Trading Purpose for a Tide

Sinking teeth in Sex and Wax.
Coconut, so soft like gum,
a solid grip applied to fiber and glass.
Rubbing, humming beach melodies,
each circle a rhythm, a wave, and story,
one wipeout bigger than the whale.

Not legend or hero, but self
and free of duty and debt.
He lives, sleeps on sand,
bathes in virgin shores
unshaved with fruit and
wood and rain.

Still past lives on
through mind, and trunk
in prints of novelty.
The broken spine of books,
and tales of life with wealth,
love and empty bottles, lies.

So lost among the norm
of copied life, he fades
and breaks the ties of
given name and right.
Hoisting sail, a guide through
breath of storm and swell.

In peace he found the blue,
the white wash falling, rolling
resting and receding.
No fear nor purpose
drives his life, but time through
moon, the wind and sun.

Free write, non stop. Unorganized thoughts

My thoughts shatter to bring the lost past through the front and swept out with the glass that catches light like a burnt piece of celluloid on a roll that is fading from the years of display, all gathering dust and air. Make me deteriorate into dreams that fade when the rest wake up. There I am living and there...in time I will fade without influence. We touch, we love and we die. What follows we still wonder and pretend not to wonder. One life guaranteed, fragile and little under our control. The situation of being in the hands of another is dangerous and yet without it we do not live because of the lack of response, that voice and thoughts of another. Who felt you this week? They may not tell you to look and so you are a passerby, a slave to your bruises and the cuts on your mind. When the blue wind blows and the red river dries up you will not be looking back. Only they can save what you left for who? No one in particular. Just a few words, everlasting emotion so long as it is written in a loop. This paper is me in the flesh. I still live in these pages. You will find me here...

Pull me out of the past

The broken beat has spilled and drained the years of life all lost in age and waiting for the break of thought's persistent weight.

But still the change is less foreseen than planned escape to see the new and now we left in failing taste, a hope for being separate in the blame.

And when we run from life in arms we're looking back as time moves on. A blind beginning we will stake a claim in fear of passing through the shame.

I'm one, I'm over feeling hate. An open chest inviting few. The brave and understanding know to patch the torn and wasted blue.

A sappy broken heart post

My heart shivers because it has lost heat. It is frantically searching for what went missing. It asks the brain for answers. It tries to live in empty spaces where memories once were, but only the images are left behind, no one to hold on to. My heart is an empty room waiting for a lover who will never come home. Afraid to open the window and let out the stale air. Afraid to let another visit and stay a while. My heart forgets to breathe. It is weak, filled with cracks from the dry spell of emotions. My heart needs to run free. My heart needs to let go.

Sitting at the SLC Roasting Co.

It helps to be around strangers. There are so many different types of people here. It makes the world feel less small right now. This is where I want to go to forget the past. In a banana coconut latte I burn the memories. These are the flavors of escape. Their warmth melts anxiety straight through my chest. I feel soft, like clay sitting in the window, ready to be sculpted. Now I just need a sculptor. Where is she? I wait patently to meet her. What shape will I become from her influence? I hope for something different. I hope for something good.

Call Center

Upright I sit in fear of the Oso who eats the floor. The man who feeds on our diversions. We are his stepping stools. His stairs to the upstairs. Like magnets to my fingertips the thick black keys pull me in. The screen stairs back at me. It's not a contest but technology knows no end to games. It waits obsessively for the next case, the next tab, the next page. A flash of red and a voice hits the brain like a tambourine. A flood of information pours down the ear canal and all I want is a problem, not the whole war. I cover my walls in memories, reminders of the life outside this florescent lit strain on the retina. We seek a little sunlight-nothing more than a distant window can be seen, only if you dare to stand up to the shadow in the corner of the room. Through that door is a portal only he can enter and exit, unless your are invited. Do I wish to be invited? No! I prefer to stay with my compañeros, waiting for the Oso to stroll through the endless cubicles of slavery.

Care to Listen?

The shrinking world in its silicon memory makes me forget. I am focused on liquid crystals waiting for the next headline, the clever argument or the next hello from a distant friend. How much imagination is lost when I become addicted to the update? The space around me is open but the painting within a photo is more important than the work of art itself. I must prove I was there or nobody will ever believe me. Is it to make the others jealous of what I have done or do I only want to be admired for my resourcefulness? I hate to lose time and progress but I waste so much rehashing quotes and passing on ideas that are not my own. I look around and I am not alone. Perfect faces are posted in an eternity of mirrors. It’s not real because the photo game has infinite lives. You can choose and erase the memory of an image humiliated. The greatness of life is remembered once it has passed, not fabricated from everyone’s perception of whom you should be and where you should go. So why do I feel so empty every time I go back to search for the words of a friend? It’s because I’m not really listening anymore. It’s because I’ve forgotten how to care.

University of Refuse

There were parties east and north

but you wore the wrong color,

brought the wrong pet,

sang the wrong song.

You stand solidified by words and numbers.

So much function and so little spirit.

No praise from your peers

or care from your faulty followers.

No Matter.

You will never go hungry,

rooms full but still force fed.

Lay off the apathetic freeloaders.

You’d need a laxative of disease

to clean your hallways

as they shove another mouthful

through your doors.

Someday you will collapse,

when the final book is placed.

The day the balancing act is over.

The day history is lost.

It's a Job

Waking the crazy day.
Less inviting when I'm pushed
mentally.
But physically I carry it with ease,
with rhythm.
Con gusto I run, I jump and lift.
It's an adventure that no one understands.
I see the result,
my work with purpose.
I claim it as my own,
I flaunt it.
And yet others are complacent
with static transfers as progression
is as slow as their next beer,
is as frequent as their last date.
I am not common with my
comrades.
We share the same occupation, but
seldom equal sentiments.
I slave to help while they slave
for pay.
Well, that's not entirely real.
Even I have to eat.

(at the Bores Head) 8/30/2013 1:12 pm

Looking Down on Shapes

We are shapes on the surface. What we build is light in the burden of the Earth, but what we waste is harmful to all who and that live in the path of progress. No matter. The rock lives on while we shed our faces away from record-away from existence. We preserve less than we destroy. Never ending entropy. Are we a gift, a miracle to the universe, a way for it to know itself? No, not a gift. Gifts must be given. Not a miracle. Miracles must be performed. We are a lucky occurrence. Lucky for our own sakes, but no one else's'. Through lightning and mud we came into this life. What will be our end?
---
We've left our mark from space, for borders, for copper, for liquid, for tar. What's worse, the mark we leave or our intentions?
---
I spy 3 temples with my eye. A coventry health plan. Altius they stand and yet it's just more rock to me

(on the train to SLC) 8/16/2013

Living With Death

People look at death as a reminder to get their shit done before they reach 60, because no one remembers the guy who is still working at the cubical on an hourly wage, or the woman who bore no children and the singles who didn't give enough fucks to keep their relationships together. Even Mike, the guitar playing crazy homeless man from Eldorado is remembered more than any of the unmotivated and lonely people because he entertained. Mike had stories to tell if you took the time to drop your groceries for a few minutes, or tossed him the sticky few pennies you didn't want to keep from the 98 Cents you got back from the 20 dollars you spent buying a gallon of milk, 2 loaves of bread, a box of Lucky Charms, a dozen eggs, 5 bananas, a People magazine and that movie you saw once and thought was good enough to buy from the 5 dollar bin. Maybe that last 5 dollars would have been better spent on Mike's fund to buy new guitar strings, but not enough booze could make him sound any better. I often wondered, "If he was sober enough could he have been the next Bob Dylan?" I also wondered if he could play the guitar at all. It was more of a rhythmic drumming. As far as I could tell he wasn't tribal. He didn't dress it anyway. Not with that felt cowboy hat, or the long brown duster he wore. His toes poked out of his boots but there was a hint of Aligator skin still shedding its last layer. What other bum ever owned aligator skinned boots anyway? I do not know, but I did find his sleeping tree by the rail road tracks. That's where Mike died. The weather worn cardboard and the bug infested sleeping bag were not enough to keep him from the elements of Eldorado's crunching frost in the early mornings. He didn't know he died though. Nobody ever does.

(on the train to SLC) 8/8/2013  8:29 am