Miss You

Dear, Miss You,
Oh, how I await that day when the night is a mile long;
That day one could dub
The day of fate,
The day of destiny,
The day the light inside of a life long thought lost
Shines for the first time.
Only you, Miss You;
Around you can I breathe the lift of a bird’s flight.
Around you can I think clearer, free from the wall of rain.
Around you can I be what I have always needed to be – myself –
All for you.
To you, Miss You,
I will show only kindness,
Provide simple love and companionship,
And banish all that is uncaring,
All that thinks and dares to speak without regard,
All that is without feeling
For you. But above all else,
I offer equality, Miss You.
So shall you live as you have always lived.
So shall you dance as you have always danced.
So shall you still be anything and everything
You ever wanted to be,
Just as before,
Only,
Hopefully,
Willingly,
Someone beyond your greatest expectations.
Hopefully wonderful, Miss You.
Anything less,
Then, perhaps, I never deserved you.
I wasted your time and threw away mine;
The worst thing on person can do to another.
I will have failed you, Miss You.
I will have failed us,
Proving that the sun and moon were never meant
To share their gaze,
To look in the other’s soul.
All I can do then, Miss You,
Is what I do now, Miss You.
Oh, Miss You, how I do miss you.

*******************
I haven't written poetry in almost two years.
I haven't been clost to anything called "in love" in over five years.
Give me a friggin' break. It's all I could come up with.

Farewell, Good Night

Farewell,
I shall see you in the morning.
Do you suppose inspiration will awaken?
Or will it be thrust upon an open green,
Soaked up by the trees, devoured by the plants,
Teasing the estuaries?
Hello, blessed night.
Have you come to try and sway my mind?
Change my opinion, perhaps?
You know how beautiful I think you are,
Bur for all the northern cool kisses
You drape along my body,
The sun will always catch the first sight of my eyes,
And the moon, your mother, the last, and yet still,
Think of the things we will share,
The insanity that will dance with us,
And the elation from the warmth of the burning stars
That will spell out all the names of the universe.

***************
I haven't written poetry in almost two years.
Give me a break.

Love isn't Blind, It's Cross-Eyed

I’m staring at gorgeous woman right now. She doesn’t know that I think she’s gorgeous, or the fact that I’m thinking about her at all, and that I’m writing down exactly just how gorgeous I think she is.

What is it that let’s me think she’s gorgeous? Her hair, a silky black that just reveals the brightness in her face, the kind that looks like it always smiles, and when it’s sad, it rips your heart into a thousand pieces, and makes you pick them up with a poking stick.

Her glasses hide the wonder behind her eyes, while accenting the possible intelligence, and notice I said possible. She looks it, but there are a million things that could be wrong with her brain. She may enjoy pre-teen slasher flicks. She may love reality television. She might think Johann Sebastian Bach is a fashion designer.

Honestly, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in the longest of longest times. She is beautiful because she seems so real. She’s wearing hardly any makeup. The red windbreaker with black and white stripes does not match her gray Superman shirt. He’s posing upright, with his symbol behind him. The fact that she’s wearing it alone is enough to make me giggle, hoping she’s close to my age.

Her shorts show off her legs, which are thick, but not big, and that’s got me in a tizzy. She doesn’t have the supermodel body. She’s not a toothpick that thinks it’s too fat. She’s real, she’s normal, she has a little bit of extra weight, and I love the tummy that she has. It just accentuates her tangibility. She’s smiling, and it’s a geeky smile, with only her top teeth showing, and I freaking love it.

With my luck, she’s probably lesbian. That’s all I seem to attract these days. I’ve made out with lesbians before, and it was a wonderful experience. Not because I got to make out with lesbians, but they seemed to know exactly how to kiss, when to shift their lips, when to bring their tongue’s into play. I guess I did something right because they never asked me to stop or leave the room. I don’t know. I try not to ask, but sometimes a guy’s just got to know.

My other luck would have her being between eighteen and twenty-two. I do not get along well enough with younger people. I’ve always been more of an old man in a young man’s body. An old soul is what my grandmother said I have. Some friends concurred. I am what I am, who I am, and I’m going to do what I’m going to do. Right now, I’m waiting for Supergirl’s friend to go to the bathroom or something, but there’s this gnawing in the back of my head that she’s too young for me; of legal stature, absolutely, but as far as mental maturity goes, probably not. That cloaked gnawing usually presents itself to be the truth.

I’m shooting that she’s lesbian though.

(Damn you Mocha Fraps)

Dead Dog

It wasn’t the tiny parts that agitated him. The girl in the corner worked with what she had. It was the third stage, her last dance, and not much for tips was coming her way towards the end.

“Could you identify the space between everything?” She asked, but the music was so loud, I mistook her for saying “Can you hide your face between my knees?”

Either way, when I breathed, flexed, or shifted, it all felt the same. I was tired, hungry, alive, and in need of a fix. Something to stir, cause damage, and memory loss. What I had in my head was too important for anyone to get a hold of, and too dangerous for me to keep in stock.

I decided to climb into her everything. Then, her soldiers brought me back, but luckily, the let out enough blood that it blitzed my memory. I woke up in an alley next to a dog, dead with a syringe sticking out of its front leg. Maybe it had what I’d had, previously.

I wondered if I could suck some of it out from it’s open wounds; after I brushed the maggots off.

Another Friday

It is a Friday night, and I'm bored off my goard. I'm editing my book and should send it to Lulu.com within the next week or so - problem: I need pick a cover. I could use one of my photographs, draw it, or just do a copy/paste job. I'm all spazzy over it.

Shannon....help.

I'm sad to find that one of my favorite singers has left one of my favorite bands, officially. It's probably been official since earlier in the year, but I just "officially" found out this week. John Bush took himself out of Anthrax because the whole reunion tour with the original singer was taking longer than expected, plus there are rumblings of a new album being recorded with said singer, Joey Belladona. I've been a fan of theirs since the eighties, but when John Bush left Armored Saint for Anthrax, he came in and owned that band. His voice is raw power that can yank the hair off a monkey. Joey's is more of a pair of hair clippers that burn out smack in the middle of a mowhawk, so you're just left with a mowturkey.

I've seen Bush era Anthrax perform three times. A great show every time. I'll finally get to see them in July with Belladonna. They'll be supporting Rob Zombie, whom I've seen twice.

Considering these are the least of my worries, I'd say it's been a decent week.

I miss drugs.

A Dead Media

I was drifting through youtube.com, looking for different bands and I started wondering:

Are music videos still relevant? Does anyone care if a band puts one out anymore?

When MTV came out, it was the biggest, largest, newest attention getter that any band was fortuante enough to be a part of. Now, it's a dead joke that keeps spoofing itslef everyday.

With podcasting, downloading, websites, and the bitchmakers like MySpace allowing and endless barrage of promotions for every kind of band; major label, minor label, signed, or unsigned, the NEED to have a music video just isn't there.

On youtube, I was looking for bands I like, found them, then coudln't watch more than a minute and a half of them because I'd heard the song so many times, seen them live, or the product itself just wasn't that interesting.

Doesn't matter. I'm just rambing.

Brainwaves

It wasn’t about greatness, not even about commitment. Everything Eric strove to be in this world, he did it for one reason and one reason only. To be the first, the best, and sometimes, even the only.

No one got in the way; no one interrupted his trek to the top. His friends, his family, they all told him he was working far too hard, exhausting every ounce of his being, the breathing that he could have saved for living a healthy life, wasted on what all else thought was unattainable.

What made the situation even worse; he never told anyone what it was he was going for. The goal of this madman was a question mark to the outside world. Sometimes, his insides were the ones in need of rescue. What he did that night passed the borders of obsession. He went into his brain, and removed all the parts that held the memories of friendship and family, and so the next day, they weren’t even a memory. They never existed, neither did the concept. All that was left was his mission, and the basic functions of the human body.

Soon, he even tried to take those out, rejuvenating himself through an experimental process, Subconscious Override. He inserted tubes, wires, and all the necessary outlets into his flesh, his veins, all connected to the computer, which he allowed to manipulate the process of sleep and eating through a carefully calculated computer program. It wasn’t just a simulation. His body was put through the cycles of eating and sleeping, however, his brain was kept awake; his consciousness was alive, while his body lay dormant. With that, he controlled mechanical appendages, but usually left them to the most basic of tasks, stirring, clipping, chopping, but only large portions of material, not the minute ones.

And one day, he was gone. His machines had been left behind, but the thing that was Eric no longer resided in the room that had consumed his life. All that remained were files. Those files held patterns, but no one could understand the patterns until a neurologist was given them to analyze and confirmed certain suspicions. Those files were brainwaves, Eric’s brainwaves, which could be downloaded or uploaded into any computer program available. The problem was that the skin he had left behind bound with the machines. Now, they were flesh covered mechanics capable of breathing and bleeding; a twisted symbiote that had no identity other than domination and growth.

The speakers unleashed a horrible shriek when Eric's famil set the flesh on fire. They didn't know that it was capable of feeling, even though it had long forgotten what pain was, or rather, it never knew.

(Took about six minutes to write. Too much caffeine.)

Signals

He doesn't want to listen to you. He doesn't want to listen to anyone. Why do you think he shoved that metal rubar into through his ears? Now, it's the only thing keeping his brain in shape, otherwise the experiments they did on him before would have let it shed itself to flakes, kind of like snakeskin, only the speckles of matter coming out of his mouth would have been his brain matter. The rubar held some chemical in the metal that negated any physical side affects the experiments may have had, or have had.

We keep having to hold him down whenver rain comes. He says he can hear the screams of the innocent being channeled through the thunder, and the raindrops are every life that is lost in the world that day. He sits in the corner and cries because he can do nothing about it except listen to them, agonizing in pain. He tries to run out because he wants lightning to strike the rubar, but I told him that'd just make it worse, possibly fusing the metal there permanently, then who knows what kind of reception he'll get. He might end up hearing angels, devils, ghosts, or even Oprah's oracle which she consults before the taping of every show. She can't be that powerful without some aid from a being of greater power, and, potentially, unending evil.

Now he's crying that the rubar is evil. He's got a chainsaw and is trying to saw off his own head. Gotta go.

Sleep Junkie

Bed felt better than ever today. It must have since I decided not to roll out of it until sometime close to six o' clock in the evening. I got up, turned on the news, read the paper, shifted through my primary newsites on the net, and felt like I hadn't missed a damn thing today.

Read more interviews with Dr. John C. Lilly. The man is categorically insane, supersane to me, but that's another drug for another time. According to him, anyone can choose what they want to be before materialization in this realm. If you wanted to be dog, you could, a plant, you could, but it's your purpose that overrides your desire. We're human for a reason.

The guy loved his wife, what more could someone ask for.

I'm listening to thunder rolling in from what sounds like the south, but most likely it's from the northwest. I've pleaded for rain these past few weeks and all I've gotten is spit on. There's not enough moisture in the sky to maintain steady rainfall, and even if there was, most of it would evaporate before it hit the ground. That's how hot it is where I'm from. And if it did rain, the humidity of the next day would crucify all of us.

Damned if it happens, damned if it doesn't, damned if I stay here for the rest of my life.

I'm going back to bed.

Alternity

Read a wonderful article on alternity, discovered through the use of the drug ketamine. It's basically another word for the multiverse, though that one is spawned by thought, not drugs. At least, I thought at first, but I read further.

John C. Lilly, inventor of the isolation tank and pioneer in inter-species communication, also came up with the term alternity.



"I have a concept called "alternity." From here to alternity. I came back from Chile and sat in Elizabeth Campbell's living-room on acid and started evoking ECCO. Suddenly the energy came out from above and went straight down my spine and on all sides of me were these divisions like a pie. And I could look down this one and see a certain future and then right over here another future and on and on. So this was alternity that I was sitting in. Now actually, unconsciously, we sit in alternity all the time, we have to or you wouldn't know how to get anywhere, right? But you don't know it."

Rather than the multiverse, which is an actual parallel universe, I interpret this as the single universe sliced up and served as alternatives. I look to my left, there's one universe, I look to my right, another, I look 2 degrees away from there, another.

This was my interpretation of the man's words, I could be wrong to someone, while being right to someone else.

"As the astronomer said to the Minister, "My God's astronomical." The Minister said, "How can you relate to something so big?" The astronomer said, "Well, that isn't the problem, your God's too small!""

For the whole interview: http://http://futurehi.net/docs/Here_To_Alternity.html

Would Stock

I'm restless, but surrounded by everyone I hold dear. That's not what I want right now. I want something else, something, not new, and I don't want to say different, but rather familiar from a distance.

I've been having so many de ja vu's lately, I'm wondering, if I slow down now, will I be able to enter it, recite it; take the same steps, or am I just going to walk through the same flood, another storm, and end up in the desert like always, with the lingering breath of the water trapping me inside my own humid bubble, where the wind doesn't push a cool breeze, rather, it pushes the heat around as it bounces off my bubble?

I need rain. I like rain.
"Rain falls on everyone."-Billy Corgan. Smashing Pumpkins.

Rain rhymes with pain. Maybe I've been getting the two confused, and have been asking for the wrong one? Sometimes, instinct is a female dog.

Jack's Dead (a broken circuit story...kinda)

I never knew the guy. I was riding with Louie, taking a trip to Browntown because he’d forgotten his license at the poolhall, or at the campus library. I don’t remember which, just that he’d traveled twenty-six miles and received a phone call before coming to his senses to actually go pick up the thing.

I wasn’t up to much myself, just hanging on to the last shred of decency that was my sex life as I was about to masturbate to granny porn when the phone rang. It was Louie asking me if I wanted to tag along. I looked at the old woman, probably a little over sixty, about to get a young, creepy looking fellows mushroom tip thumped into her ass and told him yes, I would. I finished beating it, then changed my clothes. I’m pretty sure I remembered to wash my hands.

“You’re chariot awaits, senor” Louie said over my phone. I went outside, freshly dressed, newly awaken and there he was in his black Eclipse that desperately needed a wash, but the clouds overhead were sprouting gray, so he decided he’d wait another day in case they decided to spring a leak; perhaps, a few thousand leaks.

The cruise was peaceful while the stereo blasted Madonna, coming from the ipod that he’d purchased recently. He’d worked with the thing so often he’d mastered all of the extra goodness that came with it, other than just using it as a workout motivator, strapped to the arm. His car battery was saving a large amount of energy.
“I like Madonna. Fuck off,” he told me.

“What the fuck, man. I like her too. Pre-Vogue Madonna, anyway. I have her fuckin’ greatest hits.”

“Me too,” he said. “The Immaculate Collection, baby.”

We went through Material Girl, then changed it to Iron Maiden’s Somewhere In Time, starting off with Stranger in a Strange Land. Beyond that song, we ended up at the campus. That was where he’d left it. We went to the bookstore. He’d bought some book for the upcoming semester, used his credit card, flashed the i.d., got the credit card back, but left the driver’s license with his ugly mug at the register.

“Dude,” he said while waiting in line to ask for his license. “I’m so wired, right now. I’ve had enough caffeine to kill a horse. Look at me.” His hand hung in the air, shaking as a leaf would when the wind felt like being a bully.

“That’s exactly what I need,” I told him.
Recently, the bookstore had added on to it a Starbucks coffee shop. I went over, had myself a tea with some caffeine to kickstart my morning/afternoon. Louie asked if I’d buy him bottled water, but I told him he owed me some highway head on the way home. He agreed. “You are a fucking slut,” I said.

As I waited for my tea, I was admiring the young black girl behind the first counter at the bookstore. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, with a lovely face, kind I wouldn’t mind seeing in the middle of sex, and a body that I wouldn’t mind touching in the middle of having sex with it. The clinker for me was when she started dancing when some song with a beat came on. I can’t really say more than that. I wasn’t up on whatever Top 40 hits were out there, nor was I interested. It was nice watching her move though.

Her toes were already hitting my ceiling when the server from Starbucks announced my tea being ready. I grabbed it, then Louie and I were back on the road, jamming out to some band we’d seen in Corpus, opening for Rob Zombie. Sinnistarr. They weren’t that good, but Louie was into any band that looked evil enough, and these guys were the entire history of Nikki Sixx’s image combined into one band. The bass player reminded me of the Theater of Pain Nikki, while the guitar player was Girls, Girls, Girls, Nikki. The keyboardist was more Dr. Feelgood Nikki, and so on. All black hair, black leather, and a colorful bandanna around the wrist or leg. The singer was just balding and had dreads in the back of his head. I never understood it, and stopped trying.

We were through the third song when Louie told me. “Did you hear about Jack?”

“What Jack?” but it clicked. “Oh, Aurora’s ex?”

“Yeah.”

“No. What?”

“He’s dead.”

My eyebrows peaked. “The fuck?”

“Yup.”

“Man. The drug lords finally came after him, huh.”

Louie stopped calmed his laughter and said, “Nah. Car crash. Some drunk bastard nailed him head on.”

“Ouch,” I exclaimed.

“It turns out me and Vince are related to that fucker.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, man. We showed up at the rosary, and my mom and dad were there, our cousins were there; it was so weird.”

“I’ll bet.” The road picked up the conversation without us, telling us that there was a gas station we could stop at that was serving tacos, and that some optometrist was offering lacic surgery.

“Jack’s dead,” I said.

“He’s dead,” Louie confirmed.

“Dude, check out this band.”

End

Feeling Lonely

I've been feeling lonely as of late. It's nothing that concerns me greatly, I always end up in these little funks now and again, and I always get out of them. It's just that I feel lonely surrounded by people I know, people that think they know me, but really have no clue as to who I am.

My friend, Louie wonders how I know little details about so many people, like where they hope to work in the future, what their current home situation is, little things like that.

"Are you dating them?" he'll ask.

I love the bufoon, but he's an ignorant SOB. I know these things because I actually LISTEN TO THEM. I gather the words expressed from their mouths and imprint them into my brain, analyzing, and making sense out of what they say.

I want to feel lonely around strangers, not strangers that are my friends.

I'm a large individual, and I easily intimidate people. I work out between five and six days a week. It's my ritual, the gym is my temple. I'm not Adonis, but I'm not the posterchild for gluttony either. Either way, I enter a room, and I am judged automatically, however, that can be a good thing since I could potentially whoop the asses of everyone in that room, and where I live, men are very self-conscious when it comes to proving how strong they are, though the only strength most of them have is in talking shit. But they leave me alone too. Good. I didn't spend three years training for and other people in mixed martial arts because I'm so centered and docile.

Everyone's married, everyone's pregnant; I'm the only one on the outside. Overall, I enjoy it that way, but now and again I get into those moods, like now, to where I woudln't mind a warm body next to me at night, with a personality that will keep me in check, and that I can have a decent conversation with, you know, one that doesn't reside around which celebrity is getting whatever organ trasnplant.

I'm sick of the personalities where I live. There are few shades of equality that I feel around here, and to be in touch with those is very difficult and sparse. The moment I think I've found someone to finally start something with, they go through some type of life-altering, midrange situation, and I'm back in the ocean without a flare.

Mountains, a cabin, and wolves. That's all I want to be around when I settle down. I'll give those close to me roadmaps, so they can find me, but still, they'll need to get past my wolves. My hungry, hungry wolves.

Evolution of a Kiss

I'm not used to this much freedom,
So I wonder if this is what death is.
Is it liberation?
Is it recycling?
I breathe you in,
We breathe the dead in,
The dead give to the earth
From which
All life originally
Emerged.
So when we fish,
Do we go back to our roots,
Hunting our ancestors, and
In essence,
Our pre-evolutioary selves?

She got sick of hearing me talk,
Saying it was all gibberish.
I figured,
Whatever it took
For her lips to keep mine busy.

Sex Before a Famous Bullet

It came back again, even though I dissected that part of my brain and replaced it with the chip containing old Love Boat reruns, but somehow, some way, it keeps finding its way back through the sordid circuits and forgotten wires that made up my central nervous system now.

I had all of the bones donated to the University so they could help recreate a full scale replica of John F. Kennedy, post headshot. The shot my mother gave me with the crowbar was remarkably accurate to the area where he was shot. I think she'd just finished watching a documentary on him, and that's where she got the idea from. Or maybe she was just reliving the experience. She was there that day.

She claims the real assasin couldn't take the shot because he was too busy drilling her behind some tree shrubs, so the signal went to Oswald, now she's mad at me because I'm the excuse she uses for not being the woman who schtooped the assasin of JFK.

Stuff You Missed

I nearly had another breakdown today while studying for finals. I pushed myself through that last couple of chapters before storming out of the coffee shop, nearly running down an older woman coming in.

She looked evil. I am justified.

Home was better, although I nearly puked right when I came in through the door. I was thinking about my job, need I say more, although now, it doesn't seem so bad. After tomorrow everything is going to be so much easier. I have my last test, one more presentation to give on Thursday, and then I'm free of the semester.

I haven't had a chance to read any stories about the protests going on today, and frankly, I'm not all that interested. I'd rather read about the fartless bean that was just invented.



or the rare disease known as "Stone Man Syndrome".


Then there was a story about bags filled with puke that kept showing up in front of some building somewhere. I'll check that out in a bit.