Smothered by my own hands
I see more whites of eyes than irises
So sucked up, I'm dry as sand
I'm behind more scars than desirous


Enemies all become my friends
As they all see what I see
A hound without a scent
And acres of flame covered seas


Records strewn all the way-
All the way through the pavement
Manilla rain covered lawns
Filing blades for the bankrupt


I'll be walking one day
And disappear the next
An ethereal wreck recluse 
A posthumous ether left vexed


It's a burden to feel that way now
So benign, such a coward with no will
There are stories now no one tells
About boys without fathers or real skills...


About floral curtains stained with shame
From a fearful mother clutching plaits,
Dusty feral creatures and nicotine stains
Damaged walls from support beam breaks


These are the tales too often told
Terrors speciously muttered during sleep
So afraid of change becoming old
Superficial now even in our dreams

You have mirrors for blinders

So you came here. What a feat! You made it. And I'm sure you proved some great paradoxical point to your psyche...that you can reach your giraffe-like neck into my jungle. Congratulations, I sincerely hope you fed cleanly- that your tongue clasped the right branches. It didn't: I'll say that much. Because if it did...I believe you may have never left. You may have stayed to help ease the desolate landscape's effect on me. Perhaps the salt didn't sting- perhaps it took no effect at all. I am here to fix myself- to become...to ascertain what responsibility is. As a man, in my cliche gender role, I reflect my actions directly; therefore, I must become self sustainable and socialiably presentable to the working world. The civilian sector: an establishment all too familiar with my type; too smart for his own good and lazy, they'll all say. Wish you were here,

Bitter as fuck,

Conn

Am I a monster?

The drinking, the babble, the scuffles and the stories- sure, I've got that down. But am I a writer? No. I am a fucker, a braggart, a lying monster. A writer writes! Producing page after page of shit or glory- but it's done! The paper sits in stacks! The writer has piles of notebooks containing late night scratchings from horrific dreams to illicit and terrific sex! What a life I lead. Torn by talents i possess that won't let me go. Many of my literary heroes have said they started writing because it was all they were good at. Well...I don't suck at an impressive amount of things! And I get little to nothing done as a result of juggling for fear my time is running out- an impending fear due to my wasted youth (all puns intended).

When I write with the flow, it comes out in a paragraph or two and then stops. When I play the trumpet, only haphazard wannabe Chet Baker sadness plops out. Producing music is a wonderful passion but my lack of technical knowledge kills my buzz quickly. Drawing- my art pieces are few but some say wonderful. Then I look around and see what else they call wonderful these days and want to stab my eyes out with driftwood. Juggling is fucking dangerous. However, it conjures up feelings I once had as a kid: you can do anything you want. I laugh at my own dreams these days, I really can't help it. So until I offer up some kind of meat (writing wise) to the table, I'm a tormented wannabe. Aren't we all?

I'm scared- are you?

Time is ticking away with a menacing beat. The clatter of ignorance. Shrugs from the wealthy. Always one second closer to an ending. What that closure will be is the question that kills me. I want to know that this...Earth...will survive. That I'm not a witness to the utterly preventable apocalypse. Why can't we be the surveyors of change? Oh, that's right. The American people have become just that: Monitors.

Mirrors of the very things that keep us docile and at ease. Unfiltered fear and white lies that help us digest our processed breakfasts with hearty smiles. Look up over the bar that will soon open- do you see it? Yes. It's the end of the world. There's blood covered faces. Weeping authorities, fires that blaze where flames were once unthinkable. Nuns drowning themselves with Crucifix in tow. Christ's body slowly diverging from the earthy plain and suffocating in the yellow pollution-coated foam of the Pacific. Elephants running through the metropolitan streets...it's the weirdest thing you've ever tried to witness: but it's real...I guarantee it's fucking real.

Loony Yoony

Leading looks from friends

Cause inward gazes within

Presumptuous shadows predicting lengthy moves

Proven schematics amongst shrill screams upon asphalt

Rolls and lumps of construction material that make up nothing

Our black remnants undulate against the waves of rock

Torrid language variegated by the sky’s shine

You gleam after every accomplishment

The trademark sparkle on my reflection’s charm

I could watch you forever

I sit in amazement and hope your eyes meet mine

I will keep this seat as warm as I can.

There's a dark alley for all

Surrounded by cascading dirt slopes. The only tangible hold is made of ethereal grime. Plumes of earth burst between my fingertips. My eyelids only well up with salt instead of clearing the air- uprooting the cause. Torn and ripped of my bedside manner. Though my bedfellows reside elsewhere. They no longer leave a warm residue. I feel only cold linen- worn cotton. Perhaps I am poor of heart- no change to be had...I beg and yet receive spittle- my own of course. Tracing it's way to the concrete, collecting into a reflection I can't abide. I don't feel sorry for myself anymore- I'm no "rape-child". Quite the contrary: I am the product of "deafening love"*- a mother and father who saw no consequence to their parallel or their separation. Happiness alludes me. I try to find it in my so called peers. But the aforementioned parallels rear ugly heads as if only mirrors resided before them. Causing diamond shaped apparitions showing only multiple sides of the same surface- letting these fools believe in ill-fated multifaceted personalities. Look no further my children. For you are perfection. Click away at meta keyed buttons- creating jealousy, conducting melodious manipulations- always awaiting your 99 cent tones of timeless church bells to ring out- alerting you to the damage done. I'm finished. I know not what to do. There is no crescendo to my generation...other than the silence following this world's imminent destruction- the ultimate "I told you so".

I can't force "art" from my mind or fingertips. Only warning signs. The latest conversation I found validity in consisted of me being incorrect- not because I was wrong but because I didn't share opinion. In the future, bread will be broken upon secret slurs of martyrs' names. All else will warrant death. I can only relate the relays - the electrical pulses sodomizing my grey matter. I fling the cum in your general direction hoping it blinds you as much as it clogs me. Understand this: my vulgarity comes from anger- and not at you of course...no, no, no- not you you sublime being. You alabaster sculpture you. You're perfect. Maybe if you continue believing these theories- the urban gang rape wont hurt as much. The melting faces of hooded thugs can't bludgeon your memories for decades. The smog filled clouds cease to bother when every fiber of being turns to pulsating pain. All blue veins fill with black hate- torrid fissures expanding throughout your self image. You are nothing because you know it now. Now make something of yourself.

*Bear in Heaven - "Deafening Love"

pat & cucu part II

Patricia subtlety nibbled her lower lip every time she noticed Cu Chulainn staring at them. They stood across from one another awkwardly leaning against the kitchen counter. Her ankles formed a cross and painted toes laid flat and folded against the cold jade granite. Cucu was infatuated with her poise, her beauty, her voice; he felt himself flustered and re-imagining the arousing imagery even while staring at her.

“What are you thinking about, friend?” She asked with pursed lips. Cucu had to literally shake his head to escape the ape-like train of thought.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I asked didn’t I? I mean that’s the first step to a meaningful- I mean…just tell me what’s on my- on your mind.” She turned her face out of sight, cringed, and mouthed the word, “Wow”. Cu Chulainn could see and feel her anxiety- he related, reached out and put his warm palm upon her clenched fist. Her head whipped back around to gaze at the act of affection. Pat smiled. “Sorry, sometimes I can’t…focus- I get so nervous and then I can’t-“

“Me too.” Cu Chulainn replied warmly. “So what was this all about?” Cucu gazed all around the room, pointing with his nose. Streamers of yellow and green left runny dye stains on the floor. Bottles of half emptied alcohol lined the angles where the counters met the ground, causing amber liquid projections. Strange remnants of food littered every surface of the house and human limbs were sticking out from under tables and overturned cushions.

“It’s my last weekend home.” The answer was sharp as if the idea was cheapened by the obvious repetition. Cu Chulainn was clearly effected by the stranger’s response. He felt antsy and claustrophobic. It was clear the scenery needed to change.

The rustic backyard deck led out to high grass framing the Pacific Ocean. Undulating white and amethyst echoed a waning moon intertwined with the rising sun. “Wow, I’m never up this early- it’s gorgeous.” Patricia whispered with a liquor-drenched rasp.

“Indeed.” Cu Chulain wasn’t looking at the horizon. He was looking at what he’d hoped was a future. His smitten gooey center was being smashed by the apparent theme- time was running out, and infatuation can only go so far. “Where are you going? School?”

“Yeah, planning on hitting a few stops on the way though.”

“Where?”

“I want to see the world. Put myself in harm’s way. I don’t want to be the sheltered Orange County girl everyone steps all over in class. I need to-“ She thought for a moment Cu Chulainn was feigning interest but without missing a beat he replied.

“Let the world leave it’s mark?”

“Yeah. Eloquently put, Cucu. You’re pretty charming there, Mr. black-sheep-stranger-guy.” She slapped the palm of her hand in his as they shuffled through sand; he caught it quickly and didn’t let go. He thought to himself he’d never let go.

“You’re not so bad yourself, mermaid.”

“Mermaid? C’mon you can do better than- no, no, no!” Cu Chulainn couldn’t control himself; he swooped her up in his arms in one motion and ran toward the glistening sea. Her screams turned into guttural laughter. With every hurried step closer to the water, Patricia wanted to yell less. She found herself anticipating the cold water slipping up her slinky dress and causing the chills to sweep through her thighs and chest. Her eyes transfixed onto Cu Chulainn’s profile and she became silent. Cucu’s feet treaded water high and fast- kicking beads of froth and crystalline fragments into slow motion. The first wave hit them- coating both in freezing morning tide. They came up gasping; waiting to be shocked by the rising sun. Cu chulainn gently brought her jaw to his and usurped her mouth into his. Pat’s hands gave way- shooting up to the back of Cu chulainn’s neck- his hair tufting through her clenched fingers. Together their eyes closed tight; the grey and black muffle of lids turned to a poppy-orange glow. In unison they witnessed the sun rise over the horizon- shooting a blinding pillar of splintered light across their side of the world. Pat turned to Cucu and grinned wide. “I don’t think I can trust you.” She laughed.

“Well I thought I’d leave my mark.”

“Oh yeah?” She followed the remark with small kisses to his chin.

“Because if I didn’t run you over here in time…while the Sun was coming up, I could have fucked the whole thing up.” Another wave came to end his sentence with a gob of salty water.

“Fine line between assault and romanticism, huh?” She became adorably impish and sarcastic.

“You like it.”

“Shut up” She kissed him again.

“Okay. Hey, Pat?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we do this again sometime?” Cu chulainn asked coyly.

“What time were you thinking?”

“Like…forever?”

She took no breaks from kissing him back as they paddled their feet together- bobbing along the sea. “Shut up, Cucu.”

“Okay, mermaid.”