goes good with Neutral Milk Hotel-In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

There's a picture in my mind. A picture of a person smiling at me.

It's a terrible picture really. The exposure is all wrong. The lighting- horrible.

And yet, I see this picture every where I go and I love it. More than anything in the world

I love this picture. There are trees in the background, red oaks with rustling fall leaves.

The sky is over cast with shades of grey. There's a small robin in one corner with

the sun occupying the other. A quiet picture, with a only a light wind blowing in the

background. One of those smiles that you smile just to smile, not because they answered a joke or preceded a laugh. A simple smile; true and clear.

At times life begs to question its meaning and fortitude. The cold wind ushers in seclusion and isolation. A conversation with a friend ends silently wrong. Your mother tries to be proud but can't find a reason. When your love is gone or hasn't even yet been found.

Those times are when I see this photo. Sometimes I chuckle a bit or quietly smirk but always it makes everything okay. That smile, without origin or base, is born of the void and it equalizes all. When you love so much and receive nothing in return that smile is there. When the world is crashing down upon your shoulders it is constant. Forever it is the friend at my side and without, truly friends, I am nothing.

In my dreams

Sometimes, when I shower, I turn the lights off.

A candle burns. It flickers, amidst the heat and moisture.

The running water drowns out the electrical buzz of suburbia.

Forget the heater is running and start to fade away.

I reemerge in some far off place. A place that is quiet, and solemn.

Then the sun comes out in that place and warms my neck.

My fingers get pruny.

I realize that it was not a sun, but just hot water.

Turn the handle.

Grab the towel.

Then I fade away, and the shell reemerges.

I smile at you, staring at me from my bed.

No idea what's going on.

The shower, Yeats, you know, lake water lapping?

And you still have no idea what is going on.

Is there no better way to spend the day, than sitting here with you?

Is there no better way to spend the day, than sitting here with you?

There are places I could go, and people there, they would know me. We

would talk a little and, between the verbs and nouns, perhaps entertain ourselves in a way perfectly bearable. We would smile, those people and myself. We would laugh or playfully giggle. We would communicate just enough to believe that we were conversing but truly, we would say nothing.

Is there no better way to spend the day, than sitting here with you?

Those people, they could pat me on the back if I were down. They could supplement all of my immediate emotional needs or, at least, they could tarry my thoughts into a manageable corner. Those people, we could Kidd a little. Tiny jokes on dainty little strings but truly, we would do nothing.

But those people in the gaps between their manners and aged formalities, I hear your voice.

But those people, when they stop laughing and breath for a moment, I see your smirk.

But those people, as the imprint of their hand on my back leaves, I feel your touch.

But those people, after they are gone, after they go to their other lives, after they tire of their little games, they leave me only with the picture of you staring... right at me.

Is there no better way to spend the day, than sitting here with you?

No.

*Frowny Face*

When Christmas grew loud the bloggers grew quiet. Did the creative flow just stop? Was it that catastrophic? That the whole world just emptied itself upon the muses. That the furies could not manage their work. That the titans; they were scared.

No.

It is only that Christmas pleased them. It rose its head from the ashes, after a year of fire, and flew as though time was no longer poignant. And so distracted were their eyes that they could not engage the screen in the lightest of foreplay's. The passion was all used up. The great industrial giant was bought out and there were no Whole Foods open any longer, with mass product for individually minded beings of impurity. People stopped looking for life's playful hypocrisies and prejudice's crass judgements. People at once were satisfied.

Though I cannot understand it I believe Christmas then becomes the most dynamic exercise of the year. And so, it is with much inner turmoil, that I must objectively judge Christmas to be the most important time of the year. There I said it, I'm done. Goodbye.

My Warzone

guernica by picasso

then boom, then everything is quiet.

standing edith by egon shciele

then white light, everything is quiet.

graffiti by a German gang

then boom, everything is quiet.

your face by God.

then white light, everything is quiet.

Between the booms and the flashing lights, all the art, the pains of life, we duck below a passing tank with flowers at our feet, see the snow falling softly on shell casings and blood. We were born of the warzone, lovers in the Ukraine. In a time where there was all war, and God didn't have a name.

We are war and love and truth. We are whatever the hell is true to you. We'll carry our guns and march on and on, with daisies in our hair. We'll wash off the lead and drab but also the lipstick and perfume. We're soldiers now, living in an over-sized tomb.

Booms then lights.

Booms then lights.

Kisses and fights.

Kisses and fights.

Light pink and drab.

Light pink and drab.

Life is so sad.

Life is so sad.

Sound of Silence

The world is at once a new place for me,

in the pail light of midday,

when all else is quiet in the usual way,

the world speaks more softly to me.

A light trance takes all of sense,

and bends here and there,

sculpture of the mind seen at world fair,

a cheap price to pay, to spare sixpence.

In reality this is not reality,

nor is it normal they say,

to love so much the quiet of the midday,

and fade off without battle to finality.

but there is a light comfort hence,

the pretty words and fare,

but to the demons lair,

leads such small laments.

he invades in the silence,

he will find you at your peace,

then remind you of your life's happenstance.

he will remove all hope if allowed and you will have nothing to save,

and that is why this beautiful quiet,

is reserved only for the brave.

A: What did you do yesterday?

B: I went to a movie.

A: Which one?

B: The one where everybody dies.

A: How was it?

B: Horrible, I was looking for something more realistic.

A: Did you ask for your money back?

B: No, the cinematography wasn't bad.

No sleep, oh no.

Hopefully I will survive the day.

It's a drive time thing, that's what they say.

I forget the lines, they ebb and flow.

Then they just stop, run out of room to go.

Like words lost in translation.

On the tip of the tongue, what trepidation!

I think I'm livin, but sometimes wrong.

Always just givin, never getting along.

I know there's a word for this.

Like deja vu, fatalism's bliss.

But it does not sit well in my heart.

No it tears it part t0 part.

Little moments, etched in the mind.

If only they were mine, life so kind.

But they're someone else's, I've come to realize.

Someone else's thoughts, through someone else's eyes.

I guess that's all of life, you're right then you're wrong.

You only hope you're strong enough to get on and get along.

I guess thats just life, a toss in the mud.

No matter how hard you try, still a toss in the mud.

Che 2

grrrr, grrrr, gshak, gshak, grrrr.

aaaaah, aaaaah, gshak, gshak.

load, cling, clang, click.

bolt, back, click, slide, ready.

safety, push, look, click.

trigger, breath, hold, squeeze, surprise, bang.

trigger, breath, hold, squeeze, surprise, bang.

trigger, breath, hold, squeeze, surprise, bang.

Bang, Bang, Bang.

stock, go, run, fly, fly, fly, up, up to the high ground.

shot, close, shot, closer, shot, fall.

down, tingling, endorphins rushing, adrenaline, shooting.

black spreading, through the gut,

up into the centrum and down below the belt.

dark invades, then red, everything red.

red, everything red.

all is quiet, sounds fade and

red, everything red.

Che

the sun shines over the tree tops,

his heart, for the first time, slows to stop.

the wooden stock and full metal jackets rattle in his hands,

he's gone now off where all revolutionaries go in time.

the hammer back,

he fires one last shot.

the bullet flies,

leaving behind the world below,

it hits an eagle in the sky,

the bird has not even a second to die.

the shell casing leaves the action,

the bolt returns to its position so mechanically.

the eyes wander and see the dark black above the left hip,

soaking the drab cloth.

the bird begins to fall,

it's wings thrust upward to the sky.

he stretches up his arms,

reaching for the clouds.

the revolutionary hits the ground,

pulled down by forces he does not fear.

wings of feathers and forest green,

claws of bone and steel.

dead for his purity,

reaching out for victory.

is it nobility?

or life's crude trickery?

a single, clear droplet runs down along her cheek. past her broken mascara and through her ruined hair. mixing with sweat and warmed by the fire within. when it reaches her chin it is searing into her face. through the insecurity and lust and need it burns its mark.

swaying here and there as the body contorts and distorts, as the hips lead the entirety by one delayed beat after the next. an empty room full of heat and desire.

the pains of first love fresh upon her. his face a schiele portrait , his eyes clear as crystal, shining. his body one muscle, united by purpose.

she sees all of this, she plays and replays it over and over again in her mind and then

she feels another drop run down her cheek and then another and another and another. faster and faster they fall until she realizes that it was all a dream and that she is standing awkwardly alone in the rain. the hot summer rain.

It was all only ever an illusion, played and replayed in the weakest parts of her brain.

spend so long looking down that when you look up you realize

........

you forgot what the sky looks like.

the clouds surprise and the blue is almost shocking. It's a tough job, they say, but you know it's not. everyone lives the same life, with their head looking down. never daring to look outside the cave. the only thing that makes us different is the kind of dirt we are looking at.

for some it is course and gritty. for some it is damp and hard to transgress. for some it is sharp and cuts the feet. for some it is very fine and smoothly caresses the toes. And then, for some, the earth they see is one ever-changing; a fine marble with splashes of grey, vibrant greens, dark blues, awkward purples and terrifying reds.

What you get just matters where you start and which way you're goin.

Cold Night

The world burns outside,

so in this microcosm of cool we reside.

But at times it grows warm,

the heat begins at the center,

and works its way out through the fingertips.

little flames catching the seats,

the cloth curling and distorting,

A halo of red light,

around an angel and a demon,

they struggle,

out into the bitter cold,

from time to time,

they wonder,

who's the demon and who's the angel,

but the fire doesn't wonder,

it just burns everything,

until all is gone.

If only it weren't so warm,

that fire burning on.

tempted

on the edge

(words interposed with lies bleeding bleeding bleeding)

at the end of the world

(hopes of the broken soul finally fading fading fading)

who catches you when you fall off?

(nothing worth staying for, ups and downs, ups and downs)

who stops you from jumping?

(little pieces of shattered glass looking up from the ground)

when you are so close to the edge

(songs singing of things, nobody hears or listens)

what keeps you from falling?

(pretending beautiful people pretending beautiful things)

nothing.

(falling down down down to the ground ground ground)

---------- endnote

Writers Block

I've been suffering from writers block lately. I cannot seem to so easily tempt the muses or converse with the metaphysical as is normally my vocation. Perhaps its is due to some physical change in the chemistry of my mind or, better yet, it is due to some mental change in the chemistry of my mind. That at once I find myself in a situation that is not normal for myself. Not that the situation is necessarily bad but that it has been an unvisited one for some time and so I do not quite know its poles as of yet(which I would normally impart to you).

I do not have writers block, for it does not exist. I am simply caught in a transitionary state from the life I used to live to the one that lay before me. I am changing. My tastes are not so different and neither are my portals of expression but indeed the general air that surrounds my being is of a different consistency than has been usual. It has been a dry air, a heavy one that, in its weight, allows only dynamic and swift motions of the body. It is this same air that forces so many of my peers to war with themselves and each other. This same air that turns blooming youths into mellow elders. This same air that takes peoples hearts and leaves them only with a picture of a heart; the passions removed.

Truly though, this air will not affect me with such tenacity for I know its ploy and I will not fall for its trickery. I am an opponent that it has never faced before because I do not fear it. And so, I will write for you again my dear moleskin.

The warmth of the hand drifting slowly across the skin.

The small candle spreading until it is a roaring fire.

Passion burning hot sitting within.

A drive that does not tire.

Let it out into the world and all will know their place.

Fear not the cold invading as it may.

For it fears passion's face.

unto the dieing day.

people call,

you don't answer.

music plays,

you don't listen.

life hurts,

you don't feel.

It's like when people talk to one another but they don't hear. They just watch their mouths moving on and on, going nowhere.

It's like those dull moments between verbs. The quick silences between nouns. The passing dreams amongst lives.

That same feeling. The same image of pale green grass, a white sky and an old oak sitting alone on a hill. Only the sound of the breeze, rising up and calming again. Whistling then humming. Whistling then humming.

It's a painting of a man sitting in a chair. There is an old wooden pipe in his mouth that just barely lights up with each breath. The sweet smell of tobacco mixing with the artificial blah of oils. The dark brown oak chair, spotted with lacquer and fading finish. A deep, dark beard rising up into wrinkles at the edges of the eyes and following the curves of the forehead. Setting off a combed lack of hair only slightly less dark than the beard. It was a french piece I believe. Henri Matisses "Andre Derain".

The warm vagueness of the coffee shop take me to these places and then brings me back... all too quickly.

With you at my side, my dear friend, what troubles can befall me?

With you staying my hand, what evils can I commit?

With you warming my heart, how can I ever be chilled?

Though your breath does not always charm. Though your demeanor is not always understood and though your voice is never clear I am at my best at your side.

Falling-alone

The condition is one of continuous falling, down, down, down. The legs lift off the pavement and into the air. The people on the roof, the men in black suits slowly fly away. The beautiful girl looking out at you falls behind the roofs edge. You look up at the sky and see it so blue. The crows fly amongst the clouds. The building's windows move by so quickly, creating a constant mirror of a fading you. Your jacket ruffles in the wind and you see your hair before your eyes. You smile. You hear the city below, growing louder and louder. You wonder what will come next as your stomach sinks deeper with every passing second.

Then, at the noisiest moment, all becomes quiet. Your small porthole that looks out into the world grows smaller and smaller. You mind travels carrying with it, so shortly, the picture of that girl. Then all is black.

-I see this over and over again in my mind. Very rarely will I speak subjectively in this volume. Yet I cannot stop my self from imparting to you the continuous falling. The image that never leaves, of everything going away so quickly and in so beautiful a way. Perhaps it's that I feel life is sometimes already played out for me and, though it is so intensely breathtaking in its incarnations, the being incarnated is often the same disappointment.

The Writer knows well the horrors of life and he dares express them only when they can no longer be contained. This is the dreaded nature of the craft.