get out. Pressured on all fronts with no feasible end in sight. The other is not too far from the first. Trapped and uncomfortable, only in a different way. Sights on a goal that is unattainable. Crumbling at its very sight, yet only close enough for a brief glimpse. Scenarios ravage you in sleep and spare thought. Always wondering, fearing, lusting. What was and what never was. Both paths always end in the same. The sickening end of two painful roads. That empty feeling in your stomach that is amplified by desire and hope. Combined with a looming numb, exasperated by experience. Two well traveled paths in the past, leaving an empty shell - looking out of a dark window, through dry and bloodshot eyes.

Fate

Fate transcends time and space
There is no when or where but what is
Only if one looks within oneself will he or she truly ever find their fate
Distractions come and go in life but one will remain despite all others
In those times take hold of the opportunity that lies in front of you
Never looking back
Never questioning a move or thought

Double-Speak

Hypocritical statements of how this is and how that was -- your heart versus mine. The infinite question of love we think the ability to answer we own...when such an emotion is beyond such tiny minds. Didn't you know? We speak as if we understand and think as though we will come to know -- these are the complexities of life we tend to tangle further like strands of hair caught in the wind. If only we were capable of being satisfied. Didn't you know? If only we were capable of remaining simple. Suddenly such profound questions would return to meaningless speeches over a table of steam as one mind tries to grasp the upper hand. For that is all we are -- fumbling, tumbling, receding -- every step forward is creating a wider circle. If love was meant to be understood, would it have no meaning at all? Love in itself creates no madness but the topic of madness in which men dwell upon. Didn't you know?

running.

Always chasing
something more
Always running
ever faster
to a paradise
That quite simply
Is not there.

The Coldest Sun

One monotonous blink of the eye
To every day footprints treading
Not running, nor skipping, nor straying

Only one footstep
At a time...
In the direction of the rising sun
Where blind men see and the others...
Well, the others are imperceptive.

Metaphorical rather than physical;
Symbolic in its warmth and glow;
Ironic in the implications of truth.

Where do the others go?
I sit in front of the sun
Where it is most cold...
Verity loves humor.

Winter Remains

As the dew settles
On this new sunny day.
Our earth comes to life
In an unfamiliar way.
Birds are chirping,
Flowers blooming,
Lovers swooning.
On this special day,
The cold is over
And life begins.
Growing brightly
In such a happy way.
Except for those
Who cannot awaken
Or enjoy the moment.
Just sit there forsaken.
For it all seems gray.
When life is beautiful
Pouring out salt
into an open wound.
Reminding with pain,
For the privileged few
Winter still remains.

5

*CLANG* There I go again.....it seems every time I have something important to do I have to go and black out. Jobe was not all that surprised about the perplexed state he awoke in. His liquor binges tend to put him in these situations. Was he dreaming? Had all he just thought of been a dream? Since when did Marc work for the russian mafia? Time had become very distorted since his drinking binges became an everyday occurrence, he wasn't quite sure what was real anymore. From what he could make out his room was dark....Oh no....not again...I hope I made it home without Marc realizing it. Jobe, distraught, tired, and in desperate need of a shower, got up and looked around not really realizing what he had gotten himself into. And then it set in.....the cold, damp floor was unfamiliar....and Jobe did not recall his bed being so stiff, he fooled around on the bed and picked up his glasses....I hate being fucking blind without these things....the picture began to clear and suddenly Jobe realized he was no where near home, what he once thought were walls were merely bars intricately placed keeping him in like a caged animal....he had somehow ended up in a jail cell.
"HELLO?", Jobe yelled through the bars, pleading desperately for an answer.
"Pipe down over there! Some of us are actually trying to sleep pal."
"I'm sorry but can you please tell me where I am?", Jobe was desperate for answers.
"How the hell do you not where you are boy? You're in the finest penitentiary the state has to offer, South Harmon Penitentiary. Welcome to hell." The ominous voice let out a cackle that only a true southern hick could make. Thousands of thoughts came flowing through his head like a dam giving way. How the hell did I end up here and how the hell am I gonna be able to stay with Elizabeth after this. She's already put up with so much shit from me and this was my last chance.....Jobe's unsteady hand told him it was time for a smoke and he felt through his pockets for that cold, metal case of goodness....His pockets gave way to nothing but lint and an old receipt...Fuck me! They took my cigarettes?!...How could things get any worse..

4

Welcome home? This fucking dump is the last place I would call home. Jobe thought to himself. Broken windows, dirty lawn chairs used as furniture, and a horrible pile of pans and dishes covered in mold; probably been laying in that sink for at least a month, and look the ceilings and carpet are covered in the same fucking shit-fucking black mold at that, I am allergic to that fucking shit. I told myself I would never come back here, but desperate times call for desperate needs, right? God, this place is fucking nasty, it makes me want to vomit, at least that would smell better than this shit hole, but what else would a wannabe drug lord's home look like?
Marc walked towards Jobe in his unwashed blue track suit with an even dirtier wife beater underneath (it was probably white at one point, but now its a horrible shade of yellow with ketchup stains, only a shell of its former self), topped off with a few gold chains around his neck (just like every good “gangster” has). Jobe could also make out a vile stench coming from Marc, getting stronger and more disgusting with every step he took towards Jobe.
Jobe pondered to himself in half amusement with Marc's look; this fucking Russian, I guess this shit is what must be "cool" in the fuckin' motherland. If he was not so nervous, he might have even given a silent chuckle, but his nerves and muscles would not allow any range of emotions with the exception of anxiety, which was traveling through Jobe's veins like cold water.

"So, what brings you to my mansion?" Marc said with in a very heavy Russian accent. Mansion, right, Jobe thought to himself as he rolled his eyes.
"Are you here to get a shot of self medication?" Continued Marc, referring to the beast from Jobe's past, the reason he had sworn never to come back to this place,...heroin...a 3 and a half war he had finally won only a year ago.
Jobe was tempted to take Marc up on his offer, to escape this nightmare he was in, but then he thought, thought about his beautiful Elizabeth.
Elizabeth stuck with him through his fight with heroin, and he knew he could not put her through that again, she meant too much to him.
"No", Jobe answered firmly, "but I do need some help."
"Help?" questioned Marc, "With what; what kind of shit have you gotten yourself into?"
"Don't worry about that, I just need some money." Jobe answered slightly agitated.
"Don't worry about it?" Marc began to laugh mockingly, "I am not in a fucking business to give out money, especially if I don't know what you are going to do with my money. I am not one of your fucking American banks. Now tell me, why do you need it and how much is 'some money'?
Jobe knew he had no choice, if he wanted the money he was going to have to tell his Russian contact his story.

"First of all I need $125,000 dollars." Jobe spat out, but Jobe knew Marc was not going to be able to muster up that kind of hard cash, but they both knew that all Marc had to do was make some calls to his higher contacts.
Marc though himself to be a feared and respected gangster, but in reality he was nothing but a lowly drug dealer working for some powerful people (the very people who’s help Jobe needed), and the only respect he got was from the crack head living in the alley near his house. Marc was part of an intricate group, in short…Marc worked for the Russian mafia; he was a foot soldier, but he was the only contact Jobe had to get the kind of money he needed.
"I will make the call." Marc said in a slow, clam, yet gloomy voice. It was the answer Jobe was looking for.

"Now, tell me why you need the money, but I have a feeling it might have something to do with that fucked up lip you have." Marc said in amusement.
Jobe was reminded of the steel toe boot that he had taken to his ribs, and the heavy punch to his face, the memory was so vivid it which made him momentarily sick, he felt an urge to vomit, just as he had felt on the night of his savage beating.
Jobe shook off the deep claws of his recent misfortunes, and began to recap the last week of his life, which by now felt like it had consumed all 28 years he had been on this Earth. Jobe began slowly, so as not to lose the attention of the idiot in front of him...

3.

Flashback, 10 hours previous.
Marc. What a fucking prick. He pours another shot and downs it with out even a grimace on his face. Half a liter of bourbon sits empty on his desk. Memories flash from earlier in the day. Some good.. Some bad. Sitting in an empty parking lot with Elizabeth around midday. Someday I’ll marry you and take you away from this hellhole. Laughter blurring into desperate pleading. Skip ahead. The sharp sting in the ribs, caused by a steel tipped boot slamming just below his heart. Just give me another day. Please. Laying on the cold tile with a small trickle of red coming from his mouth. One day. . One Fucking day. . Jobe, How are you going to pull this off. Think. The shot glass falls to the ground with a resounding thud. Jesus, I know we’re not on the best of terms. . but please, help me out with this one. I’m in too deep to run away and too guilty to hide. Two more shots until thoughts stand still. Troubled sleep and restless dreams. Elizabeth. . . I’m sorry. . The sun radiates through the holes in his vinyl tarp where a window once was. Shining directly in his bloodshot eyes. Oh No, he thinks to himself. . I’m fucking late. . .

2.

As the sun continued to bare down on his back as he drudged along, he mused over a justification he could hand up to his friends. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. Friends you must defend yourself against, sell yourself to, and kill yourself for. He glanced back up at the sun, half-wishing it would permanently blind him so the world would disappear. Perhaps he could disappear along with it. A dark void with only sounds and reverberations to accompany him. Not a bad idea. Sighing, he began to pick up pace for the inevitable could not be ignored. The air around him felt clothed in heat, forever pressing upon his chest and back. Feeling as though the atmosphere was mocking his emotions by only pretending to suffocate him, he ignored his conscious as if by habit. Turning the corner, he sighted the familiarity of the broken and sagging metal fence with the inviting dead leaves creating a footpath for him to follow. Brushing back the dark hair beginning to stick to his forehead, he inhaled. Taking a step forward, he braced himself for the welcome he was sure to receive. He could see the shadow of Marc fall upon the sunken porch before he could see him in the doorway. However, his voice was irrefutable and undeniably angry, reaching out towards him, enveloping him in the most uncomfortable embrace. Welcome home...

1.

Fuck Fuck Fuck. Late again. The subtle scraping of his feet on the dry sidewalk begin to hasten. Glancing up he realizes that the sun is directly above him. The young man is walking in a concrete wasteland filled with large structures of all different sizes. Graffiti is littered around the walls carelessly, some leaving a story behind in legacy, most are just meaningless symbols - the inside joke of some poor fool with a can of spray paint and reckless disregard for private property. Edging along the edge of a wall tracing his fingers along the wispy lines representing smoke pouring off of a burning flag representing a meaningless revolution in a meaningless country, he thinks to himself of the trouble he will be in when he arrives at his destination. Pulling out a cigarette from an elaborately decorated silver case, he sits down in the shade of an abandoned gas station. A much needed welcome from the scorching heat outside. What's another ten minutes. . fucking hypocrites probably are starting without me. He knew the people he was dealing with very well. They traveled in an almost aristocratic circle. Mucking about town raping honest people of every last shred of dignity they can muster up. He felt indentured to these people, and for that he resented them. With a careless shrug he stands up and casually flicks his half finished cigarette underneath a sign labeled "Smoking Kills". . .

Alone in a populated world

Time and people move around me, but I feel neither.
Silently awake, feeling the fatigue and sleep of the day that I can not succumb to.
Its cold out here, especially when not a soul walks, talks, or breaths around me;
the only warmth coming from lighting up this deadly addiction between my fingers.
The day is full of speech, but I hear none of it; a constant screech of words,
but this night, which is a twin of every other, is my blanket.
I see the occasional car or individual pass by, but I am behind my wall,
and from here they no not that I watch; as I climb just to get a glimpse, and hopefully
think..."Do they think as I do"..."Are they out here for the same reasons I am",
and these thoughts comfort me, until I realize they are just nomads; simply passing by,
these thoughts the furthest from there minds.
I see the eyes of the stray cat staring at me, they wander, and they, they must know why I am out here; she stares intensely at me, and she must know;
she must know why I stand silently in this night, this beautiful night.
I see the cigarette growing smaller, and its almost time to go in, where it is dead;
at least the night is full; silent yes, but by no means dead.
I see the last of the smoke leave my lungs...its time to go in...
but I will be back here, where my thoughts are understood, and misunderstood;
where the beautiful night covers me; yes, I do believe she understands me.

The night seems to be the mistress to my emptiness.

To My Past

Impossible to convert emotion to paper;
Impractical to mold words into emotion.
As I am, I empty myself.
Forming the art that extends unto you;
A plethora of time fails to reveal
The reality of situations continuously veiled.
Time is a thief, breaking sentience;
All that's left is minimal patience.
Dog-eared memories and sun-stained photos
Leave lingering ghosts of innocence
That leave footprints trailing...
Questions left unanswered;
Words left unspoken;
Tracks left untread;
Touches left unfelt.
As I am, I empty myself.
Intersecting, identities remain.
As you are, always etched here.
Intersecting, identities remain.

Tapping away.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Restless moments and repetitive beats. The foul odor of stale cigarettes and coffee. Detached and connected. Numbed sensations and gray vision. Surrounded by people yet completely alone. Tap. Tap. Tap. Cannot sit still. Nervous and anxious, bottled up into one dazed mind. Droning on yet sitting still. The bitter aftertaste and acrid smoke kill the senses. Tap. Tap. Tap. Focus. Function. Finish. Running in place, striving for something just out of reach. Realizations and dreams falling away. Desperately grasping with a weakened grip. Tap. Tap. Tap. Slowing the pace. Consciousness and perception suffocating to dark.

identified clashes.

a haunting feeling of losing control while choking on the very emotion that threads through my veins and helps create the beat for my heart becomes an ironic disaster. the clashing of words and actions; the music of the lonely and the dead mingle with the verses of those that can't remember how to breathe -- this becomes the movie script, the opening credits followed by the end with no middle identity. if we live to forgive and forget, where does real pain reside? manifesting and growing into the breaking of the contract that contrasts with the place where everyone can release their memories. reading how you are supposed to act and actually following through with the plan are two separate aspects that i can't always grasp because the nightmares are far too real to be excused. i fumble along, allotting time to take its toll on the mind that contains the secrets of the skeletons that don't speak... but play on your happiness until there's nothing left.

Alone

It is so simple.
To ignore this urge.
Screaming and tearing
Throughout the soul.
This innate desire
Burning throughout.
Day after day,
failure after failure.
The feeling just grows,
consumes, and devours.
Loneliness and wishfulness
lay beside me
As I goto sleep at night.

Slavery

Slavery. Always working, exerting, serving. Paid in part, the debt keeps growing - into such a great structure, housing you from the cool rain drops exerted by the cloud of reality. Slaves to industry - all these things we don't need. Working to owe. Gluttonous consumers. Indentured Servants. Working for goods instead of gain. For cheap thrills and dodgy things, hopes of freedom dwindles into nothing. Mindless ants. Working all the time. Productivity to the max, there's bills to pay. When given a break, exhaustion takes hold, pacifying the billions - creativity is lost. Degenerates they scream, to those who still think. Wasting their time with nothing to show. They have no possessions, their status is null. Our society keeps on building, yet digging its grave

Oh my friend...

What a simplistic moment,
When the song fades to cold.
Not a sound resonating
Unto he depths of the soul.

Lingering disaster

Threatened once again,
With this disastrous notion.
Of falling in love,
Or rather out of touch,
With self preservation.
That unique instinct
That keeps us safe.

Safe, cold, and detached.
A familiar existence.
Neither happy or sad,
Just comfortable.
Just existent.
Those repetitive chords,
On an out of tune piano.

Threatened yet again,
With another failure.
Only this time its obvious
That things won't even start.
So here I sit
Uncomfortable and vulnerable
Merely Existing.

Needing Change

This must mean I'm fumbling,
Seeking something deeper;
A certain variation in course,
A different version of story.

Always been good enough,
But never appreciated;
Always been determined,
But never quite noticed.

When efforts go askew
And are praised for nothing,
My accomplishments are,
And have become,
As empty as a vase in winter.

A quarter till two

A quarter till two and still wide awake,
Riding down an empty road.
Ears ringing, drowning in a sea of music.

Yesterday blurs into today for weeks at a time,
Opening the mind to confusion and disaster.
Urging the body to simply shut down .

Later turns into never, always working to no conclusion.
Inside these rancid memories lie some kind of truth.
Sour and bitter, everything moves onwards
To what ends will this experience slip to memory.
Envious, we chase what feels good
Never thinking past the consequences of feeling.
Independently searching for purpose.
Niave and foolish, trusting time and patience,
Getting older, hardened into a brittle molding.