today

i can dream all i want about how things are going to be someday, but this is today and today sucks

Call...

this is for my best friend...

this is the last letter i'm writing you.
a while ago, i didn't think that this would be the case.
instead, i dreamed of
La-Z-Boys and lawn care
mini vans and Mini Wheats
Sunday naps and serenades
Gerber foods and graduations.

i don't have a better way to say i am gonna miss you,
other than in a poem.
i sketched these words on the walls of the mind that imprisons me.
i read and rehearsed them again and again with each open
and close
of my eyelids.

i AM studying.
i study you harder than for any exam or college course.
your lips, your eyes,
your voice, your sighs.
and i thank Heaven for this photographic memory.

today we packed
so many memories into boxes and bags,
stuffed your car full of them for the ≈4,500 second trip
from me to... well, there,
but these memories play on repeat like my most favorite movie.

i think i'll ride the bus today.
i won't turn this pencil tip upside down and
erase
the romance novels you've written on me
nor
whitewash the elegant murals you've painted so carefully
with your delicate fingertips.
each one a bristle on the
paintbrush appendages that have
splattered
a masterpiece of colors and hues on this
canvas life of mine.

autumn leaves and skipping stones are for us.
i might be cheesy and a little cliché,
but I DON'T CARE,
because you know i know that if i said it
with an accent it would be
sweet and sensitive.

i've been lost in your
smile
more times than
Waldo in a crowd at New Year's Rockin' Eve.
if you're wondering, yes
i do still get nervous and my palms
sweat
whenever you're around.
i st-st-stutter at the thought of the
first and the last
"I love you"
hoping that it's not a lifetime before
i hear it escape your tulips again,
like John Dillinger fleeing from his
life sentence in a
midnight prison.

i've never been good at "goodbye"s
nor "see you later"s for that matter.
hell, i suck at "hello"s,
i don't know how i am supposed to do
this.
with you leaving, all my words
leave with you.

this is the last letter i am writing you,
the omega of them all.
but if you ever need to hear 3 words then
all you have to do is call...

sometimes...

sometimes i feel like driving

driving so far up that the stars

look like ants or

like little people when they

look like ants when peering

out of the 38th floor window.

driving so fast that 83 cheetahs combined

at the speed of 72 mph,

multiplied

by 15 million lightyears

are eating sandwiches

from the dust in which i leave them.

sandwiches.

sometimes i feel like driving through

tunnels.

tunnels that lead to the heart of the earth,

in other words,

China

that is where everything is made,

therefore it is the heart,

making these tunnels

through which i drive

the veins that pump me through.

sometimes i feel like driving.

driving an automobile so

carefully constructed

with regret and riding on

wheels

of a new tomorrow.

taking me places that

we never spoke of in our

fairytale dreams,

because they were "too good to be true."

sometimes i feel like driving with no

road maps nor routes to restrict me,

no predetermined destination

other than that of complex equations

inside your beautiful head.

sometimes i feel like driving.

driving over the fallen autumn leaves

of our memories,

hearing each one crunch under

the tires as i speed away,

fast enough for a reckless driving citation,

in a 500 mph zone.

i tell you that sometimes i feel like driving,

but my car is blocked in tonight.

so for now

i guess i'll stay

street dreams

the infantry of ghosts rise from the

concrete.

mine eyes cannot

distinguish the beginning of one

and the end of another.

the pungent aroma

of precipitation loitering

about in my nose as if

it were

a 7-Eleven on

a Saturday night.

with great precision

i signal right,

then left

and right again

my gestures virtually

robotic

constructing a labyrinth

retraced from memory,

patterns

so intricate the

Vitruvian Man would shrug

his shoulder blades

in confusion.

eluding the phantoms

that haunt the

streets' dreams

whilst

the streets dream

dreams,

i discover myself

in that familiar

place.

the unwavering

steel frame merely

soaring above

the blackness,

cloaked in the

velvety quilt of asphalt

soothed

by the dark blue

solace that

has embraced

me in its arms,

tucked away

with the warmth

of a summer's

night.

i am home.

once again.

kerosene

today i am coating

these walls

with kerosene.

i will carefully paint

over each

square inch of the canvas

paying special attention

to each nook and crevice,

pull out a single match

from its small cardboard

home

strike it on the rough

exterior and

let it slowly burn down

until it scorches the tip

of my thumb and index finger

forcing me to let it drop

in rotation

to the ground.

creating instant

consumption.

i pull out my

lawn chair

and enjoy the show.

the flames dance

a delicate

waltz to the

orchestra of crackling

embers.

i am burning down these

walls today.

i have no need

for them anymore.

i wove webs tonight

tonight i wove webs.

shining, silky ones.

there was a dew hanging from them.

the memory of the night was

etched in them and could not

be erased like a child's handprint

in plaster to remind us of their

everlasting innocence.

i wove through lights of cars that

looked like stars and i was

going warp speed.

i wove an intricate and complex pattern

in the baskets.

the impeccable designs

told of love and hate

peace and war,

good and evil,

beauty and disgust,

but mostly love.

mostly love.

i wove webs tonight.

the kind that could catch you

hold you

cling to you

embrace you

and want to do so forever.

now, if only you would fly by...

sleep...

i called the police tonight... on my own dance party.

okay, this didn't actually happen.

it almost did.

it did in my head.

i played it over and over,

rehearsing the words i would say.

"i'm trying to sleep, officer, but there's

quite the ruckus coming from up the street"

"what's that? i can hardly hear you"

"no need for a citation,

perhaps just ask them to quiet down a bit"

the party died just in time.

time for sleep.

it all depends

i squirm in my sleep

i squirm like a bad dream

there's something eating me

inside

like a bird devours a worm

speaking of worms

i wriggle the way one does

when disemboweled with

the side of one's shoe

i do a horizontal jitterbug

while in between my cotton print

sheets

i begin to

speak

growl

groan

none of which escape my lips

i lay in a cold sweat.

my eyes pry open with crowbars

as i wait for them to adjust

to the ninja black surroundings,

i pay attention to the rhythm of

my heart as it reverberates in

my chest

pumpity-pump

pumpity-pump

it speeds and slows

like a lead-foot driver

without cruise control

speaking of control

i lay on the verge of losing it

my mind reflects on the frigid feeling

of the porcelain

the thought of the tiles causes my

being to shiver, despite the warmth

that shields me

i hear a faint sound rising

from below me and remember

that i am not alone

the bathroom from the top bunk

seems to be more than 17.2 miles

away and there is a dragon that

guards the door

a sharp pain penetrates my lower

abdomen the way a crash test

hits a red brick wall

on the scale from 1 to urgent

my urgency is over the top

as i inch my way to the foot of the

bed

i remember that my decision

no longer depends on all this

it doesn't depend

on the 17.2 miles nor the serpent

that protects the dungeon

it depends on the Depends that

are so dependable

hugging my hips tighter than

a hippy would hug an endangered tree

my body relaxes as i let it all loose

and drift back to sleep in the warmth

of my own pee.

one windy night in logan, utah

the wind blew musical melodies

through the branches

while i hummed along to their

hymnal

it blew so hard as if

it wanted to lift me up,

sway me in its arms

and lay me down on a raging cloud to sleep

with the lullabies of thunder

'twas only my trusty bicycle and i

on the road that night

we seemed to be the only ones without sense enough

to stay inside on a night like that,

but i had always wanted to fly

the sour-sweet wind sang promises for

wings to burst forth from my shoulder blades

and take me to that familiar place

that i once knew before my adolescence

at that age i could

run

bike

swim

crawl

flip

jump

and fly

even while awake

now it's only in my dreams

new to this universe

to whom it may concern,

i am an amateur to this whole blogging nation in the world known as the wide web. my roommate says that he heard somewhere that "blogging = so many people saying so much to so few..." this shall serve as an outlet, i suppose. a form to share poetry, prose and others thoughts that run rampant through my mind. here goes nothing.

enjoy!

words...

words

my words cannot be locked away to ruled paper like a convict to a cell, whistling a tune to maintain sanity

music

not just about melodies and bars. sheet music & tablature resemble feelings being scribbled into symbols. creating sounds.

feelings

felt, lived, experienced, breathed and yes, also written with a pen, not in any particular order nor arrangement, format nor text.

my feelings are bled from a pen like the blood of fallen soldiers, filling pools of letters & words that form paragraphs on pages.

this army of words will fall subject to no one.

no king nor queen.

no dictator nor tyrant.

no government nor rule.

no, not even the rule of college nor wide that so often murders creativity in cold blood, attempting to control the chaos that is inside my balding head...